The Phoenix Land (44 page)

Our Declaration would have been made if the conference had not broken up. The French always keep their word in such matters, and at that time they were the arbiters in any question concerning Europe.

There was no doubt, too, that the French delegation was by far the strongest intellectually at the conference. There was the famous Barrère, who had been ambassador in Rome for many years, had a profound knowledge of Italy and whose influence had been decisive when Italy had abandoned her alliance with us in 1915 and joined the Allies. He was like one of those French knights who used to roam the world in search of adventure. He had the head for it too. With his boldly jutting aquiline nose and cold grey eyes, I could well imagine him, strong and
broad-chested
in breastplate and helmet, as one of those bold sons of France who once carved out principalities in the Near East and eloped with queens.

There was also Hanotaux, several times a minister and one of the most eminent members of the Académie Française. He was very well-meaning, clever and intelligent. It was always a
pleasure
to talk with him, for he radiated ancient French culture. I became good friends with Hanotaux, who was my sincere
champion throughout my tenure of office, and I always think of him with much tenderness.

The German delegates I only met on an official level.

One was Herr Wirth, the chancellor, an insignificant philistine who counted for little even in his own country; and the other was the then foreign minister, Rathenau. Most of the latter’s life had been spent in big business, and he had acquired an immense
fortune
. He had a good knowledge of art and was a noted collector. The Kaiser had often used him on missions abroad. Rathenau’s appearance was striking. The elegance of his tall figure was accentuated by clothes of such high quality as to give him an almost exaggerated distinction. His face was remarkable, with rather thick lips that gave him a Negroid look. He was bald, with a pointed skull, and his skin had a darkish-green tinge. With his small tapering beard, he was like a half-Mongol, half-Jewish Mephistopheles. He seemed to be able to speak all languages, although every one with some sort of foreign inflection, and his manner of speaking was so modulated and honeyed, so sad and nostalgic, that he might have been a reformed devil.

At the opening session Rathenau made a most moving speech, describing Germany’s poverty in the darkest terms. It was indeed a beautiful and affecting oration, but I must confess to have been somewhat surprised that the man who described all this misery in such heart-rending terms, did so wearing a pearl the size of a hazelnut in his tie, diamond cufflinks and a quantity of rings set with precious stones.

The real sensation of the Genoa Conference, however, was the Russian delegation. This was so not only so for the general public but also for the participating Great Powers, all of whom secretly hoped that the Russian presence at the conference would result in untold economic benefits for themselves.

Even today in 1945 I remember their first appearance as clearly as if it had been yesterday.

We had all been invited to meet the Russians at a soirée at the palace that housed the town hall. Everyone, even the most important, was there – including all the big stars of the
conference
, Lloyd George, Barthou, Wirth and Rathenau, as well as the
lesser planets and their moons, although to these the multitude of guests in that huge palace paid little attention. That evening everyone was waiting for the Russians to appear. By ten in the evening the crowd was immense, and everybody was competing for the best places to watch the arrival. We all knew that the Russians had arrived that evening, were already installed at Santa Margherita and would soon appear.

The palace of the Municipio, like all the palaces of Genoa, was built on the hillside. Its courtyard was a closed square,
surrounded
by galleries on several floors, and here were crowded, head to head, thousands of guests, mainly women, very much like an evening at La Scala, Milan, with all the boxes filled for a gala opening. Everyone waited tense and determined, wondering what on earth the Russians would be like. How would they be dressed? Many fancied they would be wearing Russian tunics, workman’s clothes or striped
kozak
shirts such as Tolstoy had donned in old age. All this eager speculation just added spice to the waiting.

I was on the first floor. Even though I was flattened against a pillar it was an excellent place for from there I had a direct view of the main door, the marble-floored courtyard and beyond it, facing the entrance, the monumental double stairway leading up to the staterooms. The marble court was empty as everyone was in the galleries.

By now it was almost midnight, and people were beginning to think the Russians would not come after all.

Suddenly they appeared, and a murmur of astonishment ran through the crowd. Each and every one of the Russians wore well-cut tails, white waistcoat and a wonderfully starched boiled shirt. They wore top hats and looked like fashion plates.

And yet they did not in any way give a bourgeois impression. They looked merry and proud and full of self-confidence. They marched in quickly, as if about to lay siege to the capitalist world that was awaiting them so eagerly upstairs. At their head was Chicherin, silk hat tilted slightly over one eye, who from time to time seemed to be exchanging jokes over his shoulder with the others as they moved swiftly without pausing for an instant, feet stamping defiantly, before passing out of sight behind the
columns of the staircase. It all lasted only for a few seconds, yet it was unforgettable.

Two or three days after this, the first general assembly of the conference was held in the great hall of the Genoa Stock Exchange.

Hanging in a frame on one of the walls was a money-draft of Christopher Columbus. It may be that it is still there, because good old Columbus never repaid it; if so, it was a lucky chance since it gave a most particular spice to this, the world’s oldest money market. The chairman welcomed the Russian delegation, and Chicherin replied.

He spoke in excellent French and with much wit. He praised Russia and her riches. With a finely ironic smile he started to list what treasures she possessed, what petrol, coal, vast forests, huge quantities of iron ore, copper, platinum, malachite, cotton and the best wheat in Europe. All these, he said, existed in vast
quantities
in Russia, and all were available to any country who would agree to buy them. He knew well that the capitalist world of business was practically drooling at the mouth to hear what he had to say.

After this, or maybe at the next session, followed discussion of the conference’s organization, the language to be used for the minutes and the seating of the various delegations. Chicherin spoke on every subject. On the question of languages he insisted that Russian must always be included. As regards the
delegations
, he objected to the Poles, the Romanians or any delegates from the Baltic States being admitted to the same sessions as the Russians since, in his view, they represented territories stolen from Russia, and it was therefore offensive to him to be obliged to sit down with them. He even objected to Japan.

And, whatever he said, he said with the same ironic smile, partly to vex the assembly and partly to underline the Russian position. He knew perfectly well that the conference would not defer to him, but in his view this was not important provided he could cause the maximum amount of confusion and irritation to the so-called victorious powers.

Chicherin was always so surrounded by others at the meetings that I could never get near him. However, some three days later
the king of Italy invited all the heads of the various missions to lunch on one of his battleships, and on this occasion I did finally get to meet him. Several small tables had been set up on the deck and by luck I found myself seated at the same one as Chicherin. He was seated one place away from me. I had good reason to want to talk to him as I needed to discuss the matter of the exchange of Russian and Hungarian prisoners of war, which had once again reached a deadlock.

He gave me a visiting card on, upon which he had scribbled a few words, and told me to present it whenever I could come to the Hotel Ferrari, which the Russians used as a base during the day as Santa Margherita was too far away.

Of course I went as soon as possible.

At the entrance there were three or four robust, thickset men, obviously bodyguards, broad-shouldered, strong, and well built. I gave them the card, but they did not let me in straight away. One of them disappeared up the steps of the hotel, while I walked up and down on the pavement outside. After a few
minutes
the man came back and gestured to me to follow him. When I arrived at the first floor someone again looked at Chicherin’s card. The same person now conducted me to another room where a very old woman was sitting at the window. She too
studied
what was written on the card and then looked me over
carefully
. After apparently inspecting me for some seconds she waved me to a door at the back of the room. I went in. Chicherin was sitting alone beside a long table. He gave me a perfunctory
handshake
and then walked straight to the door by which I had come in and turned the key in the lock. Then he did the same at another door leading out from the back of the room. It was only after having shut us both in that he made me sit down and we began to talk.

He had very winning, almost hearty, manners. Quickly, and in a very few words, we agreed everything to do with the exchange of our prisoners and how the process should be restarted
without
further hindrance. When this had been settled he asked: ‘Is it true the Hungarians hate the Russians?’ and when I said it was not, he went on to say it would have been quite natural if we did since it had been the Russian army which had finally brought to
an end the Hungarian fight for freedom
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. I replied that this had left no resentment in Hungary, for Paskievich, after our
surrender
at Világos, had treated the defeated Hungarians with great fairness, and that everyone had known that it was not he but Austrian absolutism that had been responsible for the tragedy that ensued. In contrast to this, the Russian army had behaved correctly and even, in some places, left kindly memories behind them. To illustrate this, I told him an anecdote of those days.

In 1849 a Russian officer had arrived with a detachment of soldiers at a property belonging to my grandmother at Száss Bányica. Strict discipline was maintained all the time the Russians were billeted there, and cash was paid for everything they consumed.

When they left a few days later, the officer was standing with the overseer beside some rose bushes in front of the house. He asked who owned the property and, being told it was my
grandmother
, said:

‘So it belongs to a woman?’ Then he picked a rose, placed it in the lapel of his tunic and mounted his horse. As he rode away he called back: ‘Tell your mistress that a Russian officer steals nothing from a woman except flowers!’

Chicherin was much pleased by this story, every word of which was true.

After that, we turned to more general questions, especially that of Bessarabia, where there were a number of special
problems
, some of which affected Transylvania. Chicherin spoke with much impartiality and understanding, and we parted in full agreement: so much so that I was left with the feeling that much good would come from it if we could have established full
diplomatic
relations with Soviet Russia. For many reasons this was then impossible.

During my first days in Genoa I had naturally paid visits to the delegations of the ‘Little
Entente
’ countries. Only Ionel Bratianu had come personally to see me at Nervi to return my visit: the others just left visiting cards. I did not have anything to discuss with Bratianu, for the relations between Hungary and Romania were then so strained that it would have been pointless to raise any specific question on the spur of the moment. We
exchanged polite generalities only. Bratianu was very different from Benes. I at once felt him to be both calm and sincere,
without
a hint of deviousness. One felt in him the character of an autocrat whose will was law. This was the only occasion when we had the opportunity to talk until, five years later, in Bucharest when I went to arrange my Romanian citizenship
120
. Then his behaviour was such as to confirm the good opinion of him I had formed at Genoa.

I also made some other contacts with some of the Swedes, Austrians and Turks. The Turkish ambassador knew all about the cultural and economic agreement I had made in 1916 in Istambul and so had confidence in me. We agreed to share any useful information that might come our way. The Turk was especially interested in the English for it was suspected in Ankara that England might encourage Greece to attack Turkey. Several times during the conference I was able to tell him things he wanted to know, and he did the same for me. It was only the small change of diplomacy but useful all the same.

Although it is not really relevant to my story, I feel I must relate a ludicrous incident concerning Fabro. He came to Genoa not as the official stenographer of our Foreign Ministry but as the correspondent of
Pester Lloyd
. In this capacity he was also present at the king of Italy’s lunch and afterwards sent off an account of it to his newspaper. The cost of any telegrams he might send had been included in his fixed expense allowance, and so he was anxious to keep the text to the minimum. He wanted to indicate that there had been no speeches at the lunch and so, in an odd mixture of German [sic] and Hungarian, he wrote the laconic message
‘Déjeuner tost’os’:
i.e., a lunch with formal toasts. Unfortunately, it was written incorrectly and arrived as
‘trost’os’
, which the editor took as German for ‘
inconsolable
’. They wired back: ‘Why inconsolable?’ ‘Why did he say that?’ ‘What had happened?’ And so once again poor Fabro found himself forced to pay for an expensive telegram of
explanation
which would not have been necessary if he could have brought himself to send a few more words in his first message.