The Phoenix Land Page 23

  It was obvious that in the foreseeable future nothing would change what had been decided at Trianon, and that many years would pass before some radical changes in Europe would make it possible for a revision of terms even to be mentioned. Until such time came, obdurate refusal to accept the situation would mean isolation for Hungary and with it much harm and little possibility of progress. The treaty terms had left many questions unresolved. The letter written by Millerand, the French prime minister, to the Hungarian delegate at the conference left the consideration of revising the frontiers dependent upon unspecified future conditions; thus leaving the door open to later discussion. Furthermore, although the terms affecting the status of ethnic minorities were sketchy and unclear, they nevertheless gave Hungary a moral right to try to alleviate the social conditions of Hungarians now living outside the country’s new borders. If a favourable atmosphere could be induced this would entail negotiations with Hungary’s new neighbours and, from an economic point of view, could bring great advantages.

  In the first year after the treaty’s ratification all political life in Hungary was devoted to creating order at home and bringing an end to the White Terror59 that had threatened to destabilize the newborn state.

  The administration destroyed by the revolution had first to be reconstituted for better or worse, as circumstances permitted. The state finances had to be put in order so that the machinery of government could function. There were also many problems concerning the membership of parliament, which now consisted for the most part of men with no political schooling or experience and delegates of the National Smallholders’ Party led by Nagyatádi-Szabó. These were divided into small cliques who voted either from sheer well-meaning ignorance or for personal gain, or even from emotion aroused by political slogans. Most of the ministers’ time was taken up in coping with unnecessary bickering in parliamentary debates, leaving them little opportunity for serious planning. As a result, for a whole year no decision was taken regarding what should be the country’s official foreign policy. Although on the very day the treaty was signed the president of the National Assembly declared that it ‘contained moral and material impossibilities and that no one can be bound by impossibilities’, and although delegates from the newly separated provinces produced a petition addressed to ‘all the countries of the world’ in which they swore to work to rejoin the mother country, these were all only individual opinions and protests and were never official decisions of policy by the government of Hungary; nor did they influence the future behaviour of the majority.

  That this was so was proved by Prime Minister Pál Teleki when he contacted Benes, the prime minister of Czechoslovakia, with whom he initiated the first discussions with representatives of one of the newly-created neighbouring states. These were held at Bruck, where Hungary was represented by Teleki and his foreign minister, Gustáv Gratz, and although no tangible decisions were taken at least the meeting was held in a friendly atmosphere and ended with a promise to meet again.

  Such was the political state of Hungary as regards both internal and external affairs. What was to come was still uncertain.

  Then came King Karl’s first putsch, which turned out to be an adventure fit only as a subject for operetta.

  The king travelled through Austria in disguise and entered Hungary with a false passport, arriving at Szombathely, where he drove to the archbishop’s palace. As it happened, József Vass, the minister of education, chanced to be there while Teleki was not far away, staying at Antal Sigray’s house at Ivánc where he had gone for a brief Easter holiday. He was at once informed by telephone.

  Poor King Karl had arrived full of hope. For months he had been visited at the small castle of Prangins on Lake Geneva (offered to him as a refuge by the Swiss government) by a band of eager adventurers representing all sorts of diverse interests, business and political. Many of these had hopes of arranging the sale of the Habsburg jewels, an enterprise that promised great rewards as they were known to include the ‘Florentiner Ei’, the huge egg-shaped diamond of the Medicis. This band of opportunists brought with them hopeful and wonderful news, mainly from Paris, for at Prangins nothing else would bring the promise of money.

  Furthermore, it seems probable that a few well-meaning and loyal Habsburg supporters also sent encouraging reports from Vienna, Budapest, Bratislava, Brünn and Prague – perhaps also from Zagreb – all of which King Karl believed to be true. He really did believe that everywhere hearts were throbbing with loyal eagerness and that he had only to appear to be instantly reinstated upon the throne he had abandoned. This would be the Hungarian throne and, once restored there, the Dual Monarchy would again be his, and he would return to Vienna as emperor on the shoulders of the Hungarians. And if not actually on their shoulders, at least at the head of a Hungarian army; for even he knew well enough that Renner’s Austria was hardly aching for his return.

  For King Karl himself it was self-evident and completely natural to assume that, once restored, not Budapest but Vienna would be the Imperial capital once again, and that he would return to the Hofburg and Schönbrunn, the ancient seats of the Habsburg-Lorraine family. This, at least, was his goal and the ultimate object of his dreams.

  Naturally, Vienna was not mentioned by him at Szombathely. There he spoke only of his ‘beloved Hungarians’, and it was evident that he first wanted to secure a foothold in little Hungary. To this end, his hopes were centred on Admiral Horthy for the simple reason that just before he became Regent, Horthy had sent a letter to him at Prangins. Although when abdicating the king had absolved everyone from their oaths of allegiance to him, Horthy had written that he considered his assumption of the position as Regent as a necessary but essentially temporary arrangement, and that as soon as circumstances permitted and he could do it without endangering the welfare of the nation, he himself would resign and return the supreme power to the rightful sovereign.

  It was this confidence that had prompted his return. He understood, he said, that everything had been arranged and that one of his agents – probably the man who called himself Belmonte and who had been awarded a title of by the king – had brought him the encouraging news that his restoration would be favourably regarded by the victorious powers, and so all was well, was it not?

  He paced up and down the room and, although he could speak excellent Hungarian, he was now so excited and in such good humour that he spoke only in German.

  All he seemed to want now was advice on how best to reward Horthy in a manner worthy of him. ‘Shall I give him a dukedom? Yes, that would do admirably. Glauben die Herren – do you think, my lords, he would like that? Or should I give him the Grand Cross of the Order of Maria-Theresia? Yes! That would be even better. I brought it with me. You all agree he’ll be overjoyed? Nicht war das wird ihn freuen, dass muss ihn freuen – He’ll be overjoyed, won’t he? He must be overjoyed.’

  And he went on like this for some time, speaking of nothing else. Teleki, József Vass, and Mikes, Bishop of Szombathely, listened to him in amazement. He never once asked how he was regarded by public opinion, nor what was the view of the majority of the people, or even that of the parliament of long-suffering Hungary. Clearly none of this seemed important to him, so convinced was he that his arrival was joyfully awaited.

  The next day the party set off for Budapest in two cars, Karl in the first and Teleki in the second. Because of some mechanical trouble the second car was left behind on the way, and so King Karl arrived in the capital alone. It was about noon.

  First he stopped at the prime minister’s office in the fortress of Buda and there hurriedly washed his hands at the fountain in the courtyard before crossing to the Royal Palace. Horthy had just sat down to lunch when he was called from the table by an aide-de-camp who announced that the king had arrived and was waiting for him in the study. Horthy, of course, rushed there at once.

  Their talk lasted some two hours, and it seems that Karl repeated all the things he had been saying to the ministers at Szombathely about
the news he had heard from Paris and how everything was ready for his return. He then put the insignia of the Grand Cross of the Order of Maria Theresia on the table in front of Horthy, presumably as a gesture of encouragement. The Regent, however, pushed it to one side and started to explain the realities of the situation. What his actual words were I do not know, but it is certain that he made it clear that to attempt a restoration would be an insane adventure. The Great Powers were sure to object, while the newly independent states would mobilize immediately and threaten armed intervention. Invasion would follow with the inevitable risk of a further division of the country, this time even worse than the first. He probably also went so far as to say that public opinion did not look kindly on the idea of welcoming as their ruler a sovereign who had abandoned his post barely a year and a half before. Horthy must have spoken wisely and well, for the result was that Karl got back into his car and returned to Szombathely. It had been agreed that he would return at once to Switzerland and that every effort would be made to keep the whole excursion a secret.

  Of course the secret was not kept. By the afternoon of the same day all Budapest knew it and, as was their habit, the good people of Budapest at once made a joke of it. They said that one of the Regent’s aides-de-camps with the unusual name of Magosházi60, was heard to say in a thick Hungarian accent as he escorted the king down the palace staircase: ‘Majestät, das war überflüssig’ – ‘This was unnecessary, your Majesty!’

  The remaining details of the intended putsch were not in the least humorous.

  Karl stubbornly refused to go further than Szombathely. He had promised to leave Hungary, but now he did not want to go, no doubt fearful of the scene his wife would make if he returned empty-handed, for it was well-known that Queen Zita could be a dragon when roused. Karl therefore had to invent excuses for his departure, excuses that would account for his lack of success. Accordingly, he announced that he had caught cold in the open car and was now forced to keep his bed. The principal ministers – Teleki, Bethlen, and Apponyi – rushed to Szombathely to reason with him, as the situation was becoming dangerous.

  Already on the afternoon of his arrival the Great Powers had sent a protest to Budapest and, while Karl lingered at Szombathely, increasingly menacing messages arrived daily demanding that the ex-king should leave Hungary at once. But when he finally agreed to leave further difficulties arose. The Swiss government refused to accept him. They were angry that Karl had broken his imperial word, for when that hospitable country had given him a warm welcome in 1918 it had made only one condition, which was that if the king wished to leave Switzerland he must first notify the government in Bern. Karl had made light of this and furthermore the ‘court’ at Prangins, explaining why he had not been seen on his customary walk, had lied and said that he was ill in bed. And this was not all. The Socialists in Austria declared that they would not permit their former emperor to pass through Austrian territory, while the railways threatened to go on strike if this was allowed. Eventually, after much pressure from the Great Powers all was settled and Karl, under the auspices of the western allies, was escorted out of Szombathely, and Hungary was rid of the dangers this childish prank might have provoked.

  As it was, the Teleki government was forced to resign.

  On the afternoon this happened I heard the news that Horthy had asked István Bethlen to form a new cabinet. Bethlen had been head of the Refugee Bureau since its creation a year before. This had been the first official position he had ever accepted even though from the first years of the century until 1918 he had been a member of parliament, belonging to the Apponyi Party. His word carried a certain weight, although he had always remained a backbencher. Although he spoke in the House only rarely he was known for the seriousness and objectivity of what he had to say; and because he scrupulously avoided rant and bombast he was fundamentally different from the demagogues by which he was surrounded. Tisza, at the end of his term as prime minister, had wanted to strengthen his government by the inclusion of some opposition members and offered him a portfolio – and later, if I remember correctly, so had Esterházy – but Bethlen would never accept. The same thing happened again when Horthy wanted him to be prime minister: firstly when the Károlyi-Huszar and later the Simonyi-Semadám governments resigned. On both these occasions Bethlen replied that the time was not yet ripe.

  I once wrote a short character sketch of István Bethlen for the Nouvelle Revue Française in which I compared his political career to the evolution of life on our planet from amphibian creatures of the sea to four-limbed mammals on dry land. Bethlen managed not to be conspicuous at either stage. As an amphibious lizard he neither grew to monstrous proportions like the dinosaurs, nor did he develop protective armour plating or rows of needle-sharp spines; he did not grow enormous hind-legs like the Brontosaurus nor anticipate the dachshund-like ichthyosaurus. As a mammal he neither grew short horns nor spreading antlers; he did not elongate his nose to a trunk nor reduce his toes to hooves like the gazelles or to shovel-shaped extremities like the primitive sloths. His teeth never became fearsome fangs. Bethlen’s evolution was never confined to any one special direction. He kept five fingers on his hands and five toes on his feet, and his teeth remained even; and so, having no special distinguishing marks, he remained, among the mammoths, cave-bears and sabre-toothed tigers, a small defenceless but highly intelligent if modest member of the animal kingdom. He merely awaited his destiny wishing neither to be classed as a wanderer on the prairies nor one dwelling in swamps. And so, when the third era dawned, and his time had come, he was able to become the lord of all creatures because he owed allegiance to none.

  For István Bethlen this time came in the spring of 1921.

  It was a well-chosen moment, and for the next ten years he controlled the destiny of Hungary until, by his own choice, he relinquished power much to the disappointment of the majority and the chagrin of parliament. During those ten years he found himself having to cope with many a dire crisis that would have taxed the powers of lesser men. A month after accepting office he was faced with the dispute over the rape of the Burgenland, and then came King Karl’s second putsch. This was a far cry from the light-opera farce of the first, for it was aggravated not only by dissention in the army and a revolt by the gendarmerie but also by the threat of armed intervention from abroad. Then came the affair of the forged French francs61 to be followed by scarcity of jobs and the steep rise in wheat prices. All of these problems would have defeated a man of lesser calibre. In the world crisis of 1931 he resigned, too tired to fight yet another battle.

  Bethlen and I were linked by a long-standing personal friendship that had originated in our childhood. Later he married a close relative of mine. From the autumn of 1919 he had lived close to us, and I often used to lunch or dine at his house. Our opinions were the same on most matters and so, when faced with any special political problem, he would usually discuss it with me. Because of this, I found it quite natural that he should telephone me in the afternoon he accepted office, assuming that he wanted to discuss some aspects of his new responsibilities. So when it appeared that he was asking me to be his minister for foreign affairs it came as a complete surprise.

  Unexpected though this was, it came as a logical consequence of the work I had been doing in the previous two years. As I have written elsewhere I went abroad in December 1918, with the full knowledge of Mihály Károlyi, on a mission for István Bethlen, then head of the Szekler National Council, to try to work towards obtaining for Hungary a more favourable and just peace treaty than seemed likely to be our lot at the time. I spent some six months at The Hague, and when I returned I was sent off again, this time as an official representative of the Hungarian government. In January 1920 I found myself sent to London at the same time as Apponyi and Bethlen were despatched to Paris as the Hungarian representatives at the peace conference.

  Once in London I was able to make a number of useful contacts within influential political circles and managed to win some of
them over to our view that a punitive and unfair treaty with Hungary was in no one’s interests. Among these men was Lord Asquith, the former prime minister, and I look back with gratitude to the goodwill and understanding of Lord Bryce, Robert Cecil, Lord Newton and Montague, to the help of Mr Bowie, chief secretary of the Unitarian and Presbyterian churches, and to Webster McDonald, one of the leaders of the Scottish Presbyterian church. I also made contact with the Socialist Party. I received energetic support from the Unitarian and Presbyterian leaders and also from Sir Lucian Wolf, principal secretary of World Jewry, who himself wrote proposals for settling the problem of the ethnic minorities and which were entirely his own idea. Despite the fact I was still technically an ‘enemy alien’, I was received by the recently appointed foreign minister, Lord Hardinge, who accepted from me various memoranda concerning these and other problems.

  I was able also to gather some support in the City, the centre of all business in the British Empire, as a result of my bringing from Hungary the power to negotiate concessions to drill for oil on Hungarian soil. My talks in the City were mainly with the chairman of Anglo-Persian Oil, Lord Snowden, and his agency. For me, this entailed much hard study for I had no business experience and knew nothing about the exploitation of oil deposits. Somehow I managed to master enough of the subject to be able to discuss the matter with some degree of sense. Frederick Picker, who came with me as an oil expert, was my mentor and as a result we became great friends. In the autumn of 1920 we were able to settle the details of an oil-drilling contract with Anglo-Persian, and on my second visit an agreement was signed with the Hungarian government.

  The contract was for drilling in the district of Somogy-Zala where, oil actually was discovered later at Lispe. Unfortunately, the Anglo-Persian exploratory drills found nothing, and the contract was allowed to lapse. I write ‘unfortunately’ because had English capital remained invested in Hungary it might well have been of much help in our handling of foreign affairs.