The Phoenix Land Read online

  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 o
f 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.

  I returned to the steps by the great doors and reached them in time to greet the little crown prince.

  He was a lovely child; still at that time with golden-blond hair and rosy cheeks. Since then I have heard that his hair has turned dark, and that he greatly resembles his mother.

  He was dressed in a resplendent brocade mantle, lined with ermine and decorated with egret feathers, his whole outfit having been designed by Benczúr, and in tiny shoes he tripped along hurriedly so as to keep up with General Count Wallis, whose finger he clutched in a tight little fist.

  He was adorable as he moved swiftly through the crowd.

  Now the officiating clergy all lined up outside the church to receive the royal couple, while in the Loretto chapel the Keepers of the Regalia and the standard bearers ensured that everyone with a part to play in the ceremony had been provided with the badge or clenodium they had to carry. Everyone was there except for Iván Skerlecz, the Ban2 of Croatia, who was nowhere to be seen. Later he made the excuse that they would not let him in through the police cordon outside, but this sounded unconvincing in view of the fact that he made his appearance in the church during the coronation ceremony. His absence at the start however, caused a momentary delay in setting out the order of the procession and someone else – I forget who – had rapidly to be given the robe that the Ban should have carried for the royal carriage was even then drawing up outside the church.

  I was unable to see the arrival of the king and queen, as I then had to hurry to reach my own place from where I could control the lighting. I was hidden, standing to the left and behind the throne, from where I could see nothing at all of the procession down the aisle. All I knew was that I could hear the roar of cheers from the crowd in Trinity Square outside the church and the bustle and stir as the royal couple approached their places. The congregation in the church, all now on their feet, so closed my view of what was going on that all I could see was the edge of the queen’s throne and the outline of the steps below it.

  Suddenly there was silence. Then the powerful fanfare of the organ announced that the king had arrived. In front of me the Chamberlain – it was my father – moved forward on the lowest step before the throne, staff of office in hand. Across from him, on the other side of the throne, the apostolic cross rose high on its long black shaft – the royal procession must be near at hand. I peered round, but the throne in front of me was still unoccupied. A few moments went by. Then the white figure of a woman appeared briefly in front of me, clad in lace and satin and wearing a crown of diamonds3. For a moment she was motionless; then she sank to her knees in a graceful movement that was both womanly and regal. It was a moment that touched the heart to see the queenly movement of this radiant woman as, her coronation mantel streaming out behind her, she bent over the purple prayer stool that had been embroidered with silver lilies and crosses. A long veil of white lace trailed diagonally from her head…

  There was another peal from the organ, this time accompanied by strings and the voices of the choir.

  The coronation ceremony began.

  First there was the mass, the thousand-year-old Latin text interspersed with music and song, and sometimes merely by soft chromatic scales and melodies from the organ.

  The king went up to the altar. Then he returned. Once again he moved up to the altar, but this time his shoulders had been draped in St Stephen’s robe. Now the crown was placed on his head.

  At that very moment a shaft of light shone through the window above the altar, a pale wintry ray, but sunlight nonetheless, transforming the scene into a magic shining picture. Facing me, seated under the high windows, were all the chief dignitaries of the Catholic Church, and the combination of the sunlight from the outside and the electric glow from the chandeliers banished all shadows, metamorphosing the multiplicity of ritual hieratic garments, the brocades of the all-white piuviales; the white, gold-embroidered mitres, the infulaes, all into one translucent crystalline, unreal, angelic fog. It was an unforgettable sight, even though it lasted but for one brief moment only, the moment when the crown was placed on the young king’s head.

  When Tisza stepped up to the altar, his tall slim figure standing high and straight, dressed in dark velvet; when he raised his right arm and waved his black hat three times in the air calling out with his manly deep voice: ‘Long live the king!’ the sun had already disappeared from the window above, never to be seen again.

  The ceremony lasted for a long time, but for how long I could not possibly have said. In the resplendent, unreal, fairyland environment no one noticed the passage of time. There was music and song; incense rose in clouds and dissolved among the high vaulting of the church. The organ rumbled and sang and from outside could sometimes be heard the distant sound of a saluting cannon. Inside the church the constantly moving but silent groups of clergy moved solemnly in ritual observance, bishops sparkling in their formal robes stood hieratic and immobile as the ancient ritual moved to its inevitable conclusion, and one felt oneself living in a constantly changing but changeless, timeless dream. And when it ended, so it was like awakening from an enchanted sleep.

  ***

  The king and queen retired to the sacristy, and the great congregation started to leave the church and take up their places in the square outside.

  As the crowd inside began to disappear the ladies of the court and the ladies-in-waiting started to descend slowly from their places in the gallery on the left of the church. Now I could see them better. They came down, one by one or in pairs, down the steps from the gallery and into the centre aisle, all in dresses of gold and white and silver, studded with jewels and glittering like figures from ancient times suddenly come alive again, creating reality from imagination. Great family jewels, diamonds, pearls, emeralds and rubies adorned their heads in clusters of shining white and multicoloured precious stones, and from their shoulders long outer robes of velvet and brocade and ermine fell in soft folds to the ground behind them. As they moved slowly out of the church in procession they were accompanied by the softest of organ music as if the disappearance of all this beauty imposed silence in the now emptying basilica.

  All at once, apart from those silent motionless officials who had not left their appointed places, the great church was empty. As when I had first come in early that morning all that was to be seen was the carmine of the carpeting and the red glow of the drapes which, after the pageantry of the last hours, now seemed almost severe.

  From a door at the side, until now hidden by purple drapes, appeared the equites aurati – the knights of the Golden Spur – to receive the accolade from their sovereign.

  There must have been about fifty of them, all officers coming from service in the front lines. Most
of them were in iron-grey uniforms, faded, mended, with worn leather belts and blackened straps. One could see at once how old their boots were despite the fact that they had been vigorously brushed and polished to obtain an elusive and transitory shine. In the forefront were men with wooden legs, leaning on crutches, limping, knocking against each other, coughing and breathing heavily with the effort of movement. Through that side door and out into the glow before the altar there poured out all the sad grey tragedy of war to flood the space where a few moments before all had been shine and glitter.

  Some of them, those who had been most cruelly wounded, sank down onto seats provided for them. The others, whom fate had left physically intact, lined up at attention in stiff military garde-à-vous. Their shirtfronts and tunics were stiff with medals and ribbons and orders, the outward symbol of their gallantry. No one spoke. They were all utterly silent, not a word passing between them. All of them just stood there, looking straight ahead with a stare that was both eloquent and at the same time passive. Their eyes were the eyes of men who, day after day, looked death in the face.