The Phoenix Land (5 page)

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 Ban
2
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 diamonds
3
. 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.

This indeed was an echo of the
Divina Commedia
, but in reverse order, the
Paradiso
then finally the
Inferno
.

In their lines they waited, standing or sitting, looking neither to the right nor to the left, like soldiers before a battle waiting for the word of command…

The king, crowned with St Stephen’s crown and wearing St Stephen’s mantel, came back into the church and ascended the throne. The first name was called out.

A grey broken ruin of a man pulled himself up on two crutches. An orderly rushed to his side to prevent him from falling and guided him forward. At the steps of the throne he
faltered
just as St Stephen’s Sword touched his shoulder the ritual three times. Then somehow he was lifted to his feet and
supported
by his orderly as he tottered out of the church.

I could not stay to see the whole of the ceremony of
investiture
as I had work to do outside and was also only too thankful to be able to escape witnessing any more of the nightmarish scene. I went swiftly into the square.

Outside the square was by no means full and in many places there were spaces where the public might have gathered. Now the great hangings of coats of arms were no longer hidden by eager spectators. Somehow I felt it was rather like a large
outdoor
ballroom in which the ball itself was something of a failure. The overwhelming effect brought by the presence of the great crowds was missing. How much more beautiful, and impressive, I reflected once again, it would have been on the Fishermen’s Bastion. There, on the wide steps with the great curve of Albrecht Street and Park below, the whole city could have found a place and filled every nook and cranny with loyal crowds – and beyond, on the quay the Pest, hundreds of thousands of people could have witnessed the public swearing of the Oath which was, after all, the most sublime and important moment of the Hungarian coronation.

This oath was part of the very oldest of royal traditions. It must have originated in those nomadic days when the king was elected in an open space at the heart of the villages in which the people lived. The law was that the new king, holy crown on his head and regal cape on his shoulders, under God’s free sky and in the sight of the entire population of the land, swears to keep and uphold and enforce the law. To maintain the law was the first and unalterable duty of the sovereign, who thereby protected his people, and it was to preserve this inalienable freedom that so many battles had been fought and so many
hardships
endured by the Hungarian folk over more than a thousand years…

In front of the church the procession formed up under the state canopy: firstly, the standard-bearers, then the great gold Hungarian coat of arms, the Lord Chamberlain and his suit, then the
barones regni
with their official emblems; and finally the young king.

They moved slowly over a three-coloured carpet to the centre of the square and then in stately procession mounted the steps behind the stone balustrade.

Even today I can still see them as they appeared on the
highest
part of the eastern balcony. There were five, and none of them is still living today: Tisza with the text of the oath, Prince
Esterházy with the sword, and, between the Prince-Cardinal and the Archbishop of Kalocsa, the crowned king.

The cheering stopped, and the oath was read slowly,
sentence-by
-sentence. As each sentence was read out the king repeated the words loudly and in a clear voice. In his left hand he held the apostolic ‘Pax’ cross, and his right was held high to witness his oath before the people. He held his head high, and a youthful smile, unchanging and full of hope, was on his lips.

When the king and his immediate entourage had returned to the church all the members of parliament and the delegates from the provincial cities, counties and districts moved off towards St George’s Square. Now the horses, all gaily caparisoned in multicoloured shabracks – those long heraldic saddlecloths we see in pictures of medieval tournaments – were led forward.

The first to mount were the archdukes. Then came the turn of the high court officials, or the deputies they had appointed to replace them, for only Endre Csekonics, the Master of the Table, my father, and the Ban of Croatia were prepared to do this
in
propria
persona
. There was not really enough space and this
operation
resulted in not a little confusion, partly due to the fact that the Ban, instead of carrying before him the golden sphere attached to its cushion as he should have done, handed it to his
écuyer
, who did not seem at all impressed at the honour of having to carry the symbolic golden apple – the
orszag almajat
– and simply held it in his hand as if it had been a football out of play. Many people were shocked at the sight. I suppose the man must have returned it later, but I did not see what happened, as I also had to hurry off to St George’s Square. There too the place was not full, although admittedly the grandstands round the square and the artificial hillock at its centre took up much of the space.

Most of those present were gathered at the corner nearest to the royal palace, attracted no doubt by a most charming sight.

From a window on the first floor of the palace Queen Zita looked down on the square. She had stood the little crown prince, the Archduke Otto, in the windowsill and held him enlaced with one of her beautiful hands. They were alone, framed in the window, just the mother and her beautiful child. There was the dark-eyed queen with the diamond crown and,
held in her arms, the golden-blond boy in his traditional Hungarian costume. It had not been planned, but nothing could have been more beautiful or more touching. In the square the cheering grew louder and louder as more and more people crowded in. The stands were full and men and women in gala dress swarmed all over the square. The multitude roared and, from her window, the queen nodded and smiled her
acknowledgement
of the applause. It was a scene of surging life when the blood is at its hottest –
vitam et sanguinem
– when all Hungarians present forgot themselves utterly in an expression of ardent patriotism.