The Phoenix Land

by Miklos Banffy

  Much of this came later, from the end of the 1920s to 1940, but this is when it all began. Although at the time I was not able to foresee clearly what was to come, I was already deeply worried and spoke to Bethlen about it.

  He did not share my opinion, feeling that the Revisionist League would have little effect on foreign relations, as it was essentially only a social movement, far removed from government. In his view, it was vital that the nation should have its ideals, for without them it would become lazy and indifferent, and that therefore the revisionist movement would tend to keep patriotic feeling alive.

  From Bethlen’s point of view, this was all a matter of internal politics. I saw it differently, and this was the first time I found myself in disagreement with him. I let the matter drop, partly because of course it was still only an internal affair but also because the movement was still fairly insignificant then. In any case, for me there were other more important matters looming up. The international Conference of Genoa would soon be upon us, and I had to prepare for that.

  This was to be the first international conference since the war at which all the countries of Europe would take part. As well as Hungary, there were the Turks, the Bulgarians, the Austrians and Germany; but, what was even more important, it was to be the first time that Soviet Russia had taken her place in the councils of Europe.

  Facta, the prime minister of Italy, had been the moving spirit. The aims of the conference were somewhat vague. They included ‘clarifying European questions’ and, of course, ‘peace’. These were mentioned in the official programme, and, as with such a generalized definition almost anything can be included, we had to prepare for every imaginable contingency. There was a great deal to learn, and a lot to discuss before the conference started.

  Our delegation consisted of Bethlen and myself, with Khuen-Héderváry as foreign affairs expert; the economists Walko and Scitovszky; some secretaries and, of course, our master of shorthand, Fabro. I decided that we would need someone to handle the international press, so I took along György Ottlik, then Times correspondent in Budapest, and also invited Géza Herczeg. Both proved their worth to us.

  We arrived sometime in March. We had reserved rooms in one of the luxury hotels in Nervi, just ten kilometres from Genoa. The garden was filled with marvellous palm trees and beyond them sparkled the dark-blue sea.

  Our immediate task was to get to know everyone. At one of our first reunions we met the Marques Villa Uruttia, the Spanish ambassador in Rome. He was a most interesting-looking old gentleman who, with a long narrow face and long grey beard, could have been a portrait by El Greco come to life. Bethlen asked him how long he thought the conference would last, because he would have to go home in a week or ten days’ time.

  ‘Oh, dear!’ laughed the Spanish marquis, his long yellow teeth glinting as he spoke. ‘The general rule is that an international conference must last at least three weeks, otherwise the public would think we had nothing serious to talk about. And that is the worst that can be said of any diplomat!’

  The old man proved right for, as I recall, it was not until the end of May that we returned home. Bethlen was unable to stay and went back after days, leaving me as head of our delegation.

  My entire stay, as regards the conference discussions, was spent in hanging about. As we were such a small unimportant country, we were expected only to be part of some economic committee composed of specialist delegates – in our case Walko and Scitovszky – while my personal attendance was not required except at the infrequent meetings of the full conference.

  However, it was extremely interesting to meet the various great men who represented the Great Powers, watch them at work and, if possible try to make use of them. It was also fascinating to watch what happened behind the scenes, especially when there was a clash of interests.

  From this point of view, it was an extraordinary experience.

  To start with our hosts: at that time the prime minister of Italy was Facta, an elderly but still strong man who was, of course, the conference’s chairman. He wore his white hair cut short and, under his sharp eagle’s nose, his long thick moustaches turned sharply up like the tusks of a wild boar. He would look around with a belligerent air and had a most military look. To me, he was the image of our own retired sergeants, all frightening moustaches and staring eyes. As it happened, he was of a singularly peaceable disposition. He came from a middle-class family in one of the small towns of the Romagna and had never in his life been in the army. He had a most merry disposition, was full of good humour, enjoyed excellent health and thought nothing was desperately important. I am sure he never hurt a fly.

  The Italian foreign minister, sua eccelenza il signore Schanzer, was the exact opposite of Facta. He was always restless, nervous, running about full of worry. By origin, he was a Jew from Trieste who had escaped to Italy before the war. He was a slight skinny man, yellow-skinned and gaunt of face, which made me fancy he must suffer from some stomach disorder. He wore a long sparse brown beard, and above his forehead he had a shock of rebellious curly hair. This unusual mop of hair perhaps symbolized his irredentist past. He was always rushing about.

  The other Italians were Visconti-Venosta, the elegant chief secretary of the conference who wore brightly-coloured waistcoats and was never seen without piles of documents under each arm; Romano Avezzano, a Sicilian who rarely spoke and who later became Italian ambassador in Washington; and another man whose name I have forgotten, who was then minister of agriculture, who was so immensely fat that he seemed wondrously suitable to represent that land of plenty and good husbandry. There was also another whom it gave me particular pleasure to see again. This was Prince Durazzo. We had been good friends in our youth. He had served in Vienna and later in the consulate in Budapest. It made us both happy to meet again. His beautiful old family palace stood on the Corso in Rome. I have heard to my regret that it was destroyed by bombing in the last war like so many other precious and irreplaceable things. He was a great help to me. For a short time he became minister of education but died soon after. We Hungarians lost much by his death.

  None of these gentlemen, not even Facta and the excellent Signor Schanzer, was as important as Contarini, who had become as omnipotent in the conduct of Italian foreign affairs as had Holstein in Berlin after the departure of the Iron Chancellor, Bismarck. Like Holstein he had not started life as a diplomat but had been a civil servant, remaining always in the background. It was he who had masterminded the Italo-Yugoslav peace agreement, which was signed a few months after the Genoa conference.

  At Genoa he was not part of the official Italian delegation and only came there every few days. Although his name might have suggested a Venetian origin, he came in fact from Sicily.

  He was so busy that it was not easy to get in touch with him; yet, firmly fixed as he was at the centre of Italian politics, he was the one man I really needed to talk to. I wanted to raise with him the possibility of obtaining Italian help in improving relations between Hungary and Romania. Contarini was matter-of-fact and laconic. His appearance was insignificant, being short and dark and no different from hundreds of his compatriots. He might have been the pastry-cook at the corner shop or the mayor of a small town or merely a clerk. There was nothing remarkable about his appearance; and it was only when he opened his mouth that one could sense the tightly woven chain of logic that was so characteristic of him. He spoke only Italian, saying that he knew no other language. This was, of course of great advantage to him whenever he needed the services of an interpreter, since the latter could be held responsible for any misunderstandings that might occur. Luckily, I had enough Italian to discuss our problem – even if it was full of grammatical mistakes – and, as a result, Italy did try her best with Bucharest, although in the end it came to nothing.

  And then there were the others. First of all the English – or rather just Lloyd George, for his colleagues did not greatly signify as far as we were concerned, and so I hardly remember them. I am sure they were
all excellent men, but Lloyd George was such a dominant personality that all those around him were just pale shadows in comparison.

  I have no need to describe what he looked like. Everyone knows his face from pictures and caricatures, with his long grey hair and short moustache. He was a Welshman, and it is in Wales that the blood of those original inhabitants of the British Isles flows at its purest. He was short and lively and a wonderful speaker, quite free of that sonorous spouting of slogans so typical of Hungarian orators. He spoke in short pithy sentences, at times sharp and cruel, at others full of humour and unexpected similes. He was like a conjurer who produces from his sleeves a myriad-coloured glass ball, live rabbits or a gold watch. He could do whatever he liked with his audience. At the first general meeting at Genoa he spoke with such optimism and so wittily that all his listeners came away happy and laughing and repeating his jokes. A few days later there was a press conference at which the principal item was to be a statement by Lloyd George. Everyone hurried to it, thinking what a joy it would be to hear him again. Lloyd George, however, perhaps regretting the optimistic impression he had given before, now painted such a tragic future for Europe that they all came away teeth chattering and deadly pale. He was indeed unsurpassed as a word-spinner.

  He was not so very popular with his own countrymen, for the English regarded him as unreliable and secretive. With a knowing look they would say of him: ‘Of course, he’s Welsh!’, meaning he was a ‘rogue’ or ‘a sly customer’ or both; and anyhow hadn’t he managed to get rid of Asquith, who was not only prime minister but also head of his own party, and then put himself in his place? After the war he had called an immediate election and, by brandishing the slogan ‘Hang the Kaiser’, had himself elected with a huge majority. Once in office, however, the Kaiser was never mentioned again, and he even did his best to curb any feeling of hatred for the Germans. It was no wonder people were suspicious of him. They were also afraid of him, and the wonder really is that for many years he could do what he liked with the English.

  In the general assembly hall our table was close to his. Since I had almost nothing to do I would draw caricatures, and it was from these sketches that I was able, a year and a half later, to work up the album of portraits from the conference that was to be published by Rózsavölgyi116. Lloyd George, of course, saw what I was doing when I was drawing him and winked at me with a wicked smile.

  I very much wanted to meet him, and I think it was Count Mensdorff, the Austrian delegate, who introduced us. Mensdorff was an old acquaintance with whom I had many interests in common and who had been Austro-Hungarian ambassador in London for many years. I asked Lloyd George when he could receive me, and he replied: ‘Anytime! Anytime! With great pleasure.’ But nothing came of it, and it seemed that to obtain an audience with him was almost impossible. I even tried using the good offices of the sweet and pretty Mrs Snowden who, although no longer young, was still very attractive and good-hearted. Her husband later became minister for economic affairs in London and received a knighthood117, so she became Lady Snowden. She often went round to see Lloyd George in the evenings to sing Gaelic songs to him, and it was she who persuaded him to promise to see me. All I had to do was to talk to his secretary immediately; but although I went several times to the villa where Lloyd George was staying, I only met with excuses. He was not there; he was busy just then; I should come back on the following day or, better, the day after. This went on for three weeks, until one day, when I was again sitting in front of the secretary’s desk and he was again saying that no, his boss could not see me. As I was preparing to leave, a door opened behind me, and Lloyd George came in. He was wearing a dressing gown and slippers and, as soon as he saw me, started across the room to greet me.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he exclaimed, smiling. ‘I’m so glad to see you at last! I’ve been anxious to meet you!’ He then took me into the neighbouring drawing-room and started at once, with great charm, to talk as if we had been close friends. He agreed with everything I said, approved everything I suggested. Of course, I realized that it did not matter to him whether or not we obtained the Declaration we wanted promulgated at the conference118, but it did matter to him that he should know all about it. He escorted me to the door when I left, and I seem to remember him patting me on the shoulder. He had a fascinating and altogether delightful way with him.

  The story of this Declaration also had its comic side. We prepared the text while Bethlen was still with us and took it at once to show to the French delegate, Barthou.

  The essence of our proposed document was that the Conference should declare the vital importance of the newly-formed states, not only keeping to the letter of their signed agreements as to the treatment of their ethnic minorities but also acting at all times in the spirit in which they had been written.

  Barthou was a small man, very swarthy of countenance, and wore a beard and moustaches. He received us with marked coldness.

  Bethlen started by explaining our proposed declaration. He spoke matter-of-factly and without artifice or embellishment. Barthou roundly rejected it. Then it was my turn to speak. Knowing something of the French mentality and also of their political vocabulary, I began by saying that we were turning first to France as the glorious home of Liberty. I spoke of the French devotion to Reason and Justice and how the small nations of Europe would always turn to France as the traditional Guardian of Justice; and when I used the words ‘La France’ or ‘La gloire’, I would pronounce them with the same enthusiastic inflection as would any Frenchman.

  Little by little Barthou came round completely. He now answered that yes, that was something quite different; yes, that would be possible even though I had only repeated exactly what Bethlen had already said, although spiced with a French-tasting sauce.

  ‘Now,’ he said finally, ‘Let us draw up the text!’

  I sat down at the desk, and he dictated. And what he dictated was a much better and more resolute Declaration than ours had been. When we parted he promised that he would ensure that the Conference accepted it.

  Well, the lesson, I suppose, is that if one is to confer successfully with foreigners, it is essential to know their way of thinking and be able to put oneself in their place.

  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 wa
s 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.