Authors: Miklos Banffy
The Phoenix Land (53 page)
He was an interesting, if strange-looking man. Clean-shaven, with wide cheekbones and slanting eyes, he had a marked Asiatic look. He had greying thick dark hair growing low over his curved forehead, as one sometimes sees in women. He was very tall with
sloping shoulders, and when I met him for the first time he reminded me of the harem servants I had seen at the funeral of Effendi Ibrahim, the Sultan of Turkey’s heir. They too were all exceptionally tall, narrow-shouldered, with feminine-looking foreheads.
All sorts of stories had been told about Titulescu, including that he had endured some accident while still adolescent.
Personally
I do not believe the rumours, for not only was he a
married
man, but such gossip was also belied by his tremendous vitality and the sparkling love of battle with which he defended his opinions.
He loved to argue and did it in the French legal manner, which to our eyes always seemed rather showy. He radiated indignation or sorrow or was moved to tears just as the occasion seemed to require. And as he spoke he gestured widely, just as
Monnet-Sully
used to when playing in
Oedipus Rex
, and from him poured a rush of words, gushing with pathos, roaring, menacing or imploring. That his presence of mind was extraordinary was shown by the way he could instantly exploit any failing in his opponent’s argument.
First Lukács read our report. Then, after Titulescu had replied, there followed much argument between him and the Hungarian delegates. This was principally conducted on our side by Gajzágó, who found himself at some disadvantage because of his still faulty command of French. He uttered some awkward phrases, which Titulescu seized upon like a hawk. The whole exchange was like a glossy-skinned shark devouring two small fishes. It was pitiful to watch.
However Titulescu’s eloquence was not able to change the predictable outcome. The Council, acting on the advice of the Italian delegate, Salandra, accorded the task of negotiating a compromise between Hungary and Romania to Adatoi, the head of the Japanese delegation.
That was the most we could have hoped for at that stage.
The fatal flaw in the constitution of the League of Nations was that it had no power to enforce its judgements. It could only negotiate and, where the terms of the peace treaties gave a clear direction, it could still only exert moral pressure. Even this
depended on the attitude of the Council of Ambassadors simply because only that body was backed by the military force of the Great Powers. At this point it seemed that the question of the treatment of the
optans
was going in our favour. It should also have been to our advantage that a completely neutral judge had been appointed in the person of Adatoi, who, moreover, came from the Japanese delegation where I personally had found so much goodwill and friendly feelings a year and a half before.
As far as I knew, Adatoi had accepted the Hungarian point of view. This, at least, is what Lukács and Gaszágo had been happy to tell me before they returned to Budapest in the blissful belief that the
optans
question had been left in safe hands.
What then happened I do not know, except that a few weeks later I heard that the Japanese had now sided with the
Romanians
. It seems that instead of staying in Geneva and working to keep the Japanese up to scratch, our people in true Hungarian fashion had gone confidently home to bed, while our opponents went to work on Adatoi.
At any rate, the next meeting was at Brussels on 27 May. Hungary was represented by Imre Csáky and Gajzágó, Romania by Titulescu, and Adatoi was present as arbitrator. Also there were the official secretaries, van Hamel and Mantoux, in their capacities as heads of the legal and political sections of the League of Nations.
On the following day a protocol was drawn up which recorded what progress had been made in the negotiations. It had been cleverly worded, and I believe that the author was Mantoux, who was known to be the trusted friend of the ‘Little
Entente
’. The protocol contained no mention of any solution, yet made it clear that Hungary was not objecting to the principle of Romanian land reform, since Romania had the right to make its own
internal
arrangements on such matters. And, although it did make an appearance elsewhere, there was no reference to the way
Romania
had modified her contractual obligations.
I only became aware of this in the first days of June when I was summoned to the prime minister’s office to attend a
conference
to discuss how we should deal with this new turn of events. There were quite a lot us present, and they all – Bethlen,
Daruváry, Kánya, Khuen-Héderváry, Gajzágó and Apponyi – blamed Csáky for having signed the protocol. This appeared to have shocked them when the documents revealed his actions, but I personally felt it was unjust to blame him.
It transpired that Kánya had given Csáky an order that in no circumstances was he to allow the conference to break up. Gajzágó related what had happened. On the first day they had argued from morning to night without arriving at any
conclusion
. At about ten o’clock the following morning Adatoi had summoned the Hungarian delegates to the Japanese Embassy. When they arrived they saw a car drawn up at the front door, laden with luggage. Csáky and Gajzágó were then told that Titulescu would be leaving for home at eleven o’clock. In Adatoi’s presence Titulescu showed the Hungarians the protocol document, which had been drawn up overnight. Then Adatoi told them to sign it. At first they demurred, but when Titulescu declared that whatever happened he would be leaving almost immediately and that if they refused to sign, the conference would break up and that it would be their fault. Csáky,
remembering
Kánya’s order, did not dare to take this responsibility and signed.
Although he found himself in a very difficult situation, this whole affair showed once again the impossibility of negotiating in foreign countries with fixed orders from home, for no one can foresee what difficulties may arise once the talks start. It had been quite wrong to give Csáky plenary powers to sign: better for us all if he only had the power to negotiate. He could then have entrenched himself, as I had with Ninçic, behind the ultimate authority of his government’s ratification. If that had been done, all this trouble could have been avoided. As it was, the
subsequent
complications, which were not only disagreeable but also harmful to our country’s prestige, stemmed from these two errors. It must be said, however, that the original mistake lay in the manner in which the
optans
question was laid before the League of Nations. This I have already outlined, and this is what I put to the prime minister’s conference. Finally it was decided at the meeting that the government would disown Csáky’s
signature
and would inform the League of Nations that it maintained
its original position. There was no other way for Hungary if she wanted to continue her fight for fair treatment of the
optans
.
In these chapters I have told the part I was called upon to play in the rebuilding of Hungary. Although it had meant that I had devoted four years uninterrupted work, which had entailed
ruining
my health by working day and night, I still remember it all with undiminished satisfaction. Even today it gladdens my heart to think that it was I who arranged for Sopron to remain Hungarian, and also that I had played such an significant part in restoring international respect for my country. These
achievements
gave me the right, I believe, to stand in judgement on the policies, the sins of omission and the foolhardiness which later had such catastrophic effects for the Hungarian people.
Some may think I have gone into too much detail, but although I might have told my tale in a shorter way, with less about myself, it seemed to me essential to relate everything in full, not so much as to vaunt my own actions but because I felt it might be useful to a later generation to be aware of everything that happened, to try to bring to life all the little details of what is involved in a foreign service career as well as to show how diplomatic problems may be solved; and, above all, to grasp how one must adapt to the very different habits of thought in the people with whom we come in contact and how important it is to be prepared to act instantly when suddenly confronted with mishaps no one can foresee.
Hungarians are badly in need of this sort of knowledge, for, as we have no native foreign service traditions, people have come to believe that a diplomatic post is little more than an agreeable way of passing the time, mostly in attending social occasions such as evening parties, balls and festive lunches. They do not know that it is, in fact, one of the most arduous jobs of all, for it entails great responsibility. Once something has been said it cannot be withdrawn, and news of it is at once carried far and wide,
creating
unforeseen consequences, for we have spoken in the name of our country and those to whom we speak, although we believe them to be friends, can become our enemies overnight. This is especially true for those who represent a small country such as Hungary. Those who represent a Great Power can permit
themselves many things. The English say ‘My country, right or wrong!’ and this is a great saying, not only in the purely patriotic sense in which they are apt to use it but also because it can mean that a powerful nation can change its attitude without doing any harm to itself. A small country, on the other hand, must stick closely to the truth, or it risks being punished a hundredfold. It is vital, therefore, to read between the lines of the drafts of all international agreements so as to be sure they include nothing that does not further the national interest. Lastly, only strict adherence to the truth will benefit one’s personal prestige, for that will have a more lasting effect in a diplomatic career than anything else.
126
. On the afternoon of 10 September 1898, the Empress Elisabeth (Queen of Hungary) was walking from the Hotel Beau-Rivage, accompanied by Countess Sztaray, to board the steamer for Caux, where she planned to spend a few days. Edward Crankshaw in
The Fall of the House of Habsburg
writes: ‘a young man hurried towards them, barred their path, leapt at the empress and stabbed her violently and swiftly in the breast. Elisabeth fell to the ground as the young man rushed headlong away. But, with help, she got to her feet, was dusted down, refused to go back to the hotel, said it was nothing and resumed the walk to the steamer. Countess Sztaray had to help her up the gangway, but she did not collapse until she had set foot on deck; then she sank down and died. The young man was Luigi Lucheni, an Italian builder’s labourer, twenty-six years old.’
127
. In the spring of 1890 Hélène Vacarescu, a young Romanian
aristocrat
was the favourite lady-in-waiting to Queen Carmen Sylva of Romania. The queen soon saw that the shy young Crown Prince Ferdinand had fallen in love with the girl and did everything she could to further the romance. She omitted, however, to tell King Carol, and when, in the spring of 1891, the king was told he exploded with anger and forbade the match, insisting that his nephew would have to marry a royal princess or give up being his heir. Ferdinand gave in, and the queen, with Hélène in tow, left for Venice, where Pierre Loti, hearing the story, wrote his novel
L’Exilée
about them. It was banned in Romania, and in little over a year’s time the crown prince married Queen Victoria’s
granddaughter
, Princess Marie of Edinburgh, later to become Queen Marie of Romania. Hélène Vacarescu never married. For many years she lived in Paris where – rich, scholarly and witty – she spent a useful and popular life devoted to a variety of social, literary and political activities. See
Marie of Romania
by Terence Elsberry.
128
. Between the years 1904 and 1905 Japan had inflicted a heavy defeat upon Russia.
129
. The ‘turul’ is the heraldic bird of Hungary.
130
. That is, Emperor Franz Joseph.
131
. Bánffy was present in the government party headquarters the day the Serbs rejected the Austrian ultimatum. In the penultimate chapter of
They Were Divided
there is a moving description of Tisza refusing to appear on the balcony to acknowledge the cheers of the crowd who ‘could not have known that Tisza was opposed to the war. No one knew, except those who had attended the king’s council meetings. On the day that the ultimatum had been decided, Tisa had at once resigned. He had remained in office only because ordered to by the monarch himself. He had resigned because he thought that by so doing he would be able to modify the harsh terms of the ultimatum; but when he had found that his struggle would be in vain and that he would never be able to bring Berchtold and Conrad to his way of thinking, he had decided to stay, as he knew that he alone was strong enough to hold the
country
together at such a critical time. At the express wish of the king he had agreed to keep his opposition secret, principally because he knew that Hungary’s newfound unity would be shattered if it were known what he really felt. So he accepted responsibility for a war he had fought hard to prevent. Out of a sense of duty he had accepted a task he loathed, the task of organizing a war knowing well what it would mean. He accepted it in silence, a silence that lasted until his death.’ When the clamour has died down, and the book’s hero prepares to leave, he sees Tisza sitting alone. ‘There the man sat, in a deep armchair, not speaking to anyone, with a dark expression on his face and teeth clenched. What a tragic face the man had! Abády was startled and he sensed at once that there must have been some deep compulsion to explain why he had refused to speak, why he had rejected all appeals from his
followers
, why he could not allow himself to go out and make a speech and allow himself to be cheered … he knew he could not intrude, so he turned away and went home. But he never forgot the moment he had seen him there, sitting in silence in the deep armchair with his legs crossed, his thick-lensed glasses making his eyes seem so much larger, a bitter crease on his forehead, and even more bitter lines reaching down each side of his face. He had sat there
motionless
, staring ahead of him as if all he could see was the fate of his country…’
132
. The Hungarian Wertheimstein family had estates at Nagyvárad, soon to become transferred to Romania and renamed Oradea. There is, however, a small mistake here. Rose’s husband, the Honourable (Nathaniel) Charles Rothschild, was the second son of the first Lord Rothschild. He died before his elder brother, who had succeeded as the second Lord Rothschild, and so the title missed a generation, and it was Nathaniel Charles’ son who
succeeded
his uncle.
133
.
‘Les optans hongrois’
was the term used in the Treaty of Trianon to denote all those residents of the Hungarian territories which were to be handed over to the neighbouring states but who chose to retain their Hungarian nationality. Derived from the French
‘optan’
– a person who makes a choice – it was adapted into Hungarian as ‘
optan(s)
’.