The Phoenix Land by Miklós Bánffy Read Free Book Online Page B

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-greyuniforms, 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