Links in the Chain of Life E-Book

Baroness Emmuska Orczy

• Herausgeber: Classica Libris
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

The autobiography of the author of The Scarlet Pimpernel series.

Leseprobe

Baroness Emmuska Orczy

LINKS IN THE CHAIN OF LIFE

Copyright

First published in 1947

Copyright © 2019 Classica Libris

BOOK 1

CHILDHOOD

Chapter 1

How often have I been asked by readers-young and old-”do tell me how the Scarlet Pimpernel came to be written. How did you think of him?” And a good many would add (men for the most part): “You are Hungarian born, aren’t you? Nothing English about you?” To the first the answer was, “Yes! of Hungarian parents and grand-parents and countless generations of Hungarians”; and to the second: “No, nothing; except my love which is all English.” “Then,” my kind interlocutor would add, “how comes it that you, a pure-blooded Hungarian as you say, have such a wonderful understanding of the British character and have created such a perfect representation of an English gentleman?” Which tribute to my Scarlet Pimpernel always pleases me more than any other, however appreciative. For that was what I aimed at when I first conceived him: a perfect presentation of an English gentleman.

At fifteen years of age, when first my parents settled down in London (temporarily as they thought) I had never been in England, never had an English friend or English governess, or English tuition of any sort or kind. I did not speak one word of English. Then how did it all come about? Neo-Victorians and Neo-Georgians will put it down to destiny; others to predestination. I, in my humble way, put it down to the Will of God. And looking back on my long life and its many changes I can trace the links of my chain of life that began on the great plains of Hungary, continued through the heart of London, and find me now at this hour of writing this book in Monte Carlo jotting down all that I can remember of those links which led me one by one to the conception of my first literary work. If any one of those links had not been, if any turn of event in my life had been different, I would probably have ended my days in the country of my birth and known nothing of the happiness which comes from love, from the affection of friends (such as one meets in England) and from success in the work to which I devoted so many years of my life.

In Gotha’s Freiherrliches Taschenbuch-the continental counterpart of our Debrett-the ancestry of the Orczy family is traced back to the entry of Arpád and his knights into Hungary nearly two hundred years before the Norman Conquest.

Ah well! such is destiny: such was the Will of God! If this had not happened… or that… if my father had not been half-ruined by the agrarian troubles of the ‘70’s and the great Viennese financial crisis that followed… if he and my mother had not then decided to go to Brussels for a time while my sister and I were still babies, then to Paris when I grew to school age, and finally to London to complete my education after the death of my sister… if he had lived a few years longer, when he intended to return to his own country and to end his days in the old home… if I had had any talent for the musical career to which in his heart he had already devoted me… if… if… if… well, if all those things had not happened The Scarlet Pimpernel would not have been written.

When I was a child in the last quarter of the nineteenth century, poor, misguided Hungary of today was living her last years of prosperity as an independent proud country, equal partner with one of the great empires of Europe. I am not going to enter into any dissertation on the history of Hungary. It would, for one thing, take too long and not be very interesting to those who have never known the country in its brilliant declining years. But it was brilliant then, when there were no wars or rumours of war, none at any rate that reached the ears of those splendid feudal lords ensconced in their opulent châteaux, medieval still in their magnificence, their hospitality; their contemptuous disregard of every innovation that threatened the even tenor of their lives-new-fangled rubbish, or inventions of the devil did they dub that abominable railway which cut through their estate, their forests, their fields; bolshevism they would have called it had the word been coined then, or communism which was the catchword of politicians and had no meaning that any sensible man could discern.

I had two dear old aunts who lived an almost conventional life together in Kolozsvár, the capital of Transylvania, integral eastern portion of Hungary which has become the battledore and shuttlecock between herself and Roumania ever since the ill-considered treaty of Trianon in 1919. Their beautiful old home was opposite the cathedral, and on the open place in front of the great medieval edifice the first motor-cars made their appearance in the first year of the twentieth century, and there halted and were parked. My dear old aunts thereafter pulled down the blinds and closed the shutters of the windows which gave on the Place, for they would not at any price of light or air look on those inventions diaboliques.

Already the railway-which twenty-five years before had linked Kolozsvár with Budapest-had been looked upon by the two nice old ladies as an invention of the devil. On the vary rare occasions when they journeyed to Budapest they did so as they had done in their youth-in their carriage drawn by six horses with postilions and relays. It took five days and five halts in often primitive, and always uncomfortable inns to accomplish the journey; eighteen hours (at first) to do it by rail, but no matter. There was no pandering to the devil and his works even at the cost of almost unbearable fatigue as old age slowly overtook these devotees of old-time customs.

But this is by the way. I only quote the fact in order to give a picture of the state of mind that prevailed among the upper classes in Hungary at the time I opened my baby eyes to the world.

My earliest recollections go back to a marvellous day in mid-July-my sister Madeleine’s fifth birthday. She was the elder of us two girls and her birthday was always an occasion for one of those days of merrymaking and boundless hospitality peculiar to country life in Hungary. My father and mother lived in Tarna-Örs then, a large agricultural property on the River Tarna-owned and farmed by my grandfather as it had been by many generations before him-and there were we two girls born.

The house was of the type so often found on the puszta (the plains of Hungary) two stories above the ground, rambling, square and huge, with four façades at right angles to one another. The main block contained the reception rooms and the apartments of the numerous family, together with numberless corridors, halls, and staircases; another had thirty-six guest rooms, and a loggia where one sat on hot summer afternoons looking out over the garden and the park, and beyond these to the village with its little medieval church and tower; another consisted of the riding school, gymnasium and swimming bath, whilst kitchens, offices and servant’s quarters completed the square. The whole structure was as commodious and as ugly as you like.

In the centre of the square there was a garden planted with standard rose trees and clipped acacias, in the middle of which a fat stone Cupid spouted water out of its pursed mouth. I remember that Cupid so well, he and a life-size stone image of Attila, King of the Huns (why Attila I have often wondered since) standing defiant and warlike in a niche on the main staircase, are the two items of ornamentation that have dwelt persistently in my memory.

Tarna-Örs was not the family seat, and there had been no house there until my grandfather built one in the early days of the nineteenth century. He was a younger son, had served in the army until he was chosen to accompany the Austrian archduchess, Marie-Louise, as her chamberlain when she went to France to marry the Emperor Napoleon. On his return he bethought himself of getting married, and desirous of having a home of his own-his elder brother being installed in the ancestral château-he took over the property of Tarna-Örs and built thereon this huge, ugly house, not only in order to accommodate the large family which he fondly hoped for, but also to indulge his taste for that extravagant and large-hearted hospitality for which the Hungarian landowners will always remain famous even in these days of poverty and democratic government.

And oh! that hospitality! Relations, friends, all of them were welcome, with their families, their servants, their horses and carriages. There was room for all and to spare. There was no question of invitations, they just came-knowing the days when they would be welcomed with feasting and dancing and tsigane (gipsy) music all day and half through the night.

The 22nd of July was one of those days: there were several others throughout the year, but this one was the most important, not only because my sister was the eldest grandchild but also because the weather at this time of year was always beautiful, the heat always intense, so that there was every excuse for doing nothing all day but sip iced drinks and loll on easy chairs in the loggia. We two little girls were prinked out in our best frocks and did not enjoy ourselves half as much as when we had on our old pinafores and could scramble up the old acacia trees without fear of a scolding for spoiling our frocks. Indeed we did not really look forward to the 22nd of July in spite of the fact that every carriage-load of visitors brought toys and bonbons for the birthday child.

Visitors began to drop in the day before, but the first to arrive were the tsiganes with their musical instruments. They came from the neighbouring town of Gyöngyös, as the village band was not considered good enough for the great occasion, and usually turned up at about five o’clock ready to begin to play as soon as some of the company had gathered in the loggia (we called it the verandah) and had sat down to iced coffee, hot rolls and lovely butter, and finishing off with huge slices of water-melon cooled in ice-yellow, pink, red, and white glistening like coloured snow encased in their shiny emerald-green carcases-with early peaches and nectarines and pomegranates swimming in maraschino.

And the gipsy band played unceasingly one gay csàrdàs (the Hungarian national dance) after another, intermingled with one or other of those beautiful old Hungarian songs which great musicians like Liszt, Brahms, and Hubay did not disdain to pass off as their own compositions.

What happened during the remainder of that first afternoon we children knew nothing about. We were whisked off to bed at our usual time and, looking back on those merry days in the light of further experience, I imagine that all the grown-ups as well as the children spent a quiet night in the comfortable beds of Tarna-Örs in preparation for the next day’s orgy of pleasure. Nor do I remember much of the actual great day. It seemed to have been spent for the most part in the dining-room, the verandah, or the garden in eating and perpetual chattering to the accompaniment of tsigane music until the end of the day, when dancing began and went on until far into the morning when all of us children were getting out of bed.

I don’t think that anyone did anything during the day except chatter and eat. They didn’t drink much-drinking to excess is not a Hungarian vice-they just ate and ate and laughed and chatted. Breakfast was at any convenient hour, coffee and hot rolls and butter served in the bedrooms. At eleven o’clock everyone drank Tokay and munched biscuits until one o’clock, when luncheon was served and went on until three o’clock. Coffee and liqueurs took up the time until five o’clock, when it was the turn of ices, cakes, fruit, and I know not what. And always to the accompaniment of gipsy music. When those tsiganes slept I know not. They certainly played with hardly any interruption, only two or three very small intervals for meals, and with never-failing energy for hours on end.

That is all the recollection I have of my sister’s fourth birthday. As far as I know it was no different from many other days of equal conviviality. It was in the following year that the festivities of the 22nd of July were brought to a close by an appalling tragedy which has never faded from my mind from that day to this.

Was it not the first link in the chain of my life? I leave my readers to judge.

Chapter 2

My father had now in his turn taken over-in accordance with family custom-another agricultural property which was handed over to him by his father. He and my mother were probably tired of living with the old people, with the brothers and sisters and the rest of the family in Tarna-Örs. Anyway, I vaguely remember a journey by carriage and then the ferry across the River Theisz, carriage, horses, and all. The Theisz is one of the four great rivers of Hungary and Tisza-Abád is close by. The house is still there to this day, but I don’t remember it very well, we only lived there three years and I never saw it again after we left it. The tragedy of that memorable 22nd of July was so appalling that I don’t wonder my parents turned their back on it and never wished to see it again.

The whole of that terrible tragedy was simply a question of machinery versus the labourers: the same motive, the same pig-headedness on the one side and misunderstanding on the other, that brought about the many troubles all over the industrial world at that time. In this case it was the world of agricultural science and the peasants. My father was very keen on farming. In the intervals of certain diplomatic missions entrusted to him by the Austro-Hungarian Government he had studied farming in Germany and in France. Tisza-Abád was situated in the heart of one of the finest corn-growing districts in Europe, and here agricultural science was not only in its infancy, it had in fact never been born.

Such things as machinery for harvesting, threshing, or grinding had never been heard of. Everything was done by hand and everybody, owner as well as peasant, was perfectly satisfied with things as they were. My father, unfortunately for him, had progressive ideals; he dreamed of turning Tisza-Abád into a model farm on the lines of those he had seen in Germany and France. I take it he was also obstinate; that he did not listen to warnings, either from friends, or from those of the peasantry who were better educated than most and had remained loyal to him.

Anyway, he began operations by building a steam-mill, and importing agricultural machinery from Germany. The peasants grumbled, held indignation meetings in the village inn, sent deputations to my father demanding that this work of the devil should cease; for, they argued, if the corn was not going to be cut and garnered and threshed and ground by their hands, who but the devil had the power to do it-surely not God, who if He had wanted iron and steel things to do this work He would have created them without the help of goodness knows what hellish objects from Germany, and without that tall chimney which obviously was only destined to send the smoke from the fires of hell up into the pure air of the sky.

They talked, humbly and respectfully at first as to their overlord, then more and more firmly and peremptorily. My father listened to them, with entire sympathy and understanding. He argued with them, explained the matter to them as clearly and as patiently as he could: assured them that never, while he lived-and his children after him-would any man born and living on his estate suffer penury from unemployment. He talked and the men listened, but they were not convinced. Superstition-which is one of the besetting sins of the ignorant-had them in its grip. They were frightened, they knew not of what.

Anyway, another deputation composed of all the elders of the village went to interview the parish priest on the all-engrossing subject. They went to beg him to say a special mass for the keeping away of the devil and to bless buckets full of holy water wherewith to douse the entire building with its tall chimney, which only the devil could make use of by filling it with smoke.

It was just the same old story that agitated the industrial centres all over Europe. England was one of the chief sufferers and so was Northern France. I was just a child, and of all that happened previous to that fateful 22nd of July I knew, of course, nothing until I was old enough to understand. But I do know what happened on the day itself.

It began most gloriously. The weather was perfect. The corn was ripe. Harvesting was about to begin, that over-busy, over-happy time for all those who love their country and their land as my father did so whole-heartedly, and we two little girls were just old enough to enjoy the festivities attendant on the birthday festivities as great and lively at Tisza-Abád as they had been at Tarna-Örs. This particular year they were going to be merrier than they had ever been before.

A grand project had been set on foot by my mother, who had a perfect genius for making everybody, young and old, masters and servants happy. The idea was to have a great masquerade. Everyone was to dress up in some fantastic guise: the women were to don male attire, and the men to wear bodices and petticoats. For this purpose old chests were ransacked for clothes and apparel which had lain mouldering therein for the past century probably. I imagine that a good many of these were moth-eaten. Well! what did that matter so long as they could be worn at all and helped to increase the fun? I know that for weeks before the event a regular army of women from the village sat in a huge workroom plying needle and thread and scissors to mend and fix up all sorts of costumes, sufficiently at any rate to make them wearable on that one wonderful occasion.

The tsiganes came, as was customary, in the afternoon, of the 21st. They were a band of super tsiganes attached to Tisza-Abád, who had for the past three years been trained and taught and encouraged in the way they should go by my father, who was, besides his other great qualities, an accomplished musician. After they had settled down to play, friends began to arrive. They came as they always did-in their carriages drawn by spanking Hungarian horses: light carriages these were, that skim over the sandy roads of the puszia-really not unlike the ‘victorias’ of our mothers’ days in Hyde Park, but always with four horses in the traces (sometimes five, Hungarian fashion three leaders, two wheelers), the harness either black or red with long streamers and silver bosses. So gay, so romantic, so medieval. No wonder that full-throated cheers followed them whenever they galloped through a village. No wonder that Tisza-Abád echoed those cheers from one end of the village to the other.

The events of the next twenty-four hours form something of a jumble in my mind. All that I can disentangle from that jumble of impressions in first the feeling that the day was all too short, I wanted it to go on and on and on, and at the same time I wanted the hour to come quickly when all the guests would retire in order to don the fantastic costumes which had been laid out ready for them in their respective rooms. A second impression of which I remember being conscious at the time was the joy that my own birthday was not very far off, 23rd September in fact, and that all this loveliness, the games, the presents, the mad merry-making would in two months’ time begin again.

And so the evening came. Silence reigned in the château while the guests were busy dressing up-comparative silence that is, because now and again it was broken by shrieks of laughter issuing from one of the guest rooms and by one or other of the uncles or cousins or friends breaking out into stentorian song. We two little girls were dressed in old-fashioned pages’ costumes of scarlet satin, with small scarlet skull caps to confine our rebellious curls, satin knee-breeches and buckled shoes. We were delighted with ourselves. They had been made to our measure by Julie Dubois-how well I remember her name when I have forgotten so many others-our French nursery governess.

I can distinctly recall even now some of the motley throng that gathered in the reception rooms before supper was announced: the girls and young matrons in men’s clothes which, for the most part became them very well, for they knew how to make the best of themselves, and the men in what articles of feminine attire they had contrived to array themselves in.

My mother-always beautiful, always elegant and sedate-wore my father’s national court dress: a blue watered-silk frock coat with jewelled clasps, black velvet cloak with scarlet lining, sable collar and jewelled buttons over her left shoulder, grey silk, Hungarian breeches, great curved sword with jewelled hilt, belt, and sheath. She looked perfectly lovely-she was, indeed, a noted beauty, even in this land where so many women are beautiful-with a cap set rakishly on her dark hair, its long heron’s feather held with a jewelled clasp. There surely never has been a more fascinating Hungarian aristocrat dressed ready for a Court function in Budapest or Vienna. They reason why I am able to describe the costume she wore that evening all those years ago is because I have a portrait of my father painted by a Hungarian artist and wearing that self-same Court dress.

Others, of course, I don’t remember so accurately, only one or two ludicrous visions float before my mind now and then even to this day. The very noble and very pompous Count V.-Lord-Lieutenant of the county-who had dragged out of the welter of all sorts and kinds of feminine apparel some white tarlatan skirts such as were worn by Taglioni and her pupils in the days when ballet-dancing was a fine art (and, if you please, by the Russian ballet-dancers of today now that this art has come into its own again). On Count V.’s none too slender figure the pink bodice-laced up at the back, and his socks and own dancing shoes peeping out below the tarlatan skirts, looked supremely comic.

And I also remember an Orczy cousin of mine, a handsome young captain of hussars dressed as a Hungarian peasant maiden, with row upon row of coloured beads, such as these maidens love to wear, adorning his manly chest, and a párta (the national head-dress) which refused to keep in its proper place. He had managed to collect a number of cotton skirts and tied them on round his waist one over the other in the orthodox style, but he had not the art of swinging these as he walked, which the Hungarian peasant girls do to perfection in order to display their kaleidoscope of colours.

My father and two or three of the older men were the only ones who wore no fancy costume on that never-to-be-forgotten occasion, but everybody else did, and the servants the same: they, too, had been pressed into following the topsy-turvy rule of the evening, and anything more funny than old Jankó, the grey-haired butler, in a scarlet bodice and pink petticoat, solemnly pouring out the wine, or standing behind my mother’s chair without the suspicion of a smile beneath his huge white moustache could not very well be imagined.

The supper was boisterous and merry, and the tsiganes had to work hard to make themselves heard above the din in the great open hall, the clatter of dishes, the outbursts of laughter, and the constant chattering of the gay company. We two little girls and all the children had the time of our lives, and the very thought of getting sleepy and having to go to bed was anathema to our childish souls. After supper, dancing began as was customary with the csàrdàs, the Hungarian national dance, some of the finest tunes of which have been immortalized by Brahms (though it was not he who invented them).

The tsiganes knew how to alternate the dreamy lassú (slow movement) with the maddest, liveliest parts of the dance. “Húzd rá, czigány!” (play on tsiganes) was called out to them by the dancers as if to add more strength to their arms. Sometimes they could hardly play for laughing when the ‘ladies’ became entangled in their unaccustomed petticoats and were compelled to cling none to gracefully to their dainty cavaliers.

In the midst of all this boisterous gaiety only a few could have noticed that the old butler had slipped into the room and, going up to my father, whispered something in his ear, nor seen my father rise immediately and follow Jankó out of the room. Now, funnily enough, I do remember that little incident because, beginning to feel tired I had ceased dancing and had drawn close to where my father was sitting, and had squatted on the floor with my head resting against his knee. His rising so suddenly sent the sleepiness out of my eyes. And after that I only remember things in a confused dream-like manner. I remember that Madeleine and I and the other children were picked up and taken incontinently up to bed; we two were undressed and made ready to say our evening prayer as we always did, kneeling by the side of mother; but this evening was different.

Everything was done in a hurry, and mother did not come for prayers, as she always did whether there was ‘company’ or not, and Julie Dubois murmured our usual little prayers at such a rate that we were scarcely able to follow. (Funny that such trivial incidents as this one should dwell so persistently in my mind, but it certainly has done throughout my long life.) Hastily she tucked us up in bed, told us to go to sleep and forgot to put a match to the veilleuse, the night-light which was always kept going in our nursery. Julie slept in the room next to ours and the communicating door was always left wide open Tonight our nursery was darker than usual because there was no veilleuse, only a narrow shaft of light from the lamp in Julie’s room came through the open door and lay over the floor leaving the rest of the room in darkness. But we were not afraid of the dark. I am not sure that I for one did not like it.

Tonight, however, we neither of us got to sleep. We called once or twice to Julie, but she did not answer. As a rule this part of the house was always very quiet. The nursery was a long way from the reception rooms, on another floor but tonight there seemed to be a perpetual hum going on from every part of the house. Nothing definite, no individual sound, just a perpetual buzzing like the approach of lots and lots of horses and carriages coming nearer and nearer and yet not like that either. Just noise. At first we thought-at least I did-that it came from the dancing on the floor below, the tsigane music and so on.

I longed for Julie to answer when we called. After a time I noticed that a red glow shone through the slats of the shutters, because my bed was opposite the window and I could see the red streaks through the slats. I called to Madeleine and she got out of bed; then I got out, too, and together we went and stood by the window looking at the red glow through the shutters.

“It can’t be the sunset can it?” I suggested; and Madeleine shook her head and whispered: “Sh… sh… sh… listen.”

I listened. I heard Julie’s voice at last. She was murmuring “Mon Dieu!” and again “Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!” at frequent intervals. Ilona, our nursery-maid, was with her, talking. Julie did not speak Hungarian, but she had been a long time with us, so she understood when the servants spoke to her. And Ilona was saying now: “It is all burning, burning, all the fields, the corn, the maize, the oats, everything”; and Julie murmured: “Mon Dieu, ayez pitié de nous!” Then Ilona went on talking, she said: “The stables you know, Mademoiselle, the cowsheds, the farm buildings, all that, they are trying to save the poor animals, who are so frightened, the poor cows, the horses, the pigs, the geese… Oh! it is dreadful!… Those wicked peasants… they should have thought of the innocent animals …”

And Julie kept on murmuring: “Mon Dieu, ayez pitié!”

That is about all that I actually remember of that terrible night. I was only three years old at the time and of course I did not understand. It was only years afterwards, and then only very gradually, that papa and mama revealed to us the terrible tragedy in all its details. I gave a full description of it such as I gathered it from them in my book, A Son of the People. In the book all the characters are imaginary; it is only the actual tragedy such as it occurred at Tisza-Abád that I tried to describe, not as I imagined it, for it was all too real, but as I saw it in my mind’s eye.

I understand that the steam-mill, with its tall chimney-the cause of all the trouble-still stands on the banks of the Theiss and is in full working order. It was reconstructed after the fire which destroyed acres upon acres of rich corn land but failed to do the building irreparable damage. But many a time, and even to this day, have I seen in imagination the awesome scene which marked the close of our life in Tisza-Abád.

Chapter 3

After that came a different life altogether, because I never lived in the country again until after I was married. We were always in town: Budapest first, then Brussels, then Paris for a little while, and finally London. I don’t remember the preparations that were made for our departure from Tisza-Abád, but I do remember how terribly sad papa and mama nearly always looked after that awful night in July. They tried to smile, poor darlings, when they thought we were looking at them; but somehow even I, child as I was, realized that there was no joy in their hearts. The destruction of the crops at Tisza-Abád, complete though it was, did not necessarily mean black ruin, though it went some way towards it, but I imagine that it hardened papa’s heart against the country which he loved and against the people to whom he had shown nothing but kindness and good will.

He often told me afterwards that the tragedy wrought a very great change in him morally, but that it conferred one inestimable boon upon him, one for which he thanked God with all his heart. It turned his whole mind back to music which, deep down in his soul, he had always loved passionately. As a boy in the days of Tarna-Örs his tutor, a learned professor from the University of Weimar, was devoted to music and gave the boy his first lessons in that sublime and divine art. After his death my father did three years’ study at Weimar University, and there he continued to study music so earnestly that at sixteen years of age he was familiar with the works of all the great masters: he had taught himself composition, counterpoint, and orchestration. He always played the piano divinely: his touch on the piano, as well as on the harp and the organ, had in it a quality which I for one have never heard equalled.

It was in Weimar that the first seeds were sown of my father’s friendship with Franz Liszt, then at the apogee of his glorious career, a friendship which endured throughout the life of the great master and influenced not only my father’s destiny but strangely enough mine also. It was he who induced my father to accept the position of Intendant (Supreme Administrator) of the National Theatres in Budapest-a Court appointment which as so often happens in cases of this sort (and I venture to say in most countries where special appointments are dependent on Court or Government patronage) had hitherto been assigned to gentlemen highly distinguished no doubt in their military or administrative careers, but who knew about as much of music as ‘the cock that crows in the morn’ or of dramatic art as ‘the maiden all forlorn’.

I have often been told, years afterwards when I began to understand things, that my father was ‘very difficult’. I can quite believe it. Music, through a divine and highly-elevating art, is a hard task-mistress. She plays havoc more often than not with the artist’s nerves and with his temperament, makes him over-sensitive to pin-pricks. And my dear father, I know, suffered terribly from pin-pricks. The position of ‘Intendant of the National Theatres’ was a coveted one. There was a clique who felt they had a prescriptive right to nominate, if not actually to appoint, a successor to the outgoing official

There were certain privileges attached to it and if one did not worry too much as to the artistic qualities of opera or drama and was content to give the public the old things that had become the stock-in-trade of the National Theatres, things went on pretty smoothly. But in this, as in everything else that was progressive and cultural, the Hungarian ‘man in the street’ hated any kind of innovation. His father had applauded Trovatore, Barbière, La Fille de Madame Angot and what not, and these were quite good enough for him. He didn’t want to know anything of that German humbug called Wagner and his entirely tuneless and noisy opera Lohengrin.

Sándor Ürkény, the old chef d’orchestre, who had conducted the orchestra of the National Theatres for umpteen years was not going to worry himself studying any new scores with brass instruments galore, some of which he had never even heard of. He had a great many friends. He was popular. A cabal formed itself around him against what was loudly termed a revolution in the administration of the country’s most cherished institution. He tendered his resignation as chef d’orchestre, thinking, no doubt, that this would create a regular uproar against the ‘aristocratic musician’ (meaning my father) who had foreign ideas and foreign sympathies altogether at variance with Hungarian traditions.

The resignation did not create the desired uproar, but it let loose a number of pin-pricks, attacks in the Press, discontent among the upholders of the old régime, among the old actors and singers who should have been pensioned off long ago but had carried on simply because they had acted and sung on the stage of the National Theatre to the delight of the past generation.

My father felt the pin-pricks keenly, but he was an obstinate man, and as in the case of the discontented peasants in Tisza-Abád he did not realize that the tide of discontent in the reactionary elements of the city was rising against him. As he had striven to make Tisza-Abád a model farm, so he strove now to make the Budapest Opera take its rank-during his administration-among the great musical institutions of Europe.

He accepted old Ürkény’s resignation with ill-concealed pleasure and called Hans Richter over from Bavaria to take his place. The latter was then conducting an insignificant orchestra somewhere in Bavaria. My father had somehow got to know of him and as soon as troubles with old Ürkény began he went over there, heard that greatest of all conductors at work and soon induced him to come to Budapest; where, by the way, the project of building an opera house worthy of the noblest musical traditions was already being seriously considered. And that was the beginning of Hans Richter’s career.

Under my father’s patronage his fame spread beyond the confines of Budapest, and when my father in the end-tired of squabbles and pin-pricks and attacks in the Press-resigned his position as Intendant of the National Theatres, Vienna took Richter on; from thence he went to Bayreuth and was acclaimed all over Europe as the greatest chef d’orchestre it had ever known. And he certainly was that.

England acclaimed him as warmly as any of these ever did. He was received everywhere with the greatest kindness and hospitality. Manchester vied with London to shower honours and munificence upon him. And all this he repaid with the basest ingratitude. His German blood asserted itself to the full when at the outbreak of the 1914-1918 war he set himself to work to vilify England and everything English in articles and letters published in the German Press. It would be impossible to imagine conduct more sordid and more vile on the part of a man who dared to abrogate to himself the noble name of ‘artist’. We all remember that unspeakable anti-English manifesto which was issued by the German intelligentsia, by authors, artists, poets, and musicians at the outbreak of the 1914 war. Hans Richter-whom England had loaded with kindnesses-put his name to that.

But all this will seem irrelevant to those dear kind readers who do me the honour of wanting to hear about my doings and my destiny. I have only spoken of them because our stay in Budapest for the three years when my father was engaged in what should have been the most welcome activity in public and social life and alas! proved to be so nerve-racking for him, was one of the most important links in the chain of my life. The great and ever mysterious ‘if’ comes into play there, for had those activities been congenial from a mental as well as from a social point of view, he would no doubt have continued them, and we should never have left Budapest and Tarna-Örs, and never have come to England… and, The Scarlet Pimpernel would never have been written.

Chapter 4

Throughout these troublous times, Franz Liszt-’the Abbé Liszt’ as he then was-remained the staunch friend and supporter of my father. He had a great and genuine admiration for his musical gifts. There was never any humbug about old Liszt, and when he declared that Félix Orczy was the finest amateur musician in Europe he meant what he said and was the first to proclaim that through my father was not what was known as a brilliant executant, he ‘made the piano sing’ in a way that he for one had never heard equalled.

I think the grand old man tried his best to persuade my father to accept the brilliant offer made to him at this time by the Khedive to take over the direction of the Opera in Cairo and help make of that city as great a musical centre as Budapest had become under his directorate. The offer must have been very tempting, and funnily enough I vaguely remember Madeleine and I poring over our geography books when we heard the word ‘Cairo’ spoken by our parents as a likely future abode. But my dear mother was dead against the project. We two little girls were growing up and our education was becoming one of the first considerations in her mind.

Be that as it may, my father’s definite refusal with grateful thanks to His Highness the Khedive was yet another link in the chain which bound little Emmuska Orczy to her future home-England.

After Budapest-and always with a view to our future-my parents took us to Brussels where we commenced our education in the convent school of The Visitation. We were only a very little while in Brussels. My beloved sister died there at the age of twelve. My father idolized her, and her death did, in a way, break his heart. He had suffered greatly through the tragedy in Tisza-Abád, and the three years of struggle against covert enmity in Budapest, but nothing in the way of misfortune struck so deeply at his heart than the death of dear little Madeleine. I was just old enough, too, to realize my own loss to the full. Though I was younger by two years than she was, we had always loved each other devotedly.

The one year of schooling that we did together in Brussels was made happy for me by the fact that the kind nuns allowed us to be always together both for work and play. My school reports in those days always spoke of me as being trop dominante avec ses compagnes. I suppose I was of a domineering disposition. I always wanted to be, and in my own opinion always was right in any dispute or argument that occurred amongst us schoolgirls. In fact my character did not develop on very lovable lines, I am sure, and it needed all of Madeleine’s gentle influence, and often her interposition between my ill-temper and the wrath of the other girls, to patch up many a quarrel which would have brought severe punishment on my obstinate and passionate head.

I was therefore, and entirely by my own fault, decidedly unpopular: but everyone loved Madeleine. I adored her; but even the kind nuns who most deplored my mauvais caractère, admitted that I never tried to dominate her. She was getting more and more delicate at this time and did not care to join in the games in the big convent garden, and I was only too happy to stay with her in the recreation room, content to be with her and to chatter away on all sorts of fantastic subjects. We invented a kind of game together, a thrilling drama which we enacted, of a lovely princess held in bondage by a wicked ogre and of a daring prince who made various attempts to rescue her. Madeleine was, of course the princess whose name was Rose, and I was the Prince Horace (sic).

The tower in which the lovely lady was imprisoned was built of school forms and desks flanked by numerous chairs. These obstacles had to be surmounted by the dauntless prince without knocking any of them over, for if he brought down as much as a chair out of place he had failed in his attempt and oft-times had been grievously wounded and lay unconscious for at least three minutes (that is to say, three weeks by our computation). As soon as he had recovered from his swoon he made another daring attempt, scaling crags and chasms of rocks and storming the grim citadel of benches, forms and desks. And ha! The joy of the rescued princess! The pride of the dauntless prince as he clasped the loved one in his arms.

And this same thrilling drama was enacted whenever the kind nuns allowed us to drag the desks and chairs about for our mise-en-scène. Probably they knew what I, of course, did not, that my dear Madeleine had not many more weeks to live and indulged her in the little entertainment which I had invented for her pleasure.

I only mention this trivial episode because I cannot help thinking that in a childish, obscure way my imagination was already then at work on doughty deeds of valour, on noble heroes, dare-devil adventurers and on hapless victims of cruel persecutions which found expression many years later in the creation of The Scarlet Pimpernel.

While we were in the Visitation we spent two of our long holidays in Tarna-Örs. I must say that I did not like them at all. Somehow I felt that we were not popular with the rest of the family. My grandfather was a martyr to gout, and we saw little of him; all the others, aunts, uncles, cousins had become very Germanized. Grandmother was Viennese by birth; her only daughter had married an Austrian General; the cousins jabbered away in German, and my darling Madeleine and I hated talking German. The one uncle whom we liked was Master of the Horse to the Empress Elisabeth and lived in Vienna; two other uncles were in the army where German was obligatory.

Grandmother never allowed Hungarian to be spoken in her presence, and we two little girls took refuge against all this Germanization by chattering away in French with Mama and between ourselves, and always Hungarian with papa when we were alone with him. Grandmother it seems disapproved of our foreign education as she called it. She thought us too free in our ways, not sufficiently lady-like-I was, of course, the chief offender. We were very frightened of her, and as we were invariably reproved at table when we chatted in French, mostly in whispers, we got into the way of sitting silent during the long meals. But it was worse when the meal was over, and the ‘grown-ups’ adjourned to another room for coffee. Oh! how I dreaded the half-hour that ensued. We were the youngest of the family and had our two little chairs by the side of grandmother and were told, very kindly I must say, to sit down.

Then came the awful moment. All the ladies-aunts and cousins and friends who were staying in the house brought out their crochet or their embroidery frames. I brought out my tatting-I have always loved tatting-and Madeleine her knitting. The grown-ups drank their after-dinner coffee, talked a little, and presently silence fell on the assembled company presumably because no one had anything particular to say. And suddenly grandmother would fix her steely eyes upon me and command: “Emma” (she disdained to call me Emmuska, which is the Hungarian equivalent of that very ugly name and actually means ‘little Emma’), “Emma, faits la conversation” (make conversation), and this command she always issued in French-I never knew why-because she detested French almost as much as did Hungarian. But I ask you whether an order to make conversation would not always be the surest means of drying up the flood of your eloquence and muddle up your thoughts however active they may have been just before.

I am quite sure that it dried me up and jumbled my thoughts, for in my shy, stupid way, I simply couldn’t think of anything to say, and you can, I am sure, picture to yourself the feelings of a schoolgirl or even of anyone older faced with such a command. I know that it positively froze me and the effort that I made to entertain the company (who, by the way, were none too kindly disposed towards me) sufficiently to raise a smile or a glimmer of interest must be counted as one of the most heroic achievements of my life.

I wish I could remember some of the rubbish I talked on those occasions: but I do know that in consequence of these efforts I was never able in after life, nor can I to this day ‘make conversation’ or indulge in what is known as small talk, an art in which so many of my friends young and old excel, unless I am among friends who are interested in me and who will keep the ball of ‘conversation’ rolling along happily.

It was soon after the second long holiday which we spent in Hungary that my beloved sister died. This was the first sorrow that came into my young life. How little did I guess that her death was yet another link in the chain of my life, the link that brought me more insistently than any other to what God had decreed would be my real, my spiritual, birthplace… England.

My father who worshipped her, and who was absent in Hungary at the time at the death-bed of his father, was entirely broken by grief at this additional sorrow. He had been telegraphed for when Madeleine was dying and arrived in Brussels just in time to see her laid to rest there. He became a changed man after that. Though he was not much more than forty at the time his hair turned snow-white, and he became the most silent man I have ever met. Not morose, just silent with a kind of gentle, brooding sadness in his deep-set blue eyes.

Indeed, sorrow had become the portion of both my parents at this time. My mother lost both her father and her mother and also a sister of whom she was very fond, and I imagine that both she and my father felt that this overwhelming atmosphere of sorrow was none too healthy for a growing girl as I then was. They were obliged to go to Hungary on business of succession and so forth, and an aunt who had a daughter of her own about my age and who was very fond of me undertook to look after me while my parents were away. She was an aunt à la mode de Bretagne-not really an aunt, but distantly related in the way that in Hungary all families are in some way or other linked together.

Anyway, I fully reciprocated her affection for me. She took me along with her daughter to Paris to give us the educational polish which I daresay was necessary, because the dear little nuns of the Visitation in Brussels were more noted for their piety than for the erudition. Our minds were principally fed on ecclesiastical history, not imparted to us out of printed books but out of copy-books, manuscripts in fact which were copied and re-copied by all of us pupils by way of recreation every Saturday afternoon. We were also grounded in the history of France out of books entirely devoted to the glory of that Catholic country.

In addition to these two histories (sic) we had the usual lessons in geography and arithmetic, and several hours during each week were devoted to sewing and (for which I am heartily grateful) to what was called style épistolaire, i.e. writing letters to imaginary correspondents on various matters suggested by the teacher, such as a description of an afternoon’s holiday at Ostende (I suppose most children at school in Brussels had been to Ostende) or an account of how we spent our recreation hour when the weather was too bad for play in the garden. Anyway, in the Visitation the subject of these letters was limited to our childish intelligence. Nevertheless, I feel that it was good training in its way, more especially as there were always extra marks for good handwriting and for quickness in the task, all of which certainly stood me in good stead in later life.

At the Convent School in Paris our studies were certainly on a higher plane than in Brussels, but not much. We learned our Histoire de l’Eglise and our Histoire de France out of printed books. I am ashamed to say that I do not remember the names of the authors, but I enjoyed my Histoire de France even though it was not Michelet’s. I think I liked hearing about the wickednesses of England, especially with reference to Jeanne d’Arc, of whom it was always boldly asserted that she was condemned at the stake by the English whilst no reference was made to the French bishops who also sat in judgement over her. (Strangely enough this great fallacy still dwells in the minds of the great majority of French people, and not only in that of the uneducated.) I also enjoyed the abuse hurled at our Henry VIII. His name was anathema both in Histoire Eclésiastique and in the Histoire de France.

Here, too, we had the usual lessons in geography and arithmetic, and to these kind nuns am I also indebted for their teaching of style épistolaire, the writing of letters to imaginary correspondents, but now these letters were no longer very simple, they were by way of being adapted to our developing intelligence.

All the same I have often felt that the effort and the discipline of attempting to write those letters have stood me in the very good stead. I have always treasured a letter from my dear friend, W. J. Locke, that charming stylist. I had asked him to do something which he didn’t want to do-give a lecture or something of the sort-he was never fond of publicity. I apparently wrote again and finally he consented, beginning his letter with: “You cunning writer of persuasive epistles.” I certainly have more often than not got what I wanted by writing a ‘persuasive epistle’ than by lengthy interviews. And this I owe, I am sure, to those lessons in style épistolaire taught me by the artless and naïve teachers in the Convents of Brussels and Paris.

I was eight years old when my sister died, and just on fifteen when my parents took the great and, for me, most momentous steps on which, unknown then by me, the whole course of my life depended: the decision to settle down in London for a time. As a matter of fact I am rather vague as to why, or exactly when, they made that decision. The intervening years of my girlhood were, as far as I was concerned, uneventful, and there were no indications whatever in my mind during that time of any tendency towards imaginative or in fact any special kind of talent. Nor do I remember much of the journey to England, except that my first experience of a sea-voyage was a very unpleasant one.

Of course the first thing to do when one arrives in a foreign country is to learn its language. Both my parents spoke English after a fashion, enough at any rate to make themselves understood by shop people or servants. But I knew not a word. After consultation with the Austro-Hungarian Consul in London-who was an old friend-it was decided that I should first be sent to a small day school where I could pick up the first rudiments of the language. There was one close to where we were living which was kept by a German professor and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Pretorius, and thither did I tramp with a maid in attendance, backwards and forwards four times a day for six months. At the end of that time I had a good working knowledge of English-good enough anyhow to pass First Class the College of Preceptors examination with special prize for foreign languages.