What is this?—Printed across the portrait of the King, of the Queen, across the picture of the house of Parliament, there is the black surcharge: “Republic.” Printed over the beautiful little head of the Queen, “Republic”: the word runs across St. Stephen’s crown on the King’s head!
A thought that has tortured me many times since the 16th of November once again wrings my heart: The crown, our crown....
It is not a jewel, it is not an ornament, it is not pomp, it is Hungary itself. Kingdoms have come and gone, but there was no people in this world to whom its crown meant so much as our crown meant to us. The Hungarian crown is every Hungarian soul, every clod of its soil, every Hungarian harvest. With it is torn from the country’s head not kingship alone, but all that we have been, all that we may ever be. From century to century the ancient symbol wrought in gold has been preserved in an iron-bound chest up there in the religious gloom of the castle of Buda; within the last thousand years it has only appeared in the light of day fifty-three times, borne on the heads of fifty-three Kings—over the Hungarian land. And once more, when a thousand years had passed, on the day of the Millenium.... Exposed to the public view, it lay on the altar of the Coronation Church. The people came, I saw them with my own eyes—gray-haired peasants, workmen, lords—and bent the knee in front of it as if before a holy thing. And I saw it on the head of King Charles on a December day, under the ancient walls of regal Buda, amidst the unfurled banners of sixty-three counties, amidst deafening cheers, amidst the sound of our great, clear, national anthem.
Traitors and sans-patries have torn St. Stephen’s crown from its place with sacrilegious hands. That crown was not only a King’s head-dress. Like a golden hoop it welded together the giant range of the Carpathians, Transylvania, the blue gulf of Adria, Croatia and Slavonia—the whole realm of the Great Plain, the country which formed the most perfect geographical unit in Europe. And now that the golden hoop holds it together no longer, that which has been united since the beginning of time falls to pieces and to ruins.
I was gripped by a maddening fear and began to tremble with apprehension for the crown, as if it were something more living than life itself. I felt that we only existed as long as it existed, that its destruction would make our destruction inevitable. What do they plot, these present despots of ours, who hate everything that connects us with our past? It is not Károlyi who will stop them: as far as he is concerned they can do what they like with the crown.
A few days ago Count Ambrózy, the Keeper of the Crown Jewels, went to Michael Károlyi’s house and asked for admittance. Károlyi was lunching with Count Pejacsevich when the butler announced that the Keeper of the Crown Jewels was waiting.
“Let him wait,” said Károlyi. “I am lunching,” and continued his meal undisturbed. After a time he was told again that Count Ambrózy wanted to see him urgently, as he had to leave town. Károlyi, to whom Kéri, Jászi and Pogány are admitted at all hours, sent a message to the first grandee of Hungary, to wait. He lit his cigar and sipped his coffee. About half an hour later the Keeper of the Crown Jewels sent another message.
“If he cannot wait, let him go,” said Károlyi. Count Pejacsevich implored him. At last he gave in. “All right, I’ll settle with him in two minutes.”
He went out, cigar in mouth, and two minutes later was back again. “Settled,” he said laughing. “Ambrózy came to ask me what should be done with the crown. I told him: take it to a bank, or put it into your pocket, I don’t care....”
