# Raggle-Taggle (1933)/Chapter 8

Chapter VIII
The Day of Saint Stephen
Pagentry in Budapest
BUDAPEST to-day is a feast of colour, for the spirit of Saint Stephen, the first great King of Hungary, has descended among his people. Though he lived away back in the year 1000 he is still the symbol of the Magyar destiny. On this day all our thoughts are centred in Buda, the royal and noble section of the capital, for on the hill above the Danube stands the Coronation Chapel where the holy function is held.
Early in the morning I wended my way from Pest across the Danube and up the narrow streets of Buda, where the ancient houses seem to slumber sadly in a world that has forgotten past glories. They are all low houses; with windows barricaded as though every neighbour was an arrant enemy. The doors and gateways, though, relieved the gloom by their baroque ornamentation, dating from the century of the rococo in art. Buda is a colourful city and to-day, though the clouds are sombre, the population dash one tint after another before our eyes. Every street is crowded to the limit, for this is not simply a feast for the folk of Budapest: from miles around in the country the peasants have come dressed up in their picturesque national costumes. Here and there I see embroidered tunics, red and white, ​huge baggy white trousers, giving their wearers the look of petticoated men, black hats with flourishing cockade. Through the streets on all sides is the ceaseless murmur of excited conversation. As the procession begins to appear in the distance there is a moment of tense silence, for everyone is devouring the approaching hosts with his eyes. In the silence there resounds out a sound of church bells, but in the distance, ringing slowly and with measured beat as though to give time to the procession. In a few seconds other bells nearer respond to the first, and soon the air is quivering with sound. Every type of bell seems to mingle its sound with the reverberating harmony: at one moment sharp, strident bells of brass: at another, deep-throated bells of bronze. Some bells chatter, others boom, some ring quickly, others swing in majestic cadence. After the symphony of the bells the military band joins the fray and the trumpets awaken the echoes from the slumbering houses. Then all of a sudden a flight of doves is loosed and the white cloud wings its way aloft, quivering as though the birds were the materialization of the reverberating sound. The music played by the band is solemn and heartrending in its sadness: it is a Magyar folk-song, and to-day seems more poignant because it makes us all think of the provinces that disappeared from the Kingdom.
Soon we hear the rhythmic cadence of the marching soldiery, wearing helmets and carrying banners. After them comes a long line of priests and monks, some in white habits with black cloaks, followed by nuns veiled in black. They are the austere part of the procession to prepare us for the picturesque band that is to follow.
Now we are back in the ancestral Hungary, with its dukes and duchesses in gorgeous robes. Every colour of the rainbow is there, and the sun that had refused to ​grace the festivities up to this now shines upon the vestments of the Magyar nobles—gold and silver, red, green, yellow, lilac pass before our eyes. Helmets glitter, swords flash as the descendants of ancient Hungary advance in a cloud of plumes and banners.
In that procession not one of those people is self-conscious or timid : everyone walks slowly and proudly as though he carried in his hand the household gods of Hungary. A lady passes alone in front of a group; she is pale complexioned and has glittering golden hair. She wears a coronet on her head and from it flows a veil of cloth of gold. Her dress was black but ornamented with gold lace. With her was a beautiful young girl dressed in the tight bodice and short skirt of the Hungarian woman. After the great ladies and their gorgeous cavaliers came the clergy, and amongst them I saw the Cardinal of Hungary resplendent in purple. That morning he had gone to the chapel in the Royal Palace to fetch the Royal relic which must be carried in the procession. Inside the chiselled gold monstrance lies the black, mummified hand of Hungary’s first great King and saint—that hand which pacified the warring elements and gave laws to the followers of Arpád. The hand of Saint Stephen and his crown are both preserved in the crypt of the Royal palace, objects of such veneration to the Hungarians that even the Bolsheviks when they attacked the country after the War respected them. As the hand approaches in the gorgeous casket amid the sound of church bells, the music seems to swell ever louder to a crescendo and then as it departs the sound diminishes, suggesting to my mind thoughts of Wagner's Grail prelude to Lohengrin.
Surrounding the casket are the Halberdiers of the Crown dressed in doublets of dark green embroidered ​with silver, red breeches, high Hungarian boots. They carry large swords, and on their head they wear green and silver caps, with feathers as crests, which give them the look of Arabian Nights heroes. Over their uniform they wear long white cloaks with scarlet folds. So gorgeous are they that the Knights of Malta, all in red, who surround the Cardinal are eclipsed. After the clerics come the governors of the state: Regent Horthy, the ruler of Hungary, dressed in an admiral’s uniform, which reminds us that he commanded the Austro-Hungarian Navy in the War, and the proud Archduke Joseph, with his son, two of the few survivors of the ill-fated House of Hapsburg. As he passes a murmur goes up from the crowd of citizens that surround me. They feel affection for the old man who is known as the “Hungarian Archduke,” but they say under the breath, “No more Hapsburgs for Hungary.”
As the procession of nobles and ladies fair drags its slow length along it is interesting to listen to the commentaries of the spectators. The Hungarians are a race of pageant lovers, and their enthusiasm would make one believe that they are not democratic in the modern sense. They are still monarchical—and even in the case of Horthy they call him Regent as though any day it might be possible to place upon his brow the crown of King Stephen. To me the whole spectacle was one of unutterable sadness: it was like digging up the ashes of the past. I began to associate the scene in my mind with fairy stories of my youth by Perrault and Madame d’Aulnoy, with their visions of sweet-faced queens and noble cavaliers—the stories that were told to amuse little Dauphins living in the lonely luxury of Versailles. Before the War there was still the glamour of pageantry in Europe, but now it is all dead. The world will never go back to those days of monarchy and ​pageantry again, for we are delivered over to an era of enlightened civilization, typified by American efficiency. Behind me in the crowd was a group of Americans from the Middle West and their comments sounded the knell deep within me.
First American (a clean-shaven, active man of fifty, wearing horn-rimmed glasses and focusing a film camera): “This is all very pretty, but I call it childish. One has to come to Europe to see such childishness in a people. No wonder they are in a mess.”
Second American: “If they only gave up all those gewgaws and finery and invested in good hotels and gasolene stations this country would go ahead.”
Third American (a lady who has been trying desperately hard to master the intricacies of Magyar history from a guide-book): “You are both wrong: I think this is a swell procession, and if you were ever as picturesque as those young men in the velvet uniforms we American women would not need to take our thrillers in Europe every year.”
Inside the Coronation Chapel the scene was as grandiose as the last act of Parsifal. It was a blaze of gold, with myriads of candles twinkling in every corner through vast clouds of incense. Inside, the Cardinal said High Mass, and outside the church at the top of the steps, on the tiny open space that overlooks the Danube, Mass also was said. Then the Hymn of Hungary was sung by the huge choir, for every member of the crowd feels inspired to song, and the volume of harmony floats in air over the Danube and loses itself in the distance. The Tricolour flag of Hungary is hoisted and the soldiers present arms, for we are now at the most solemn moment of the service—the Elevation. It was on the very spot where I am standing that the kings of Hungary were ​crowned, and according to tradition the new monarch would unsheathe his sword and point with it to the four cardinal points, pronouncing four times the oath that he would defend all the boundaries of Hungary against any aggressor.