7

bers alternated at strictly regulated intervals. Occasionally, as a concession to his visitor's extreme youth, Herr Liedl lapsed into a folk ditty, a native *csárdás*, a mazurka, or even a nursery tune, thereby breaking his self-imposed stern discipline.

Gradually the close companionship of these practice sessions was extended to long walks outdoors, through neighboring gardens, into the acacia forest, or along the shore of the lake. On such expeditions the lad's hand clutched the man's. But the hours of silence exacted from them by the music they had shared now banished all need for language. There was no small talk between them, no conversation. In later years, recalling this endearing association, the grown Imre reminised:

> "We never exchanged a syllable, not for hours and days. In short, it was a perfect friendship."

With this musical keynote as a point of departure, the boy early grew aware of other personalities on a par with his superlative crony, Professor Liedl. Balaton residents made frequent mention of a prominent Austrian composer, Karl Goldmark, born at Keszthely in 1830 while his parents were on holiday in Hungary. The town of Keszthely lay only a short distance from Siófok, and, as the name of Goldmark was seldom spoken without immediate and enthusiastic allusion to such operatic or symphonic successes as "The Queen of Sheba", "Sappho", "Sakuntala", and "Zriny", it became implanted in Imre's impressionable mind that Lake Balaton's fame derived purely from Goldmark's choice of a birthplace.

This was further underscored by the fact that the poet-novelist Maurus Jókai, though hailing from Komárom on the Danube, spent most

8

of his time at his villa in Balaton-Füred for the sole purpose of
ferreting out vanished legends, songs and sagas of the region, and
bringing them to paper. Because Jókai became ultimately identified
with the Balaton, Imre again confused cause and effect, ascribing
the lake's importance to the presence of the poet.

It was perhaps an early clue to character, unfolding in the
child and strengthened later in the man. However deep his allegiance
to a place of beauty or of patriotic significance, Imre's homage would
be lavished -- if their virtue or charm so warranted -- on the people
he encountered there.

1

Chapter 2.

Shortly after he had reached the age of five, Imre organized
a ball.

This was not so preposterous an undertaking for a kindergar-
ten mite as one would at first suppose. Siófok was surrounded by glit-
tering resort towns that bubbled with social activity, particularly
at night. The Balaton tourist centers had not only well tended beaches,
promenade boardwalks, luxury hotels with tree-shaded outdoor cafes, but
each boasted a terraced casino where dance orchestras furnished the
accompaniment to an interminable series of festivities. There were
<u>redoutes</u> or costume balls for the rich, and folk dances for the middle-
class trade, while an especially rowdy "Servants' Hop" answered the
needs of coachmen, valets, grooms, ladies' maids, nannies and cooks
whose employers filled the private villas round about.

Siófok lagged behind in recreational possibilities. A sleepy
hamlet, it possessed no flamboyant beach clubs, restaurants, or other
tourist attractions. Such bathers as disported themselves along its
waterfront were staid local residents, with unspectacular exceptions
like Professor Liedl (who seldom indulged in a swim). But the bustle
and tintinnabulation echoing across the lake, especially on warm
summer evenings, gave Siófok citizens a sense of vicarious partici-
pation. They knew what went on, if only by hearsay, from lively
 reports on beach
gossip regarding some conspicuous romance to the latest note in fashion.

Children shared such informative tidbits through backstairs
reportage, as many a Siófok kitchen wench managed to slip away after
hours for a taste of forbidden revelry. Descriptions of ballroom
thrills and frills had thus reached the ears of the younger Kálmáns,

2

leaving a particular mark on the impressionable Imre.

He had no peace once the idea hit him. He would himself arrange just such a ball as grown-ups talked about. With a handful of coppers from his small coin bank he set out in search of a hall, which he presently located at the far end of a neighbor's garden, in an unused carriage house. The neighbor, amicably disposed toward children, charged no rent. This left the supply of coppers happily intact.

Next, there was need of an orchestra. Imre solved this by engaging Sándor, the handyman, who chanced to be patching the cement walk in front of the Kálmán home. During his lunch hour, after munching a slab of rye bread topped with raw bacon and a thick coating of paprika, Sándor was wont to pull out a battered harmonica and to regale himself, for a good thirty minutes, with a potpourri of popular tunes. What more could one wish for one's first ball? At the rate of three shiny Kreuzer old Sándor was pledged to come and bring his mouth organ.

Imre had no difficulty drumming up guests. They were recruited among the neighborhood small fry, as far as four blocks away, with a sprinkling of amused elders joining in. The matter of refreshments proved rather more of a problem, but this was solved in the end by some badgering of Mama and Theresa, the cook.

The ball took place on a late Sunday afternoon, and it might have been counted an unqualified success, but for a vexing mishap. As chief sponsor and host Imre had taken it upon himself to pick the prettiest partner, who turned out to be almost twice

3

his age. The girl, furthermore, wore native dress, with six starched
petticoats ballooning from her middle, so that he had trouble get-
ting any kind of hold. He also didn't know how to dance. In short,
the amiable Sándor had scarcely sounded his opening bars in three
quarter time when a loud thump was heard: Imre and his lady had
stumbled over each other and lay sprawled on the "ballroom" floor.

The sight brought forth gales of laughter. Lost in the
billows of her skirts the girl floundered about with flailing arms
and legs, while Imre picked himself up and bolted from the scene.
It was the end of his dancing career. Though in future years over
the entire world millions of people were to waltz to his music, he
never again set foot on a dance floor.

That same year the town council of Siófok voted on a long
projected operetta theater, to compete with rival Balaton resorts.
By early summer construction was well under way, with a stage ready
for use, though seating facilities were as yet provisional. A com-
pany of traveling thespians arrived from Budapest and daily re-
hearsals began within earshot of the Kálmán home. The effect upon
the household was electrifying. Children and elders flocked to
the theater at all hours, watching the proceedings both on stage
and in the orchestra pit.

For the imaginative Imre these events spelled sheerest
delight. He absorbed every detail during the involved preparation
of "Die Fledermaus", by someone called Johann Strauss The Younger.
The operetta's dramatic elements, its dialogue and farcical turns,
were above his head, to be sure, but not so the music. He retained

4

long passages, to be reproduced by ear and with childish verve on
the livingroom piano.

The boy's increasing virtuosity would have commanded
more attention, had not that winter of 1889 aroused all Austria-
Hungary with a shocking dynastic tragedy. Against a backdrop of
pine forest and piled snow a real life drama played itself out in
an imperial hunting lodge called Mayerling. Archduke Rudolf of
Habsburg, Heir Apparent to the throne of the federated Danube
states, died by suicide with a seventeen-year-old society beauty,
Baroness Marie Vetsera.

In the Kálmán household the "Mayerling Tragedy" was
exhaustively discussed. Exceptionally happy in their marriage,
Imre's parents were deeply sympathetic toward the despondent
lovers no less than they pitied Rudolf's blighted widow, the
Belgian-born Archduchess Stephanie. Inevitably the children
caught snatches of adult conversation and were made aware of the
more piquant and romantic aspects of the celebrated affair. Imre
too was captivated by all the buzzing whispers and shaking of
heads. But for him the royal characters so widely debated and
lamented were not flesh and blood people at all. His rampant
fancy had fed, through the long summer just past, on the Siófok
Operetta Theater's fabulous fictions. In consequence he visualized
the adventurous Rudolf and the hapless ladies who were linked to
his fate as merely a new set of stage characters. Adult life,
for Imre, had begun to assume the more beguiling and at times
terrifying aspects of a gigantic libretto.

5

The following year a new policy put an end to free attendance during rehearsals at the Siofok Theater. The measure was directed particularly against children, who were often unmanageable and given to pranks, which drew understandable protests from the artists on stage.

For Imre this proved an unbearable dilemma. Though the other youngsters soon turned to livelier pastimes on the beach, he skulked about brooding over some way to enter the forbidden premises. At last he summoned up enough courage to plead with a doorkeeper backstage who, though at first stern and unbending, softened eventually to the extent of posing a condition. He would smuggle Imre inside through a shadowy passage, in exchange for two Herzegovina cigarettes, a luxury brand smoked only by persons of high station.

"If I bring you the cigarettes tomorrow," Imre wanted to know, "will you let me in right now?"

The doorkeeper frowned. "I should say not! Payment first, fun afterwards."

"But I give you my word of honor!"

"Ah, well -- that's different. Get in, then, and be sure to lie on your stomach so the Herr Direktor won't catch sight of you."

With this the latch clicked and Imre slipped through a labyrinth of painted sets and props to a passage that led into the auditorium. Here, as promised, he dropped to the floor and cowered, silent as a mouse, instantly absorbed in the wonders that unfolded above the distant footlights.

6

Later that afternoon, following two hours of rapt listening, he emerged from the shadowy world of make-believe into the sharp light of day. The weight of his promise lay now upon him. How was he, a first-grader in school, to come by a pair of Herzegovina cigarettes? Did Papa smoke them? If so, Imre might try wheedling --- but no, that would require confession of the method whereby he had gained admission to the theater. Well then, perhaps inspection of the smoke stand in the parlor might yield the promised bribe. However, Imre was an abecedarian, just beginning to read: ló for horse, csikó for foal, juh for sheep, bárany for lamb. The brand of tobacco requested by his doorkeeper accomplice called for greater familiarity with print. After all, it would not do to indulge in petty thievery only to discover that one had filched the wrong brand.

Tormented by the moral aspects of his problem, Imre resolved to try a financial stratagem. It was mid-week and his modest allowance had already gone for marbles and a sack of peppermint candy, leaving no income in prospect before Sunday morning. Borrowing against future allotments was sternly refused in the Kalmán household, due to the inevitable howls and heartaches when pay-off time arrived. But, given the rapid capillary growth on small boys' heads, one could always require a haircut. Imre looked into a mirror and decided he was due for a visit to Barber Varsó's tonsorial parlor. The customary fee, readily furnished by Mama, was ten Kreuzer. From variously overheard comments among servants and tradespeople, however, Imre well knew that peasants and persons

7

of lower financial status were clipped for half price. It was
his purpose to demand that Barber Varsó look upon him as one of
the underprivileged. With five Kreuzer thus saved he ought to
be able to purchase the precious Herzegovinas.

On the way to the haircutting establishment Imre stopped
at a tobacconist shop, known throughout Hungary as a _Trafik_. Here
he found his calculations gratifyingly confirmed: two of the
supposed "luxury" cigarettes were to be had, in those days of
full valued currency, for a mere three Kreuzer, which would leave
two extra coppers for a generous scoop of licorice beans. A young
man of action, Imre made both purchases before proceeding on his
way. When he climbed into the barber's chair the Herzegovinas
were carefully tucked away above the waistband of his sailor blouse,
while a trace of licorice lingered discreetly on his breath.

Old Varsó was a jolly friend. He went to work with his
clippers as did a herdsman shearing sheep, all the while keeping
up a monologue of merry stories. Imre sat quietly, eyes fixed
on the row of shaving mugs that decorated a shelf below the mirror.
There, prominently displayed, were the barbering utensils of
Siófok's most distinguished burghers. Papa's gilt-handled and
initialled cup figured conspicuously among them.

Imre did not take his usual delight in studying the
handsome array. He was worried. He wondered how exactly to break
the news to Varsó that today's haircut was going to be a half-price
job.

Sshhrrt - click - click went the clippers as one side

8

of Imre's head shone nakedly under the sparse stubble which con-
stituted the then fashionable small boy's crew cut. This seemed
to be the point for speaking up.

"Uncle Varsó," Imre began, swallowing hard. Adults to
whom one was not related liked being addressed as uncles or aunts,
a fact worth remembering when there was need for winning their good
will. "Uncle Varsó -- "

"Yes, my boy?"

"You know something?"

The barber smiled benignly and shook his head.

"I'm paying you only five Kreuzer."

The clippers snapped their nickel-plated jaws as Varsó
halted with a jolt. "What's that you just said, little man?"

"I said I'm paying you only five Kreuzer. That's what
some other children pay, and I've heard about it, too."

Arms akimbo, the barber took a deep breath. "Sure, that's
what some others pay -- the little peasant boys who come to town
with their fathers on market day, and the poor children down by
the fishermen's docks. But lads whose parents ride in a carriage,
and who have a piano in the parlor, they pay ten Kreuzer. Under-
stand?"

Imre understood all right. But he did not have the ten
Kreuzer. Panic-stricken, he argued, negotiated, begged. Tears
came. But "Uncle" Varsó remained adamant, no trace about him now
of the jovial friend of youth, the amiable raconteur. Snipping
a sharp dividing line across the exact middle of his customer's

9

head he declared categorically:

"There; half a haircut for half-price!"

Without further ceremony Imre was dismissed.

Now his plight was pitiable indeed. With cap cocked over one ear to cover up his degradation, he stood despairing on the sidewalk. Could he venture home in such a mutilated state? He thought not. There would be too many questions to answer. Perhaps the best thing was to call on Aunt Lissi (a real aunt, fortunately) who lived nearby and was the most softhearted of his immediate relations.

Visiting Aunt Lissi proved a good idea. At sight of Imre's head ("Half billiard ball, half jungle!" she called it) the good lady choked back an impulse to roar with laughter, and opened her purse.

"There you are, my poor Imrike," she gasped between repressed chuckles, while handing him the missing fee. "Run back and get yourself made presentable."

As fast as his short legs would carry him, Imre ran. His situation was humiliating in the extreme, but he held still for the gloating barber to complete the clipping job. There were no merry anecdotes this time. Furthermore, old Varsó demanded payment in advance.

The ordeal over, Imre raced through the streets once more, heading for the theater. Here the doorkeeper greeted him with hand outstretched.

"It's about time," the man said. "You got the smokes,

10

like you promised?"

"Oh, yes!"

Imre delved into his blouse to search for the precious
tribute. There was a moment of anxiety as the elusive Herzegovi-
nas seemed to have tangled with his underclothing.

"If they're all bashed up I don't accept them," warned
the doorkeeper, his eyes narrowing peevishly. "You got to get me
fresh ones, that's the bargain."

At thought of undergoing a repetition of the day's tor-
tures Imre's soul shriveled, but he bit his lip and maintained a
show of confidence.

"Oh, I've got them, I've got them."

And there they were indeed, somewhere to the right of
his esophagus, miraculously intact. As one redeeming a pledge of
highest honor he handed over the two Herzegovinas. The afternoon's
long agony fell from him. Proud and exultant, he walked home.

The feeling of triumph was not to last. His brother Béla
had entered the house only a moment earlier with a startling bit
of news. While passing the <u>Trafik</u> that same day Béla had been
accosted by the tobacconist's wife who, though she did not wish
to cut down her husband's trade, felt morally impelled to warn that
age seven was shockingly early for a boy to start the smoking habit.

Papa Kálman thought so too.

On entering his home Imre was welcomed with a mild box
on the ears before he could explain the true course of events. When,
after full clarification of the Herzegovina purchase (and the story

11

of the haircut) Imre believed himself happily vindicated, there
were still words of censure from his frowning parent. A bribe,
said Papa, was something vile and reprehensible. Further atten-
dance during rehearsals at the Siófok Theater, whether by hook or
crook, was thenceforth interdicted.

1

Chapter 3.

Imre's forced break with the world of the theater, bitter
though it might have been, was eased by a concurrent circumstance. He
had carried about in his heart a growing resentment, shared by the
other children in the neighborhood, over the management's failure to
renew their favorite comedian's contract. This artist, Arpád Dunay,
was off stage a melancholy individual, seemingly without family or
friends. But he loved children. Often in his free time he was to be
seen romping with them on the beach and giving swimming lessons. He
also liked to fish. On occasion Imre went along, carrying the can
of worms (and keeping it replenished from a special damp place in the
garden) or tending Arpád's collection of rods.

Following tradition, each member of the stock company enjoyed star billing, once during the season, in a "benefit" performance, the proceeds of which accrued in toto to his or her purse. Imre could hardly wait for the day when Arpád would be so honored. It came late in the summer with a scheduled performance of "Domi, the Ape", in which the comedian played the title role. The story was set against a New World background of virgin forests, more reminiscent of the Amazon River than the Mississippi, and the plot concerned a noble simian rescuing a child from some fierce danger and being himself shot to death -- in error, of course -- by the infant's father. It was a **tour de force** on the part of Herr Dunay, since the impersonation of a monkey called for considerable acrobatic prowess. And the fate of poor, well-meaning Domi loosened floods of tears among younger spectators. But the Viennese management pronounced the work too costly for its repertory, what with jungle plants and concealed trapezes

2

for Domi's vaults from tree to tree. In short, the number was scratch-
from next year's program.

Imre was inconsolable. Not only did he think Arpád the ab-
solute peer among actors, but whom would he find thereafter to accom-
pany on angling trips? It was an early taste of life's most recurrent
ache: parting.

He never saw Arpád Dunay again, though the latter continued
to star in the Domi role. Eventually the jungle drama was condensed
into more economic form and it toured the provinces for years. At
least a decade later Imre paged through a theater gazette listing
some popular vaudeville acts on the outdoor stage of Budapest's green
Városliget (City Park). "Domi, the Ape", now cut to truly perfunct-
ory size, opened the bill, with Dunay -- perhaps less agile than in
his Siófok days, but still uproariously comical and heartrendingly
sad -- playing the lead. Nothing could have kept Imre from rushing
to see and applaud his former friend. But the issue of the gazette
a back number
was a several weeks old and the park offerings listed a whole new set
of names. Only in the shrine of memory would Domi and his lonely
interpreter retain a lasting place.

Meanwhile, after the deplorable episode of the Herzegovina
cigarettes and the interrupted haircut, Imre's immediate interest in
theatrical matters had waned. With a small boy's inventiveness, he
was soon bent on other pursuits, among these the decision to become
a manufacturer of ink. This somewhat extraordinary notion originated
accidentally upon discovery that some grape stains on his best white
Sunday blouse were not to be eradicated either by soap and water or
the customary sodium solutions. True, the damaged blouse called forth

3

stern reproof from Juliska, the laundress, who took pride in her weekly delivery of immaculate garments. But Imre's interest centered on the blot. What a momentous find! He had repeatedly heard deploring comments on the price of ink, when a small flask of the precious liquid was upset on Papa Kálmán's writing desk. Well, there would be an end to such worries, now that Imre had found a solution. At the bottom of the garden, not far from the damp patch that held his supply of fishing worms, was a wild grape arbor bearing a limitless supply of cheap pigment.

Unfortunately the idea did not meet with acceptance. Indeed, as Imre's plan to bottle nature's juices became a threat to his remaining wardrobe, not to mention towels and other household linens, the gardener was quietly instructed to cut the grapevine down.

Though the plant had been eradicated, it was less simple to throttle human enterprise. Imre soon got on a new tack. While sadly inspecting the shattered arbor he came upon a colony of silk worms nestled among the fallen grapevine stems. Ah, this was even better than the manufacture and promotion of ink! Didn't the whole world, its feminine segment in particular, prize silks and satins as the top of luxury? Imre well recalled the shimmer and rustle of stage costumes, during dress rehearsals he had attended. And there was Mama's best evening gown, the one with finely gathered ruffles around the hem -- chiffon, it was called, a delicate cobweb that felt like flower petals to the touch.

He did not know just how a batch of worms living amid dusty greenery could go about producing silk. But this had been

4

the gardener's unsuspecting reply when questioned regarding the
fuzzy creatures: "Those are silk worms, lad, like they have in Japan."

"You mean they're made of silk?" Imre wanted to feel and
make sure.

"No, no -- they spin a fine thread from which people make
dress goods that sell at high prices. Now don't bother me, I got
this mess to clean up."

Little did the good man realize that, while uprooting Imre's
ink factory he had already furnished the impulse for a new under-
taking. Imre was ready to set himself up in the silk manufacturing
industry.

For a start, he carried his colony of worms to a shelf in
the tool shed, where he covered them with cardboard and a length of
close-woven fishnet. Next he harvested a variety of edible greens,
not hesitating to filch a bit of lettuce and rhubarb from a neigh-
bor's vegetable patch, to feed his charges. Lastly, and this was
the hardest part of all, he settled back to wait for his "spinners"
to get to work. Just what he would do with spools and spools -- or
would it be bales? -- of thread, from which such magic as went into
Mama's chiffon dress somehow got woven, was a dark mystery. Perhaps
Józsi, the gardener, ought to be consulted and offered a partnership.
In any case, waiting (and there seemed to be a lot of it) wasn't
much fun. Daily the budding silk merchant inspected his factory on
the tool shed shelf. But there was no sign of imminent production.
Indeed, some of the worms were visibly shrunken in size, while others
lay listlessly about and scarcely could be prodded into a wriggle.

5

What Imre did not know, and Józsi had failed to mention, was that the hapless caterpillars had fallen from a nearby mulberry tree during the dismantling of the grape arbor. Lacking their customary diet, they were quietly drying up amid the assortment of unpalatable leaves under which Imre so eagerly smothered them.

Well, so much for an experimental flight into the silk industry.

Imre's next chosen career was that of librarian. The direct cause of this lay of course in the fact that he had mastered his alphabet and was learning to read. The small Siófok school, commendably progressive, had an attractive reading room with a lending service in books for every age group. In no time Imre devoured all available items on the junior shelves, and he clamored for more. As the school budget allowed for no additions he once again fell back on his own resourcefulness. He would start a lending library of his own. Enlisting a group of playmates, he organized a "music festival" (no more ballroom efforts, he was done with dancing for good) and he personally supervised the sale of tickets. The concert, well attended by fond relatives and other bemused adults, brought in a tidy sum with which the complete works of the brothers Grimm, the fairy stories of Haupt and Andersen, as well as a beautifully illustrated edition of the Leatherstocking Tales could be obtained.

As self-appointed librarian, needless to say, Imre had the gratifying advantage of getting first chance at all these treasures. He read them one by one with unbounded delight, then passed them on to the waiting customers.

6

During this period the family circle had been successively
enlarged by the births of three babies, each of them a girl. Imre
had only a hazy grasp of these events, as they burst upon his young
life with the obvious matter-of-factness of nightfall or sunrise: other
youngsters in the neighborhood had infant brothers or sisters, and so
had he. Whence they came, he was not ready to question. They were
just suddenly there, one by one, to get used to and to love.

He loved them possessively and with an intensity beyond his
years, as he loved Papa and, above all, Mama. In this he was led by
the rich emotional ties that held the various family members closely
linked. He loved because he did not know what it was to live unloved.
And from this fact derived his first taste of suffering.

The Siófok school, adapted to village requirements, did not
go beyond four elementary grades. In 1892, by the time he was ten
years old, Imre's education would necessitate the hiring of private
tutors or his enrollment, like Béla and Vilma before him, in a
Budapest school. The latter choice was deemed preferable, and, by
late August of that year, Imre stood anxiously by as his small trunk
was being packed.

He felt deeply troubled. It was an early time of life to
learn one's first farewell. The thought of leaving home, his room,
his own bed, the voices and faces belonging to his daily existence
-- he could not grasp it. Could one go on living, away from all
that was dear and familiar?

Choked with bewilderment and grief he let himself be bundled
into the carriage and sped away to the station in the company of an
uncle who was to deliver him to the Evangelical Gymnasium, a boys'

7

academy of some renown.

The ride to Budapest was unbearable, despite the kindly uncle's efforts to divert and cheer. Imre was too manly to sob aloud, but inwardly, he felt sure, a flood of suppressed tears would drown his heart. His blue eyes, pressed to the train window, saw nothing of harvest fields or golden sunset sweeping by. His mind held only the last glimpse of home, over the low rooftops of Siófok, melting away into the dusk.

The Budapest school did not take boarders, hence a room was found in a nearby Pension devoted to the care and supervision of students. As for Imre's academic standing, there were disappointments in store. He had been at the head of his class in Siófok, but village ratings were no match for the capital. Fellow students soon made the "country bumpkin" a butt for their jokes, taunting him with his colloquial speech and his regional clothes.

He had not known conflict before, but on his first encounter with it he refused to cringe. Vigorous and healthy, he countered results with a number of well aimed blows which gave his tormentors pause. In short order the taunts abated and his position in this new environment became secure. Before long the very boys to whom he had administered the soundest thrashings proved his most devoted friends.

The new curriculum was not particularly difficult, and Imre mastered it with normal effort. This left him still with unused energy on tap and with a reawakening of his creative urge. As in Siófok, he cast about for added outlets and presently launched himself as a newspaper publisher and editor. Much to the school board's puzzlement and

8

wonder, the "Junior Echo" appeared as a weekly issue, painstakingly
scribbled and illustrated by hand. There was only one copy which made
the rounds from reader to reader and was literally consumed to shreds,
until official approval facilitated the mimeographing of subsequent
editions.

That same autumn Imre paid his first visit to Budapest's
Royal Opera House. He had been given a ticket by his landlady who
was indisposed and did not want her balcony seat to go unused. The
opera scheduled was "Die Walküre", under direction of Arthur Nikisch.

Imre knew nothing of Richard Wagner, nor in fact of the
musical art form called opera. But the prospect of again entering a
theater lifted him to heights of bliss. He attended in company of
the landlady's son, and for weeks thereafter suffered nightmares
as his imagination recreated scenes of supernatural terror and delight.
The cast of characters and the artists interpreting them would remain
imprinted on his memory for life. They were:

Siegmund --- Franz Broulik

Sieglinde --- Countess Italia Vasquez

Wotan --- David Ney

Brünnhilde --- Sophie Sedlmayer

Hunding --- Ludwig Szendröi

The performance made a deep impression upon him, even though
he scarcely could follow the intricacies of plot. While the inter-
twined relationships between Siegmund and Sieglinde no less than be-
tween Wotan and Brünnhilde provided a Gordian knot for the most schol-
arly Wagner addict, the Hunding-Siegmund fight, the ride of the

9

Valkyries, and the magic fire of Brünnhilde's rock could not fail to dazzle a small boy's fancy. He had been born into a music-loving home, and through his visits to the Siófok Theater he had acquired an early passion for the stage. But now he had seen music and drama wedded into an organic whole, each drawing power and excitement from the other.

No, this first meeting with the work of the titanic Wagner he would never forget.

1

Chapter 4.

Less than two months after Imre had left home a cholera epidemic broke out in Budapest and all schools were closed. This meant that Imre could pack up and return with the next train to Lake Balaton.

The unexpected reunion with family and home surroundings was sheer intoxication, overshadowed only by the knowledge that such a respite would perforce be temporary. However, he made up his mind to extract every drop of happiness from the interval which fate had allotted him. In addition he sought to prolong that interval by addressing himself to God, both in prayer and song. The petitions were his own creation and, while they besought a quick end to the dread cholera scourge, Imre made it clear to the Almighty that there was no hurry whatever about reopening any schools.

His prayers, and the work of the Budapest Board of Health, obtained results. The epidemic died down and by early December all students were alerted for imminent return to classes. Imre redoubled his fervor, thanking the Lord for having dealt with the cholera but pleading, now that winter had arrived, for a dandy blizzard that would paralyze communications and keep Siófok cozily buried until spring.

Needless to say, though Imre proposed, God disposed otherwise. On December 4th classes reopened and teachers doubled their assignments to make up for lost time. The heavier curriculum could be endured only because the Christmas holidays were a scant three weeks away.

2

TP

The following year another cholera epidemic broke out, causing an exodus of students right after the start of the new term. Again Imre went home, where he prayed and chanted to the heavens, shamelessly requesting a prolongation of the plague -- in less virulent form, to be sure, though not so mild as to aid the cause of education. These improvised psalms and oratorios, strictly utilitarian in character, were incidentally his first experiments in the field of musical composition. Their quality was not passed on by contemporary audiences or critics since these creations never got beyond a secret première launched in the privacy of his room.

Like all earthly scourges the second cholera siege came to an end, leaving Imre in considerable doubt. He began to ponder the efficacy of prayer-for-specific-ends. Perhaps God did not like petitions that imposed timetables and prescribed routines upon the Divine Will. In future dialogues with the Almighty, Imre sensed, a revised text was advisable.

A direct consequence of the above prayer sessions was a growing fondness for eloquent speech. Imre began to contemplate a career in jurisprudence, visualizing himself presenting an elaborate oration at the bar. Having seen pictures of high legal personalities in impressive regalia he gave some thought to readying himself for a prospective job as Chief Justice, if not Prime Minister of Hungary. This aim for high goals of a more or less articulate nature was all the more singular in that Imre himself suffered from painful and mute shyness. He was voluble only when alone, never in the presence of family members. Given his inborn taciturnity, a lifelong preparation would not have sufficed to lead him into a courtroom for a public contest

3

of words. Nevertheless this was what he thought he wanted. To fit
himself for so honorable a profession he devised a set of self-
disciplinary Spartan rules, such as walking three kilometers daily
to school, and cutting his mid-day meal in half. By these practices
a dual purpose was served; while building character, Imre also saved
transportation and lunch money toward a fund for the buying of Christ-
mas presents for his family.

He started his gift shopping in September, and his select-
tions were a clear reflection of a schoolboy's taste for sweets,
specifically chocolates. Week after week his room became more clut-
tered with cartons and packets of delicacies that ranged from plain
chocolate bars to figurines of angels, mice, cat's tongues, coins,
and other edible fantasies wrapped in shiny tinfoil. These accumu-
lating treasures were a source of constant temptation, but he with-
stood valiantly until it was time to pack for home.

On arrival at Siófok the day before Christmas Imre slipped
out into the woods and cut down a miniature tree which he intended
to trim by himself. For this too he had supplied himself with gaudy
flitter and baubles obtained through his Budapest savings. But in
the process of embellishing his tree Imre's wall of resistance broke
down as, quite unconsciously, he fortified himself from time to time
by nibbling at the spread out confections. How it happened he would
never know: on completing his task he had devoured better than half
the family "gifts". Worse than that, what was not swallowed whole
showed signs of having been handled and indeed sampled before find-
ing its way to the skimpily laden pine branches.

4

Even so, the Feast of Love proved heartwarming and gay, with Papa Kálmán munching mutilated chocolate mice while making the glad announcement that he had been elected to preside over the Civic Betterment League, an organization he had been instrumental in founding. One of the League's first objectives was the building of a resort hotel, to be followed by the laying out of a race track, with grand stand and the last word in paddocks and stables.

"This will really put Siófok on the map!" Papa said proudly, "Personal ambition paled beside the driving concern he felt for the growth and improvement of his home town."

Imre went back to school agog with anticipation of the transformation outlined by the promoters with whom his father was now in daily touch. Nor were the predictions exaggerated. By early summer Siófok showed signs of rising from its former somnolence to become a major tourist attraction. When Imre returned again on holiday the luxury hotel was not yet finished but the race track had already opened for business. Promptly he became a racing fan. That is, he lingered about the track and watched the jockeys train. Lest he be chased off the grounds he also made himself useful by sweeping out stables, watering horses, and performing other unaccustomed but fascinating tasks.

On one occasion the famed steeplechase rider, Prince Maxi-
milian Egon von Thurn-Taxis, mistook Imre for one of the grooms and
gave him a letter to mail. To be thought a genuine stablehand! It
was a triumph in the eleven-year-old boy's life.

Understandably, music took a back seat during this period.

5

The Budapest school did not stress its pursuit in a strictly academic curriculum, and Imre himself rather stubbornly resisted his mother's suggestion that he take piano or violin lessons during his vacation time at home. One reason for his reluctance may well have been the fact that his older brother and sister were making signal progress in this field. There was hardly an hour of day when Béla or Vilma could not be heard practicing. For Imre this was disheartening. With two excellent musicians already in the family he saw no chance of catching up, let alone keeping pace. Yet his love of melody remained pronounced and he had not lost his sensitive ear. Sometimes, when there was no one watching, he sat down at the keyboard and played nameless tunes that he improvised on the spot, for he could not read a note. This was however the extent of his musical interest.

Scholastically he acquitted himself well enough. Despite the supposed disadvantages of a rustic childhood Imre was among the top ten in his Budapest class, losing his position only occasionally when a passion for reading caused him to neglect his lessons. But a few days of cramming would overcome the lapse and put him once more ahead. This made him unpopular with duller classmates who found book learning harder to assimilate. Imre was challenged to repeated bouts of fisticuffs, to rebutt the implication that a bookworm must needs be a milksop. He was small-boned, slender, and by no means the physical match of some of his opponents, but they soon learned that he commanded both spunk and sparring ability.

During the spring of 1896 Imre's school participated in a city-wide parade and pageant, held in celebration of Hungary's

Millennium. All Budapest was draped in bunting, for the Magyar race took pride in its thousand-year-old royal tradition. There were religious proces-

6

sions, military parades, concerts, patriotic discourses, national dance
festivals, besides elaborate displays in the Városliget of blue-blooded
horses, cattle, sheep, agricultural products, peasant crafts, and every
native industry. To cap the event, which was to last several months,
the court had come from Vienna. Emperor Franz Joseph and Empress
Elisabeth discarded Austrian trappings and appeared in their roles
of King and Queen of Hungary, His Majesty wearing the uniform of the
dashing Honvéd Hussars, while Erzsébet (as she was called here) ex-
changed the deep mourning she was seen in since Rudolf's death for
brilliant Magyar costume.

It was Imre's first glimpse of the sovereigns in the flesh
and he would never forget it. The Emperor-King, already past middle-
age, wore the famous Kaiserbart or mutton chop beard that gave his face
a patriarchal benevolence. History would be furnished contradictory
portraits of this man: to some he was a patient, long-suffering martyr
of lofty purpose and character, while others saw him as a tyrant and
disciplinarian who made a fetish of duty. Similarly there were dis-
senting opinions regarding his beautiful consort, who was either
adored for her poetic grace and warm humanity or else condemned as
a vain, luxury-loving creature. Of the two monarchs, romantic Hungary
of course favored the Queen, a preference only enhanced by the fact
that she was rumored to have carried on a love affair years ago with
Prince Andrassy, a handsome Magyar noble.

By tradition, Hungarians were almost one hundred percent
royalist, which the Millennium again underscored in such a pro-
claimed the nation's thousand-year record as a kingdom; never had

7

the country accepted anything but royal rule. This fact was to place
an ineradicable stamp upon Imre's future career, for he would never
be able -- even after years of living abroad -- to dissociate himself
from the dynastic scene. Even when writing of gypsies and peasants,
glorifying their folk ways and sound virtues, he would set his popular
tunes in juxtaposition to the pomp and social order prevailing in his
youth. Only rarely would his creative muse abandon the Danube of the
Habsburgs in favor of less familiar and, at times, less engagingly
glamorous subjects.

Visiting royalty did not absorb Budapest's interest alone.
The nation likewise chose the year 1896 to honor its leading artists,
inventors, writers, poets. Among the latter was Maurus Jókai, already
familiar to Imre as a resident of the Balaton. A luxury edition of
Jókai's great poems and novels was brought out, morocco-bound and
with gold lettering, at one hundred Gulden the set. As the Government
promoted the immediate printing of the first hundred sets, with pay-
ment to Jókai of the full amount, the poet's economic future was made
secure. A grateful nation had done well by its talented son.

Imre would have liked to own the widely praised volumes. But
his normal means of economizing on his schoolboy's allowance could not
possibly accumulate the required sum. He would have had to stop eat-
ing altogether, or hold back the rent, and even then it might be years
before he could manage a partial down payment. Rather than wait for
old age to overtake him, as he was sure it would, Imre worked out a
promising plan. There was a rich boy in his class, whose parents
had just furnished a new home.

"Has it got a library?" he asked his friend.

8

On receiving an affirmative reply Imre pursued the matter a bit farther.

"I'll bet there's something your parents didn't think of."

"What's that?"

"The collected works of Maurus Jókai," I said.

"Oh — "

"There's a new edition, all red leather and with pictures, too. All educated people have a set."

"Oh."

It did not occur to Imre's friend to inquire whether the seemingly educated Kálmáns owned the new "collected" Jókai. Instead he invited Imre for a week-end in the paternal mansion.

"You can tell my mother and father about those books," he qualified the invitation. "They'd be more impressed than if I tackled them myself."

It was Apfelstrudel after that. With what appeared to be an innate gift for salesmanship Imre dazzled his hosts into purchasing the poet's works. Thereafter, at leisure, he borrowed the volumes one by one and perused them with relish. His comeuppance, in the form of poor grades at school, was of course inevitable. Late hours and the weariness of continued reading left Imre inattentive in class. At the end of his fourth year in the boy's academy on Deák Ferenc Square he was no longer a star pupil. This did not worry him too much. The pleasure and enlightenment provided by his literary seizure had been worth it.

Such views were not shared at home in Siófok. During the summer holiday that year Imre saw disappointment on parental faces,

9

and he was greatly relieved when his rich friends (who owned the Jókai books) invited him to spend some weeks on their country estate, a horse and cattle ranch on the edge of the Bugacz Plain or Puszta. It was to be his first experience of life in the open steppes that formed so colorful a background to Magyar legend and song.

In adjective form the Hungarian word puszta means waste, empty, bare. As a noun it refers to a wide expanse of prairie lands on which animal herds roam freely, tended by a csikós or native cowboy, whose life is semi-nomadic as he moves his charges from one grazing area to another. Between Hungary's two principal rivers, the Danube and the Tisza, as well as eastward of the latter, lie the most famous of these plains, distinctive and nowhere duplicated in Europe. They form an incline running from north to south, and also dip towards the center from east and west, where the bed of the Tisza marks its lowest depth of scarcely two hundred feet above sea level.

Between the two rivers extends a sandy water shed which makes up the actual desert terrain. Here lies the Bugacz Puszta belonging to the town of Kecskemét. Farther north and east of Bugacz, on the left bank of the Tisza and in the Nyírség basin, lies the Hortobágy or Great Puszta, beloved of poets and troubadours, and owned by the community of Debreczen. A third zone of "genuine" puszta, in contrast to prairie districts where the shifting sands have been anchored by irrigation and planting, is known as the Déliblát. Stretching far southward the Déliblát was at one time a desolate wilderness of wandering dunes, but through persistent toil much of the area has been reclaimed as valued pasture.

In school Imre had learned how these sand steppes originated

10

in the first place. The Danube and the Tisza, together with the latter's tributaries, the Szamos, Körös and Berettyő, from time immemorial came rushing out of the northern hills and, with each spring thaw, spilled over their lower banks. Thus the melted mountain snows, carried from afar, helped form the southern swamps of Ecsed, Alibuna, and the so-called *Sarret* (mud field). Each year when summer came the waters receded and these belts of muck beside the rivers dried up into tracts of dreary wasteland. But, like dwellers in the Valley of the Nile, Hungary's hopeful peasants began cultivating the drowned earth until, except for portions that are pure silt, it has become a vast carpet of green. No forests grow on *puszta* soil, either the real or the reclaimed. But where man's effort was expended the hardy grasses are dotted here and there with acacias, poplars and birches, always lone, standing singly like those sentinels of the plains, the long-armed water wells.

It was a world of thrills for a fourteen-year-old boy. With borrowed *csikós* regalia, consisting of felt hat with turned up brim, wide trousered kilt, embroidered vest over billowing white sleeves, and high shaft boots, he rode the range and fancied himself a hero of the wilds. Several times in the course of that summer he slept out in the open, stretched out like the herdsmen under a *cifra szur*, the reversible sheepskin greatcoat which in winter was worn with the fur on the inside while in summer the embroidered lining disappeared from view. Insulated against icy cold or stinging sun by the long-haired pelt, a *csikós* took his cue from Hungary's shaggy *puli* or sheep dog. When sleeping on the ground, indeed, dog and master were sometimes indistinguishable.

11

Altogether Imre's summer on the Bugacz plains would remain one of the highspots of his adolescent years. Not only was a whole "new" way of life unfolding before him, but in its oldness he found an understanding of fundamentals not to be learned in classrooms or from the printed page.

No more wholesome means could have been chosen to turn an incipient bookworm back into a normal boy.

1

Chapter 5.

By mid-summer Imre was not only tanned and toughened, but his shallow book learning had been supplemented by more realistic experience. For one thing, he was acquiring a fresh grasp of his country's history.

True, he had only a few months earlier witnessed the opening of the Millennium celebrations in Budapest, which revived in chronological sequence every important phase of Hungary's past. But presented against the panoply of metropolitan life at the approaching turn of the century these costumed tableaux and pageants bore an illusory quality, a *papier maché* quaintness that precluded self-identification on the part of the spectator. Worldly Budapest citizens felt scarcely any tie with those strange ancestors out of Asia who had swept down from the steppes of the Volga under their fierce leader Attila, the Hun.

But on the wide Puszta lands, so reminiscent of those far eastern plains, it was easy to feel even today the pulse of antiquity. In sections like the sandy Nyírség basin, between the wine center of Tokay and the feudal seat of Nagykároly, the machine age showed as yet no sign of encroaching. Here the rhythm of Nature followed its timeless pattern; in the Arcadian life of the Puszta the cycle of plants, animals and men rotated unchanged, each generation begetting, bringing forth and nourishing the one which succeeds it, just as it was itself brought forth and nourished. Birth and death followed each other tranquilly like links in a chain, and were taken as a matter of course, for they were the manifestation of a destiny visibly shared by all living things. Man, beast and plant were embedded in this

2

unending charade of growth and decline which accompanied the equally
timeless change of the seasons. Observations of this sort seldom
crowded in upon the city dweller. Budapest's harassed wage earners
or idle dandies scarcely realized that only a few hours from their
capital (which prided itself on possessing the world's first electric
subway) one could observe nomad herdsmen following a design of life
straight out of Homer.

Imre's imagination soaked up impressions which, long there-
after, were to haunt his dreams. Closing his eyes, his mind's sight
would recapture those endless horizons under the immense dome of azure
sky. Fantastic cloud formations glittered in the quivering heat, while
the green expanse underfoot was broken only rarely by the shadow of
some distant church spire, a shepherd's white clay baking oven, or
the gigantic arm of the characteristic water wells. In his sleep too
he heard again the muffled roll of horses' hooves galloping over thick
turf, or the gentler tattoo as they became bogged in stretches of
drifting sand. He had been told that in winter the Puszta was like
a white kingdom of death, through which only the solitary swineherd
moved with his hardy beasts, while other creatures, from long-horn
cattle to barnyard fowl, cowered in byres and sheds. But with the
first hint of spring the vast plain trembled anew with the thunderous
stampede of released herds giving vent to pent-up energies. The long
csikós whips cracked like pistol shots keeping the multiple breeds
apart, for stallions, bulls, boars, rams, billygoats, drakes and gan-
ders chose this time of year to get fighting mad.

Accompanying the herdsmen about their duties, Imre grew also
familiar with the smells of the Puszta, particularly the ever-present

3

spices
scent of sage and mint. At mealtime this mingled with the delicious vapors of paprikas (red-peppered meat) simmering in the herdsmen's cauldrons. Following mess call, a small table of rough-hewn planks was set up, no higher than a bench. It had a hole in the center to hold the cauldron into which all hands dipped their spoons. Nearby the faithful puli waited for bones, while starlings gave up plucking hay and vermin from the coats of grazing sheep in favor of more savory bread crumbs.

food,
Imre too had scooped from the plainsmen's cauldron, and he had learned their language. He could distinguish now between the csikós (horseherd) and the gulyás (cowboy), the bojtár (shepherd) and the kondás or kanász (swineherd). Since Hungary also possessed a remnant of wild buffalo, there was a special drover known as bivalyos who tended these beasts. There was no export market for buffalo meat, hence the bivalyos lived on a penurious scale and belonged to the humblest caste of herdsmen, but they commanded the most picturesque vocabulary, full of raw wit and flavor. Sharing the unfettered vitality of their animals, they never tired of boisterous taunts and tussles. But at other times they grew pensive and melancholy, finding surcease in long spells of ballad singing. It was thus that Imre absorbed many of the old legends in verse form and with a melodic beat that originated on the far off Asiatic tundra.

Some of these ballads related the exploits of betyárs (bandits who had formerly been herdsmen) in stanzas praising the speed of their horses, the brilliant embroidery on their felt-lined coats, and the slang of their spurs as they swaggered across the threshold of a csárda (tavern). Love ran rampant in these tales. Usually the inn-

4

keeper's wife or daughter was also the highwayman's sweetheart who,
in the closing verse, cried out her eyes as justice overtook her lover.
Oddly, no matter how shocking the tale, it wound up always in a rash
of politeness: the sheriff was addressed as Honorable Lord, while the
lady of the piece appeared to rival Griselda for long-suffering grace.

Ancient lore and primitive living did not encompass all of
that summer's experience, to be sure. The was another aspect of the
Puszta, as viewed from the manorial residence of Imre's hosts. The
latter dwelled on the edge of the cattle lands in feudal elegance.
Their domestic apparatus included cooks, housemaids, grooms, liveried
footmen, apart from carriage attendants and a crew of fieldhands to
work the crops. For Imre this first glimpse of life among the very
rich was overwhelming indeed. He had never known people who danced
in their own ballroom, kept their own gypsy band, hunted over their
private game preserves, fished their private ponds, and rode to hounds
over their private obstacle course. This must assuredly be the fabled
Schlaraffenland or Valley of Cockaigne of which he had read in earliest
childhood books.

It was in late August that a letter came from home. The
writing was his mother's, and the message a brief and shocking one.
Papa had suffered serious business reverses, out of a clear sky ap-
parently, with the disastrous result that the house in Siófok must be
put up for immediate sale. Imre would not be able to return to the
Balaton, but must go to the home of an aunt in Budapest where the
rest of the family would join him.

The letter did not explain the exact nature of Papa's ill
fortune. Only much later did Imre comprehend that his father had

5

been victimized through cunning exploitation by an associate in the
Siófok development project. The culprit in question had been a fast
manipulator of public funds, for which his honest partners must now
make restitution. For the Kálmán household this meant the sacrifice
of lifetime savings, and furniture, rugs, silver, if not clothing as
well.

Unhappily the news from home coincided with the arrival at
Bugacz of a gay party of guests bent on spending the balance of the
summer. Imre's hostess courteously gave him to understand that there
would be a shortage of beds and, unless he cared to double up with
one of the other children (her tone indicated that this would hardly
prove satisfactory) it was time he made his departure.

He was seized with panic. Flushed with confusion and humiliation, he stammered the report conveyed by his mother. But the words came out too melodramatically for belief. It was deduced that his sobbed tale of loss and ruin at home served merely as a boyish ruse to prolong the holiday. Gently but firmly the farewells were spoken and Imre was left to his packing. At four that afternoon the pony trap picked him up at the gate and he was driven to the Kecskemét railroad station.

While riding through the blazing afternoon sunshine he
counted his money and resolved, for the sake of keeping some reserves,
to buy a third class ticket. It was a proper step for one who would
thenceforth learn to bear life's harsher realities. Throughout
Europe a knowledge of struggle and triumph over adversity began with
a third class railroad ticket.

There had been no time to notify Aunt Gisela of his coming,

6

but that kind soul had already been forewarned in letters from Siófok.

On arrival in Budapest, Imre splurged his reserves on a hack (the night was too dark to find his way) for the long drive to Rozsa Hill and his aunt's house, where he found a room being held in readiness.

It was several weeks before his parents and the other children left the Balaton to move into a tiny Budapest flat. They had lost literally every stick of furniture, including Papa's library and the precious piano. Only through the joint generosity of relatives were enough odds and ends assembled to equip the flat and make it livable.

When he had first started school in the capital Imre's intense homesickness had caused him to long for his parents' removal to Budapest, where they might all share a happy roof. Well, his wish had certainly been granted, though no joy attended its fulfillment. What added to the pall hanging over the family's new abode was a continued coming and going of creditors and representatives of collection agencies. As most of these carried briefcases bulging with papers, on which they made endless notations, the Siófok cook, Theresa (who stuck through thick and thin, albeit without hope of wages), referred to them as writers.

"The writers are here again!" she called whenever these tireless visitors reached for the knocker.

Mama and the younger children lived in terror of the "writers" and Imre himself was not altogether at ease in their presence. After school opened in the fall he returned each day from classes, fearful lest his mother and small sisters had come to harm. Only after racing up the dark stairs and finding everyone still alive did his pounding

7

heart slow down. For this day at least the "writers" had wrought
no evil.

The months and years that followed were painfully drab.
Under the shock of his undeserved misfortune Imre's father collapsed,
remaining thereafter too unnerved to take a bold step toward re-
covery. Instead, with his older son Béla who had come of age, Papa
accepted a minor job in the same bank that had blindly abetted his
financial ruin. It was no moment to pick and choose. With a large
family to feed and house, a man could afford neither obstinacy nor
pride.

Imre too had to help. He was still in school, though no
longer at the expensive Gymnasium; there were public institutions
in the workers' district, where he could attend classes in the morn-
ings and earn a pittance tutoring backward pupils during the after-
noons. At night, furthermore, Imre helped his father and Béla with
the bank's correspondence, making copies ( no typewriters in those
days) and carrying letters to the post office. This meant long
hours, fatigue, and no time left for play, but with the resiliency
of youth it could be borne. What caused far greater suffering was
the sudden acquaintance with fear: a gnawing, steady dread of to-
morrow. If in the midst of happiness and security they had been
struck so hard a blow, did Fate hold more cruel surprises yet in
store?

Deprived of diversions befitting his young years Imre now
developed a hunger for music. From earliest childhood he had been
pressed by parental urgings to take violin or piano lessons, only
to offer the most stubborn resistance. But now that there was no

8

instrument in the house and no money to pay a teacher he was ready
to relent. In fact, he was wild to become a concert virtuoso and
composer.

Partly responsible for this erratic notion was a new school
friend named János who, though not particularly talented, fancied
himself a connoisseur in the arts. János was a magnificent talker.
Purely for conversational purposes he proclaimed himself an expert
in orchestration, dropping fascinating hints about some great phil-
harmonic work he was at the moment creating. To lend color to his
claims this self-styled genius indulged in startling poses, such as
wandering like Siegfried under the trees and interpreting the warble
of the birds, or falling forward and pressing his ear to the ground,
with outcries of "Ah, the melody of the Earth!"

Imre envied his friend for these transports. Twice he
himself tried lying prone, then supine, on a graveled bypath of the
he had
Városliget, but for the life of him he heard nothing, and soiled his
coat tails to boot.

"That's because you're no artist," János diagnosed. "Now
singing
me, I'm sensitive enough to catch the high pitch of flowers, and
the Leitmotif of the insects."

Imre was desperate. Not that he believed naively in his
friend's supernatural powers. Now fourteen, and mature enough to
be paid for helping younger boys with their schoolwork, Imre was
not looking for necromancy in nature. But he had learned in physics
classes that sound traveled in various wave lengths, some of which
were not audible to the human ear. It perturbed him to admit that
János might hear vibrations, not unlike the humming of bees but in-

9

finitely finer, while he, Imre, was either tone deaf or endowed with
only the most ordinary tympanum. There must be something he could do
to sharpen his musical perception?

János agreed. "You ought to go to a symphony concert," he
counselled amiably. "The more music you can get yourself exposed to
the sooner those donkey ears of yours will start functioning."

When Imre wondered what he would use for money the masterful
János waved this problem airily aside. "Leave it to me. I know the
concert master at the Philharmonic. He always gives me free passes
for my friends. How about tonight? Hans Richter is conducting."

Imre did not know who Hans Richter was, but tonight would
be wonderful. He thanked his friend profusely and hurried home.

At supper that evening he had some difficulty explaining
that he would not be able to help with the correspondence, just this
once, because he had been invited to a symphony concert.

"Hans Richter conducting," he added with a superior air.

Papa and Béla looked at him nonplussed. Their attitude
appeared a shade cool, partly because a lot of work had piled up
that particular day, and also due to their joint recollection of
Imre's former rebellion against music. Just what was this new whim?

He had not told them yet that he stood on the threshold
of his destiny. He couldn't, really, since he had not decided so
far whether to choose opera, the concert stage, a conductor's podium,
or a composer's ivory tower. They wouldn't understand. In fact,
they might even point out that he hadn't the most elementary idea
of musical theory and couldn't read a note. Nettled by this thought,

10

he rose and left the table. But Mama was quickly at his heels.

"The Philharmonic, how nice for you!" she said, slipping
some coppers into his pocket. "Better take carfare so you won't have
to walk home in the late dark."

He kissed her and was off. One hour before the doors were
opened he stood outside the concert hall, waiting for his friend. As
the minutes dragged by and he sagged first on one leg, then the other,
his eyes took in the gradually livening scene. Orchestra members
arrived, carrying smaller instruments. Then came the early standees,
mostly students dressed shabbily like himself but with faces lighted
by an inner glow. Staid burghers followed, unmistakable in their
prim self-assurance. And lastly the carriage trade began drawing up,
with the usual flutter of elegant ladies in feather boas or costly
furs, accompanied by top-hatted gentlemen in tails and a sprinkling
of uniforms. But of János there was not a trace.

The crowd on the sidewalk was thinning out. The vestibule
too had emptied as the last stragglers hurried inside. An elderly
attendant began closing the doors.

Imre was frantic. Had he been mistaken about the appointed
meeting place? Should he have waited at the stage entrance? He was
still child enough to be near tears as he cast despairing glances up
and down the street. But now, around the corner, a hatless youth
came at a trot. János at last! Imre rushed forward and almost hug-
ged him.

"Hello, Jancsi, you're just in time! Have you got my
ticket?"

The runner paused to catch his breath. Then, reaching into

11

his pocket, he held up a yellow stub. But before Imre's hand went out the prize had been withdrawn again.

"Old Grünfeld is a skinflint," said János disapprovingly; "this was all I could get -- standing room for myself. Sorry, my lad!"

With this he loped across the theater steps and disappeared inside. Behind him the last door fell shut.

Imre was left outside pondering not only the disfavor of Lady Luck but his good friend's veracity as well. To hear János talk, one would have thought he could command box seats or at least a pair of orchestra stalls at his slightest caprice. Yet "Old Grünfeld" (the concert master, presumably) could be tapped for no more than a single standee spot. Did this mean that János had no influence whatever in musical circles, but must beg free admissions for himself? If so, perhaps all the rest was untrue: the mystic powers enabling one to hear the "melody of the Earth", the "rhythm of flowers", or the *Leitmotif* of anything else... János, in short, had turned out a colossal bluff.

for

Sadly Imre started home. But now he visualized his own humiliation on admitting that he had been so easily deceived. It might be better to hang on and listen to the concert through some crack in a side door. This would kill time and bring him home at a more convincing hour, without need to explain his fiasco.

He walked around the great theater but to his dismay could find only hermetically sealed iron portals. But on returning to the empty foyer he saw that the inner doors had ornate brass locks with large keyholes. Holding his ear to one of these he was able

12

to catch a wave of heavenly -- if slightly muted -- sound. From a nearby billboard he knew that the first number was "Childe Harold In Italy" by Hector Berlioz. Quite suddenly his imagination was aflame. He had forgotten the trouble and poverty at home, the treachery of János, and the discomfort of his own stooped position as the magic notes poured into his soul.

In a way the reprehensible János had been right: anyone yearning for a musical career could do no better than school himself by listening to the great symphonies. The diverse wonders of orchestral synchronism afforded a tonal language far surpassing the limits of a lone voice or an individual instrument. Imre lacked technical discernment for analyzing such truths, but on this occasion his ear proved itself infallible. He knew he had come upon a vital discovery: somewhere, and somehow, music must shape his future. There was something more. It would be music that was orchestral in character.

The evening went by in a trance. During intermission Imre found himself swallowed up in the flood of chattering people rushing out for a smoke or a breath of air. He longed to take advantage of this interval for a quick view of the velvet-draped auditorium and, more particularly, the disposition of the orchestra on stage. But respect for authority quelled the impulse. It would not do to let the liveried Cerberus of a doorkeeper seize him by the neck and throw him out as a trespasser, or worse, turn him over to the police. Already the evening's ecstasy had reached such noble heights that he dared not invite a vulgar anticlimax. Unmindful of his growing weariness of spirit and limb, he clung to his keyhole

13

location.

Late that night he wandered home, too intoxicated with hap-
piness to remember the carfare in his pocket. At breakfast the next
morning he regaled his family with a glowing account of the concert.

"How was Richter?" asked Papa.

"Oh, marvelous!" For a moment Imre checked himself. Had he been tricked by some untimely coincidence? Could a substitute conductor have stepped on the podium, unnoticed by a keyhole listener? But no, any such change in schedule would have been posted over billboards and on special notices at the box office. Confidently he reiterated: "Absolutely perfect!"

Everybody was pleased. Mama in particular looked with
doting eyes on her younger son, who at last showed signs of sharing
the family's traditional love of music. How nice that Imre had an
influential friend to make possible such expensive treats as a visit
to the Philharmonic. What she would never know, of course, was that
her boy had found a way of hearing Budapest's famed symphony orches-
tra absolutely free.

1

Chapter 6.

The Berlioz concert marked a definite turning point in Imre's life. His new-born urge to become a professional musician had now received confirmation. At school no other plan of study attracted him: his mind was definitely made up. But how did one go about learning a musician's trade without owning an instrument? Ought he to pick something inexpensive like a zither or a second-hand flute? Even these would be difficult to acquire since his monthly earnings, through tutoring and evening work at the bank, totaled twenty Kronen and went in toto toward carrying his part of Mama's housekeeping expenses. As for private music lessons, which he had once spurned at Siófok, these were now out of the question.

Well, he could at least do some reading. Books could be borrowed from the school library, and, with the carfare saved through increased walking, he might afford an occasional paper-backed volume of the popular *Reklam-Bibliothek* editions. This German publishing firm of high level literature enjoyed wide distribution across Europe. Since the Kálmán household was bilingual the *Reklam* books presented for Imre no language barrier. He started with the purchase of Robert Schumann's first volume of Music Annotations.

The choice, quite haphazard, turned out a most fortunate one. Quite unprepared he had reached out and found himself in the company of the best, for to follow Schumann's analysis of his own working procedure and his intimate observations on the compulsions of genius (a cosmic rather than a personal force) was to become inflamed with ardor for accomplishment. How could the short span of a human life suffice to develop the potential greatness that a Divine Creator had

2

reposed in it? Already Imre felt that he had thus far wasted his best years. Feverishly he now began making up for lost time. He would begin by reading everything on Robert Schumann that he could find.

Alas, this called for more money than could be saved from hoarded tram coins. He hit upon another solution. In helping with his father's clerical correspondence at the bank Imre saw daily packs of waste papers go out in trash baskets. Among these were stamped envelopes from many lands, some of them surely difficult for average collectors to obtain. He began rummaging through these discarded scraps and gathering the most interesting looking postmarks. Carefully he soaked off the stamps and sorted them in small packets at home. Then he watched the personal column in the daily newspaper for collectors' advertisements and their addresses. Through this channel he soon placed some of his treasures, even "dealing" eventually with an American gentleman named Frank Tucker, from a place called The Bowery, New York. This overseas correspondent traded Imre a batch of United States issues for a shipment of some obsolete Hungarian ones, and, to top the happy exchange, he added a crisp one dollar bill.

Imre was entranced. Not only could he dispose of the American stamps among Budapest customers, but the large handsome greenback would buy half a dozen choice Reklam titles. And besides, it was something to have earned one's first American dollar -- if not through music, then as a hawker of cancelled postage stamps.

It was to be expected that, with two outside jobs plus his sideline as a dealer, Imre had trouble keeping up with school. There could be no thought now of moving to the head of his class, for he gave only perfunctory attention to home assignments, counting on a

3

that,
good memory to see him through. He had already discovered {by sharp
concentration during classes he could retain more than did some of
his more playful companions, who sacrificed much free time cramming for
the things they had missed during school hours. Thus in time Imre
managed to counterbalance slipshod or completely neglected homework
with top recitation marks, and winding up his first year of public
school in third highest position.

But this record was not without its shadier side. Contrary
to the careful supervision and discipline prevailing in the private
boys' academy on Deak Square, the school in the workers' district
afforded opportunity for all manner of youthful mischief. Among
Imre's daily companions were several worldly-wise adolescents who
knew of "easy" ways to obtain cash, namely by betting on the races,
and playing at cards. Imre decided to try both. Since he had no
hope of getting permission for a visit to the race track he informed
his parents that the botany class was taking a scientific walk in
the country. To back up this bit of guile he carried his "botanizing
drum", a brightly painted tin cylinder with shoulder strap used by
European schoolchildren for field expeditions; and he accepted the
neatly packed lunch his mother had put up.

At the track his first step was to look for interesting
plant life, for his conscience troubled him. However, far and wide
there was nothing but rolling turf. He knelt down at last and tore
up handfuls of this to fill his "botanizing drum", otherwise Mama's
good lunch would have stuck in his throat.

Now it was time to study the race handicaps, of which Imre

4

understandably could make neither head nor tail. But one of the
horses had a Latin name, *Per Pedes*, which appealed to him. Most of
his own locomotion these days was "on foot", hence a steed so identi-
fied ought to bring him luck. He put his tiny savings on *Per Pedes*
and very nearly fainted when his candidate came in first. The profit
was four Kronen or eight times his stake. He was so overwhelmed at
having won that he ran straight home.

Only now did the dreadful realization dawn that this parti-
cular joy could not be shared with his family. When Mama, an enthu-
siastic flower lover, studied the contents of his "botanizing box" it
became almost unbearable to continue the deception by maintaining that
these were special grasses required by his teacher for tomorrow's
lesson. Sick at heart Imre went to bed that night vowing that the
race track episode must not be repeated.

His initiation as a gambler was soon followed by similar
remorse. The boys were in the habit of meeting on their way to and
from school in a secluded spot of the Városliget, preferably in an
unused irrigation ditch shaded by trees. Here they played a juvenile
version of Twenty-One, each putting up his weekly allowance. By
pre-arrangement a loser was allowed to keep playing on credit until
his fortune was recouped. This led eventually to a stalemate, as
the game never stopped unless the participants all came out even.
As a money maker, Imre decided, Twenty-One was a waste of time.

What cured him finally of such unworthy pursuits was Mama's
concern when he arrived late for meals. "You mustn't study so hard,
my child," she pleaded, unaware that the card game in the park had
delayed him, "take care of your health!"

5

He could go on with it no longer. Satan, get Thee behind me! Let the fair Muses lead me away from sin...

Whether his temporary slide down the road of perdition was discovered by his family, Imre would never know. But during the following summer both Papa and Béla appeared to be improving financially so that by autumn the decision was reached that Imre must return to private school. While academically there might be little difference between the two institutions, Imre's expansive nature benefitted by closer supervision which the less crowded school could provide.

As for the summer vacation, it had been spent in a determined effort to get started with the musical career. To earn money for his first harmony lessons Imre had found another clerical job, this time with a large department store. For three months he inscribed envelopes, receiving one Crown (a fourth of his race track winnings!) for every thousand addresses. As he wrote fast and applied himself fanatically to his task he managed by late September to assemble a nest egg with which to take the artistic plunge. First he paid the enrollment fee in the newly founded Budapest Academy of Music, for a course of lessons to be taken daily after his regular school hours. Next came the purchase of beginners' clavier textbooks (-- he planned on a future as a concert pianist, attached to some great orchestra of course --) with technical exercises by Czerny and Pischna for a start. But there was also the outer person to consider. Musicians who attained any prominence at all were fond of a special garment, the artist's overcoat, with an Inverness cape that could be flung dashingly over one shoulder. With his remaining cash Imre managed a down payment on such a coat, as well as a flowing poet's cravat. Lastly, and this cost nothing at

6

all, he let his hair grow. By the time his head burgeoned with crisp unruly locks the fall term opened. He had everything except, of course, a piano.

At first this did not matter very much, since the initial lessons at the music school dealt with theory and the reading of notes. Also, the classroom contained an instrument on which pupils were asked to perform. But soon daily practice sessions became imperative and the school facilities did not suffice. Imre bethought himself of his Aunt Gisela whose parlor held a creaking upright Bechstein. He pleaded with her and obtained permission for its use. All went well for a few days until Aunt Gisela attended one of several weekly clubs to which she belonged. On such occasions the good lady always locked her parlor, due to a well founded suspicion that her cook entertained undesirable visitors there. Thus when Aunt Gisela was at a Kaffeeklatsch the unhappy Imre could not practice.

He concentrated on a different solution. Daily, after his regular school hours, he spent the afternoon tutoring four subjects: Latin, Greek, Mathematics, Physics. Between-times he managed to take his own music lesson at the Conservatory, before racing back to his pupils. He seemed to be perpetually on the run, which caused his schoolmates to nickname him Fuga (Fugue). Such was his obsession with music at this time that he rejoiced in the sobriquet and bore it as a mark of distinction. His personal life, away from the rowdy companions of the Városliget days, was angelically pure. He dwelled on aethereal heights of bliss: all devotion, all consecration, all flame.

The exhausting regimen had its reward. In the spring the

7

Conservatory presented its outstanding first year pupils in a con-
cert, with Imre's name listed on the program. He had prepared him-
self as best he could in Aunt Gisela's parlor, favored during the
last two weeks by the prevailing bronchitis weather which kept that
indomitable clubwoman at home.

On the night of the recital Imre played Mozart's Fantasy
in D Flat. His performance, after scarcely six months of study un-
der serious handicaps, proved sufficiently remarkable to bring the
audience to its feet. Among the listeners was the so-called Nestor
of Hungary's music personalities, Kornelius von Abrányi. This aged
former virtuoso, himself a protegé of Franz Liszt, embraced the fifteen-year-
old boy and murmured a benediction. Overwhelmed, Imre bowed to kiss
the revered man's hand.

In the audience too were his astonished relatives, includ-
ing Aunt Gisela who had decided to take a chance and see to what use
her Bechstein had been put. At sound of the applause Mama and Gisela
fell weeping into each other's arms, while Béla and Vilma mutually
agreed that their own musical gifts were overshadowed by this younger
brother's sudden development. No envy was felt by these two, since
their own lives had changed patterns: Béla stood beside his ailing
father as the family's chief breadwinner, while Vilma, married some
time ago, had turned from piano practice to housewifely cares. It
looked as if the Kálmán musical strain, if it was to survive, would
choose for its vessel the pinched, overworked, white-cheeked Imre,
whose slight build so belied his age that the next day's newspapers
spoke of him as a "twelve-year-old Wunderkind".

To his classmates in school he was of course no "infant

8

prodigy". With good-natured spoofing they awaited their friend Fuga after the concert and presented him with a large wreath of scallions. As this tasty vegetable formed the basis of Imre's favorite dish, Hungarian Gulyás, it was accepted joyfully and carried home to The-Tesa's kitchen; blended with other ingredients the edible tribute proved as agreeable as the fledgling pianist's first sampling of fame.

The excitement over, school days returned with their round of drab duties. Again Imre adhered to his heavy triple schedule, from classroom to music studio to private homes where he gave auxiliary lessons. But the prize loomed already in the offing. That summer, at the end of the term, he finished with honors. Once again his name was mentioned flatteringly in the press. What was more, he had piled up enough money to go shopping for a piano.

The instrument he chose was nothing fancy, but he insisted on a three-legged rather than an upright style. The name, Viennese Products Guild, sounded less enticing than Bluethner or Steinway (later Steinway), but it was a case of love at first sight. The instrument came from the warehouse of a second-hand dealer, Bernhard Kohn, on Kossuth Lajos Street, and cost five hundred and twenty Kronen. The sum equalled approximately one thousand hours of tutoring in Imre's so-called "free" time.

Coinciding with this happy event the family had made modest progress and, only recently, moved to a better neighborhood. As the piano van jogged into sight, drawn by a puffing little nag, the whole street hailed its arrival. Imre ran half a block to meet his treasure. With one hand on the horse's harness he triumphantly

9

escorted the vehicle that bore his heart's desire to the paternal
threshold.

On the sidewalk stood Mama and the younger children, waiting. From one of the windows bobbed *Theresa's* freshly brushed head. Ah, yes, it was a day long to be remembered — the day when, for the first time, he began to feel that he was really on his way...

1

Chapter 7.

There was no holding him now.

With school and conservatory closed, private tutoring
ended until autumn, and no other duties save the continued assistance
Papa must have at his job, Imre saw the happiest summer of his life
stretching before him. As family finances no longer permitted travel,
thoughts of the Balaton vacations of his childhood had faded into
unreality. The months that lay ahead were to be devoted exclusively
to music.

Barely had the piano been set on its feet when Imre was at
the keyboard testing its tone. Yes, the pitch had held up through
the hazards of transport. All was well with his private Eden. Now
to work!

In his fervor he all but gave up eating and sleeping. His
daily schedule comprised music, music, and music. By unanimous con-
sent the family parlor became Imre's personal retreat, where he spent
the hours from dawn to dusk, without interference from anyone. He
had, after all, brought untold sacrifices to achieve this goal. If
Mama worried over the strain he imposed on his health she held her
tongue, knowing that to thwart him now would bring on the far greater
misery of mental pain.

He practiced incessantly and with infinite patience. To
warm up he chose an exhaustive stint of scales and arpeggi, followed
by some Bach inventions and fugues or a Chopin prelude or etude. By
now he had mastered the early Beethoven sonatas, and of course his
*piece de résistance*, the Mozart Fantasy. But the current idol of his

2

overwrought fancy remained Robert Schumann, whose work smacked of frightening modernism in that day of classic tastes. The bond that linked Imre to this composer had been forged during the early reading obsession to which the boy had fallen prey in his first Budapest school days. He had learned about Schumann's life, his thoughts, the manifestations of his genius, before ever hearing a phrase of Schumann music, but he came to that music inwardly prepared. Here, as so often in life, the truth held: to understand is to love.

One aspect of Robert Schumann's fate had impressed itself with particular emphasis on Imre's memory and had elicited his fervent sympathy. This was a painful finger injury which forever barred the artist from a concert career and turned him to the field of composition. Throughout the years when his wife, the former Clara Wieck, dazzled the world with her magnificent piano recitals, Schumann rejoiced in her noble interpretation of his masterpieces, but this satisfaction could not propitiate his sense of loss. He did not know then, and he would die too young ever to learn, that the world abounds in performers while there is a shortage of creative talent. Only by laying an invisible shackle on his hand could his true muse bend Schumann to her purpose, thereby enriching posterity to an immeasurable degree.

Imre did not see it this way. Certain that he would himself make his mark as a virtuoso, he suffered vicarious pangs at thought of his hero's anguish. He was too young and immature to grasp the triumphant compensation accorded Schumann in exchange for what the music world can deem only a minor disappointment. It is by no means established that the great Robert would have become outstanding as a

3

pianist, whereas among composers he ranks with the best.

Oddly, it was not long before Imre would gain first-hand knowledge of Schumann's dilemma. Hardly a week after launching his frenzied practice sessions he became aware of an intense pain in his right arm. He ascribed this to lazy muscles which surely needed only further workouts to gain proper temper. Recklessly he doubled his effort, practicing still longer hours. Doubtless a complaint from neighbors on floors above and below, or down the street, might have proved his salvation. But this was Hungary, cradle of song, where the Danube itself rippled with melody. No Magyar worth his salt would commit the heresy of silencing a budding artist, no matter what the provocation. Thus, with no one to stop him, the misguided boy drove himself to the point of straining a nerve. Soon the pain was so acute that he could not finish a short scale, and at last one morning the hand would not move at all.

The damage was irreparable. A serious inflammation called for medical treatment, which in turn cost money. For a time Imre deluded himself that a rest would take care of the matter; rebellious, with tears rolling down his cheeks, he allowed his arm to be put in a sling. After some days the seizure left his hand, and his fingers responded once more to a command from the brain, but as he raced impatiently to the piano a sharp stab extending the full length of his arm told him that nothing had changed. He couldn't (and he might perhaps never!) play.

Rejecting defeat, he started out again in search of summer pupils who had to make up their algebra, geometry or physics before the fall term. He was lucky to find four backward students who would

4

provide him with sufficient income to permit a series of therapeutic treatments. The balance of that summer was spent, between teaching appointments, with tireless visits from one clinic to another. Every type of water cure was tried, for Budapest boasted numerous thermal and radioactive springs celebrated in the days of ancient Rome. But neither the Attila Fountain's tonic Sprudel nor the electrically charged baths on Szent Margit Island brought more than superficial relief.

During a brief respite from pain Imre returned to the Conservatory, persuaded that a painstakingly slow resumption of keyboard practice might expedite recovery. With enormous fortitude he took up the exquisite opening phrases of Mozart's Concerto in D Minor, actually mastering the first movement and playing it late that year at the Music Academy's end-of-semester recital. But this tour de force marked the end. Loosely speaking, he had spent a year studying the piano, but it was now clear that he would never play.

As soon as this realization could no longer be dodged Imre made short shrift of his virtuoso trappings; the flowing cravat and the Inverness cape were discarded, while a barber clipped the opulent Chopin locks. With stoic resignation the thwarted youth took up his academic studies and prepared, the following year, for his graduation. The time would come when, looking back, he would view this experience in proper perspective and by no means as a major catastrophe. But at the moment of enduring them his sufferings spelled absolute tragedy.

His dejection might have been unbearable but for a close friendship which developed out of his darkest hour. In a doctor's

5

waiting room, where Imre braced himself to hear the final bitter ver-
dict, a pale youth walked up and down in obvious pain. He too had an
arm in a sling, and Imre suddenly recognized the face. This was the
promising young pianist Albert Szirmai, already acclaimed in music
circles. Could he be suffering the same setback?

He could.

"I often attend student recitals," he told Imre, "and I've
heard you play. Very good. But I wanted to warn you then not to work
too hard; get a lot of rest, eat heartily, have fun..." He paused to
compare the bandaged arms. "I see it's too late."

Imre nodded. Of course every word was true. His own mishap
had clearly been a case of over-exertion, neglect of proper eating and
sleeping habits, emotional tension, worry, fatigue. Under such punish-
ment even an athlete's body must give way. But how much more serious
was the predicament of Szirmai, an artist well launched in his career!
At least he, Imre, was only a beginner who could still turn back with-
out too great a loss.

Together the two sufferers walked from the doctor's office
that day and at an inexpensive sidewalk café reviewed their plight.

"It's not as if we couldn't learn some other trade," Szirmai
declared with the defiance of his added years. "But a life without
music -- is it worth living?"

Imre agreed that it wasn't. His bruised spirit drew com-
fort, however, from discovery of a kindred soul. To seal their new-
found friendship the two invalids ordered coffee with Schlagobers
(whipped cream). After a bit their shared burden grew distinctly
lighter. Imre had a philosophic flash.

6

"If we can't be pianists," he suggested hopefully, "we might
try to become composers!"

The idea took root. Albert Szirmai, as it happened, did not pursue it far; his arm injury proved less grave than at first suspected, hence, after some months of treatment, he was able to resume his chosen work. But for Imre no such solution beckoned. The field of music theory and composition remained his only hope.

He did not for a moment believe that he possessed creative
talent. Quite the contrary! But, especially after Szirmai's gradual
recovery, there lurked a secret illusion in Imre that things might go
the same with him. It would do no harm to study harmony until the
miraculous day when his arm proved useful again. Another thing: ad-
vanced students of the Music Academy's composition class had free
access to an upper tier box -- Loge D -- in Budapest's Royal Opera
House, nightly, as a curriculum assignment. What could hold greater
allure for a disciple of the arts?

The head of the music theory department at the Conservatory
was Professor Koessler. On presenting himself Imre was put through
a number of ability tests and found acceptable. But these events co-
incided with the end of his regular schooling, which meant that he
was steeped in examinations and graduation plans. Thus Professor Koess-
ler advised private coaching in harmony with one of his own former
pupils, to be followed by enrollment that autumn in the second year
counterpoint class.

This was wise counsel. Each morning as Imre started for
school, that final year, he realized that he would have had no time
to take on a full music course. Together with his fellow undergrad-

7

uates he followed the Budapest student custom of tramping endlessly around the Deák monument in the square, memorizing and reciting aloud in preparation for end-of-term oral sessions. Years later he could think of the noble patriot Ferenc Deák only with a shudder, recalling the agonized pacing of those pre-examination hours.

Withal he managed the harmony lessons under tutelage of the youthful scholar, Albert Siklós, at the same time graduating with (unbelievable in view of his sufferings) top marks. Now nothing stood in the way of admission to the counterpoint class, with the full composition course as his goal.

Nothing? Papa and Mama had a word to say. After the sad experience of the injured arm the family's faith in Imre's musical future had dimmed. His potential gifts as a performer they had not doubted, but there had never been concrete proof that he could write a tune. The ditties he invented in early childhood were certainly no more original than similar chants produced by youngsters everywhere. In short, here was no basis on which to plan a young man's means of livelihood. Imre must take up some profession or trade.

He had no valid argument with which to counter his parents' reasoning. It was impossible to say, even if he became a competent composer, that recognition would provide him with a decent income. He bowed to prudence and decided to equip himself with a subsidiary career by taking up the study of law. The same year of his graduation from the **Gymnasium** he enrolled at the Budapest University.

Though scarcely seventeen Imre now entered a period of adult freedom as he combined music courses with lectures on jurisprudence during daylight hours while attending the Opera at night. The strain

8

was less severe than during his earlier school years because a full-
fledged university student was, in Europe, master of his own time. He
could visit or skip classes at will, without penalty except for the
proviso requiring him to give evidence -- at the end of each semester
-- that he had absorbed the requisite assignments. Since he continued
tutoring during the afternoons it was helpful nowadays to nap during
some longwinded juridical lecture or to avoid it altogether and in-
stead recharge his energies by picnicking in the hills of Buda. He
also took up billiards to underscore his new maturity, but never be-
came adept at the game. As for the career of a counsellor-at-law,
the prospect appeared to him unutterably dull.

It was different with music. The advanced intricacies of
theory, composition, and orchestration absorbed him feverishly. He
could hardly get his fill, embracing classic and modern works with
indiscriminate hunger. Gradually, from the standpoint of instrumen-
tation, the wondrous architectonics of Tschaikowsky began to emerge
for him in a peculiar and lucid beauty. He did not know it then, but
the art of this symphonic master would one day furnish Imre with the
key to some of his own best orchestrations.

The days went by in a rush of activity, with Imre making
notable strides at the Conservatory, but only barely skimming the main
points of court procedure, economics, and Roman Law. His highest ambi-
tion now was to emerge, before summer vacation, as a ready-baked
author of a pair of concertos or at least an acceptable folk tune.
Since this appeared unlikely he strove to justify himself, particularly
in the eyes of his family, by attempting some prose writings on music
questions. Having listened to dozens of operas he felt equipped for a
job as commentator or critic. From program annotations and books he

9

extracted material for several long-winded and slightly pompous
dissertations, beginning with the comparatively safe subject of
Beethoven's *Pastorale* Symphony and running the gamut through the
more controversial works of the two Richards, Wagner and Strauss.

Although these efforts had not appeared in print, Imre
lost no opportunity to give them public hearing at successive meet-
ings of a cultural society to which he belonged. Before long, how-
ever, he sensed that the plaudits of friends and former fellow stu-
dents had a polite and hollow sound. To get a truthful estimate of
his work he would have to find a publisher.

No sooner thought than done. Carrying a good three pounds
of manuscript under his arm Imre called at the cramped and dusty
print shop of an obscure music gazette. The equally dusty owner,
a querulous individual with thick eyeglasses and a suspicious squint,
barked a greeting.

"Good day. Something you want?"

Imre was not to be intimidated. (Wait till he sees what I
have for him, the lucky devil!) He cleared his throat and made the
pronouncement: Beethoven's

"I want to sell you my 'Dissertation On/Symphonic Structure
And The Balanced Concert Program' in four instalments."

There, he had got it off his chest. And the title, im-
posing, to say the least, appeared to rock the listener on his heels.
It was a full minute before the answer came.

"This monstrous pile of illegible twaddle -- you not only
expect me to print it but to pay for it as well?" The little man
put a finger to his temple. "Up here, my lad, you are not quite

10

right!"

With the sanguinity of youth Imre passed over this blow to
his author's pride. After all, the fellow hadn't read a paragraph or
flipped a page, had he? Any insults he might hurl were therefore point-
less, were they not?

"Well," said the printer, "I'm a busy man. What are you wait-
ing for?" He pointed a grimy thumb in the direction of the door.

Imre's back stiffened and his eyes glared furiously. Without
a word he picked up his manuscript and slammed it back on the desk,
making the cobwebs fly. Then, with self-respect undimmed and ego in-
tact, he stalked out to the street.

He was not too astonished when the very next issue of the
gazette in question featured the opening chapters of his Beethoven
article. Regularly, for months thereafter, the remaining portions
appeared in cunningly doled out measures. Here and there people took
notice and spoke flatteringly to Imre, who carefully withheld the fact
that he did not receive a copper's worth of remuneration. What mat-
tered most was that he now could say he had appeared in print, he was
a published author.

Having tasted printer's ink he soon thirsted for more. It
was now his ambition to become a regular music critic attached to a
daily newspaper, preferably the staid and revered "Pesti Napló". Apart
from (brought
(satisfying his current writing craze such a job)with it special privi-
leges like free admission to concerts and operettas, besides moving him
from the students' gallery box at the Opera to a conspicuous stall on the
main aisle.

Of course he did not know exactly how to go about obtaining

11

such a sinecure. The "Pesti Napló" was staffed by experienced journalists who would be difficult to talk to. As for the editor, it was most unlikely for a callow young man to be admitted into his presence and granted an interview simply for the asking. Worse yet, if by some miracle Imre did penetrate the sacred premises, he might make a less than captivating impression and the doors would forever close. No, he must guard against a wrong step. He would lay his schemes carefully and think out in detail just what he had to say.

For the furtherance of his plot he needed a base of operations in Hungary's capital as in Paris, a convenient sidewalk café. There was one, the Edison Káveház, on the wide avenue of the Theresien Ring where the "Pesti Napló" offices were located. The Edison bore its name in acknowledgment of America's contribution to the city's recent electrification.

From a miniature table near the curb Imre could look across the street at the editor's windows. This proximity was essential since courage often faltered when the distance between impulse and realization was too great. For a starter he ordered a cup of black coffee and, to give himself the appearance of mature years, a heavy Britannika cigar. This combination produced so strong a reaction that on the first day he forgot his purpose altogether. The next morning, still a trifle befogged from his smoking bout, he resumed his vigil opposite the newspaper building. Had the editor arrived? No, it must be much too early. With considerable relief Imre put the matter off till afternoon, only to decide then that it was now too late. He spent three weeks skirting the issue until at last he worked up sufficient nerve to take the plunge. The plunge meant walking up four steep flights

12

of stairs and knocking on a door marked No Admittance.

To his surprise a genial voice asked him to come in. He
and stepped
crossed the threshold, into the editor's sanctum. Before him sat a man
of ample proportions, enveloped in cumulus clouds of aromatic pipe
smoke.

Imre felt suddenly distressingly young. That's what I should
have done, he thought, I should have bought a pipe...

1

Chapter 8.

"Well, son, what can I do for you?" asked the jovial Buddha behind his veil of tobacco incense.

with
Imre mastered his fears and came out as halting pronouncement:
"I'm an author -- I mean -- I would like to become a journalist."

"Which is it? You are or you'd like to be?" The inquiring voice was kind but direct.

A deep flush covered Imre's face. He must take the bull by the horns: it was now or never. "I want a job as a reporter, if you please. On your music page, that is."

"Oh, a critic, no less!"

"Yes -- "

"Well, now, aren't you a bit -- er -- green for that sort of thing?" The pipe had been laid aside as the big man rose and strode around his desk. He laid a hand on Imre's shoulder. "Look, son, a newspaper office is a filthy place: bad air, bad language, bad jokes. It's not for lads your age. Go out and sell lemonade in the park, play soccer, and ski. Plenty of time to shut yourself in like a dried mummy --" He paused with a melancholy smile, then gave the boy a sudden shove toward the door. "Get out of here!"

Imre caught hold of a stone pillar and braced himself against it. "I won't get out," he said firmly.

"You won't?!" The editor's voice swelled to a formidable boom. Then, as abruptly, it subsided to its former amiable purring. "All right, then what am I supposed to do with you?"

Imre's heart was in his throat. He was winning, he was winning. This man had a heart as big as his vast frame. "Please let

2

me stay as an apprentice, so I can learn the ropes under you!" he
stammered excitedly.

"And you insist on my music page, is that it?"

"Oh yes, sir."

The Buddha had returned to his chair and the billows of
smoke rose once more about him. "Very well," he grunted, "you can
start tomorrow, with a press card to the recitals and shows. But
mind, you're only an errand boy for the regular reviewers, with no
by-line unless they let you hand in some copy on their day off."

"Thank you, sir!"

The smoke screen was almost impenetrable now. "I suspect
that's all you were after in the first place, a free pass to all the
concerts, eh?" The pipe was waved with finality across the desk. "Now
beat it!"

Imre beat it. But in his heart he was exultant and filled
with enormous pride. He had a real job at last, as a journalist, no
less -- well, office boy, if the truth must be known, but there was
no need to split hairs. At home the news was received with unreserved
cheers. Once again he became the admired darling of the household,
no Paderewski this time but surely an embryonic author.

The life that followed brought untold delights. Breath-
lessly Imre hopped from theater to concert hall, collecting programs
and making notes on minor matters, such as replacements in the orches-
tra or the presence of some celebrity in the audience, which his busy
superiors used to fill out their columns. Now and then a reviewer,
weary of some overdone opera, turned this assignment over to Imre as
well, adding the lad's fresh impressions and correct casting notes

3

to a safely conventional absentee bulletin on the performance. For Imre these occasions were climactic indeed, as he now sat in the regular critic's stall, practically under the conductor's baton, and could wave to his Conservatory companions in the Students' Box, four tiers up.

He was still a struggling pupil at the Music Academy, a fact which caused him presently to come a cropper. Faculty members considered it improper, and rightly so, that a youth whose morning hours were spent in the classroom should blossom forth at night as an authority on professional stage offerings. Before the end of the concert season Imre was presented with an ultimatum from his professors: either the journalistic nonsense stopped or he would be crossed off next year's student roster.

He lost no time making a choice. He intended to be a composer, and to that end he must complete the Conservatory course. The job with the newspaper went by the boards, much to his parents' comfort, for they had *begun to feel* misgivings about the late hours and wild associations it entailed. With a sigh of relief they saw him return to the regulated schedule of a schoolboy.

The National Music Academy and Conservatory in Budapest ranked at this time among the best in the world. Located in a modest building on Andrassy Street, it had been founded by Franz Liszt, whose living quarters had formed part of the premises. Edmund von Mihalovich had followed as director of the institution, and the present head was Eugen von Hubay. Among earlier masters of the composition course the name of Robert Volkmann stood out, replaced now by the even more brilliant Hans Koessler. Other faculty members of high

4

academic stature were Stefan Thomán, David Popper, Viktor von Herz-
andj
feld, Arpád von Szendy. Under these mentors a whole constellation
of Hungary's younger music stars was developing apace: Zoltán Kodályi,
Béla Bartók, Ernő von Dohnányi, Paul Redl, Alfred Szendrey, Rudolf
Lavotta, Erwin Lendvai, Leo Weiner, Géza Fessler, Viktor Jacobi, and
Albert Szirmai. The last two, because nearer Imre's age, became his
particular friends. But he was at the same time glowingly aware of
and filled with admiration for the others.

Overshadowing all else at the Music Academy was the noble
personality of Koessler. The great professor, born at Ratisbon (Re-
gensburg) Bavaria, was himself a former pupil of the German organist
and composer Joseph Gabriel Rheinberger from Vaduz, Liechtenstein.
Tall, broadshouldered, with large magnetic eyes and a flowing white
beard, Koessler wore a widebrimmed artist's hat and made a fitting
subject for a Lenbach portrait. His personal charm was as winning
as his appearance.

Imre studied four years under this doyen of the arts, but
the actual gain must be computed by adding countless extra sessions
in Koessler's studio (Liszt's former music room) where teacher and
pupils gathered after hours, often through most of the night, for
musical discussions. The three great B's -- Bach, Beethoven, Brahms --
dominated these gatherings, for Koessler maintained that the science
of orchestration owed its most distinguished advance to these mas-
ters. "Without a sound understanding of counterpoint," he pounded
home his unswerving dogma, "you will never rise above cheap banality
in orchestral composition."

Creative experimentation was strongly encouraged. Periodi-

5

cally students submitted original compositions, from simple songs to ambitious symphonic rhapsodies. These were played before the entire class and then subjected to merciless criticism. Each pupil tore into his colleague's brain child, unmindful that at some subsequent meeting his own ordeal was bound to come. At the close of every such session Koessler himself would analyze the work in question as well as the merits of the criticism offered, with many a vindication of abashed creative spirits.

On the other hand he disliked windy presumptuousness. One of Imre's classmates, more aflame with ambition than genuine talent, met the creative writing test with a bulging briefcase of closely scribbled text: a Faust Symphony.

"Do you realize that such experienced minds as those of Liszt, Berlioz, Wagner, Gounod and Schumann did not tackle a dramatic subject like Faust before they had reached great maturity?" asked Koessler of the eighteen-year-old.

The lad's confidence was not to be shaken. He had cheerfully plagiarized all these acknowledged masters in a fantastic hodgepodge of his own. Considering the excellence of his source material he did not see how he could fail.

Imre did not have an easy time amid all this. Compared to his fellow students he was at a terrific disadvantage, for they had all started with music lessons at five or six years of age, whereas he had not read a note before he was fifteen. The ground he must cover in order to catch up with the others was immense: from simple scales through sonatinas by Czerny, the easier Chopin preludes, the early Beethoven, Bach's C-Sharp minor Fugue and his "Passion"

6

according to Saint Matthew, the Haydn Quartettes, the late Beethoven Opus 111 (Sonata Furor) and his Ninth Symphony. It was a colossal distance to travel in four years, with the full realization that the normal plodding scholar required fourteen. In driving himself to keep abreast of his class Imre drew prodigally upon his strength, with the result that his growth suffered. All through adolescence when he should have engaged in sports and healthful outdoor play his muscles were pinioned by the invisible shackles of a mind consecrated to one dominant ideal: music. He grew slowly, like a delicate plant, looking always far less than his age. But his slight body held a flaming spirit that was not to be extinguished by threats of defeat.

Several such threats confronted him at intervals, mostly evoked by close relatives of the family. Aunt Gisela and her husband, originally all agog over Imre's successful piano recital, held the opinion that -- following the injury to his arm -- he ought to waste no more time or money on further musical studies. "Let him learn a trade," they said. "There's nothing wrong with being a tailor."

Papa and Mama Kálmán likewise had doubts regarding the wisdom of his preparing for a composer's career. "What if you're all prepared and then can't think of anything to compose?" they asked ingeniously. To be on the safe side they had insisted earlier on Imre's enrollment in the University Law School; once he was an established attorney with a profitable government job or private law practice he could dabble in music for a hobby, without starving the while.

The angriest objections were raised by another uncle, a bachelor who was Imre's baptismal godfather. This usually benevolent gentleman had a stentorian voice which thundered mightily when he saw

7

himself crossed. Like Imre's parents, this uncle looked upon a career
in jurisprudence as the acme of respectability. He did not know, nor
did anyone else in the family, that the boy was beginning to stay away
from his university classes and devoting himself to music alone. In
fact, Uncle Godfather, who lived in the suburbs and came into town
only on rare visits, arrived one evening with a bright scheme to aid
Imre's future. He stopped at the bank where the boy worked after hours,
as usual, amid the piled up correspondence.

"Ah," said the visitor cheerfully, "I presume you are busy
with some legal thesis? Remember, I look for you any day to become
judge-advocate!"

"No, Uncle," replied Imre firmly, "I am working on the second
movement of a symphony."

There was an ominous pause during which the godfather observed that his nephew and ward was dressed in frock coat and white tie. "And what kind of costume is this?" he began to bellow. "Are you going to a masquerade?"

Imre explained that he was attending a musical function later
that night, and that he wished to put the intervening half hour to good
use. This only aggravated the coming storm.

"If you were helping your father or spending precious time
preparing for your doctorate I would agree that your energies are being
put to 'good use'," exploded the uncle, "but this music bug -- bah --
it won't get you anywhere but the poorhouse!"

The argument was carried to Imre's parents and continued
until late that night. "It's your fault," the uncle accused Papa and
Mama Kálmán. "You've indulged the boy and let him have his own way in

8

all things. But if you'll listen to me, I've got a solution."

Troubled and confused they listened. What the uncle proposed was grim indeed. "Stop this Conservatory nonsense at once and let me place the boy as assistant to one of my friends in Parliament, Representative Samuel Bakonyi, who has retained his private law practice. This will provide the springboard for quick advancement once Imre gets his degree."

It sounded eminently reasonable. After a sleepless night Imre's parents summoned every ounce of will power to confront their son with a firm decision. He would receive no financial aid from them for continuance at the music school. It was their wish that he accept the job outlined by the well-meaning uncle.

Imre's heart sank. His first impulse was outright rebellion. But he loved his parents and could not bear to cause them further pain. Besides, his mind was already turning over various possibilities presented by the parliamentary offer: it would mean a certain amount of cash, even enough perhaps to pay his tuition and continue attending the Conservatory in secret. So he accepted.

(Cabinet)
The job with Representative (later) Minister Bakonyi proved a bit of flimflam straight out of comic opera. To begin with Imre's new employer was a lovable and indulgent man who greeted his young manuensis with the extraordinary words:

"You know, I never liked Law myself, and if you're sensible you won't have anything to do with it!"

Actually there was almost no activity in the statesman's private offices. While Bakonyi attended daily sessions in Budapest's beautiful Gothic Parliament, on the Pest side of the Danube, Imre was

9

able to spend hour upon hour polishing his music scripts. He could
from Bakonyi's office
even absent himself for days at a time with no one being the wiser.
Two or three times a month some peasant constituent from Bakonyi's home
district, the Komitat (county) of Marmáros, stalked into the room
with a petition or some minor problem. But on the whole they were
a peaceful lot, the Marmáros folk, seldom at odds with anybody. They
flung no lawsuits against one another and engaged in few courtroom
tilts. In short, they gave their elected functionary little trouble.

It was during these treasured intervals of leisure that Imre found time for a deeper study and comprehension of Tschaikowsky's orchestration methods, which at that time were considered extraordinarily daring and advanced. Indiscriminately he had thus far embraced the symphonic repertoire of the accepted masters, unable to choose amid such riches. But the lucidity, the power, and withal the economy of expression inherent in the Russian composer's works, particularly the last trio of symphonies, roused Imre to high enthusiasm. Here was a musical idiom to which he felt related. In later years Tschaikowsky's beguilingly melodic line proved almost a handicap to proper evaluation of his work, as a period of over-popularity robbed his finest phrases of their bloom. In America a breed of commercial song purveyors from New York's Tin Pan Alley would one day hit upon the scabby idea of raiding the classics for replenishment of their beggarly muse. No theme, from a Chopin etude, a Grieg concerto or a Mozart sonata, to Wagner's "Tristan and Isolde" would be safe from the cheapening blight cast by these scavengers. But during Imre's student days the loathsome jukebox had not been invented, and its outpourings

10

of diluted classics set to execrable "lyrics" (what a misuse of language!) did not yet assault civilized ears. For Imre the opulence of Tschaiikowsky's ringing tones burst forth in all their new-born freshness. Here was the voice that issued the clearest call and that would lead him, more rapidly than all others, to his proper medium.

Before this could happen, however, something went wrong with the delightful Bakonyi setup. Quite unforeseen, Imre's benign employer had been appointed to defend a group of railroad strikers who were guilty of inciting a local riot. Since the date of the trial coincided with some landholders' debate in Parliament concerning the lumbering rights to Bakony Forest (a chain of mountainous hills extending from Lake Balaton to the Danube) a quandary arose. The Bakonyi name derived from the above wooded area that stretched up to 55 miles in length and 25 miles in breadth through Hungary's heartland. The bearer of this name naturally deemed the survival of the ancestral timber more urgent than a minor judgment against the railroad men.

"You go to court and argue the case," he told Imre with a voluble show of confidence. "Here are all the papers. Read as far as you can, and if I'm not there for the summing up be prepared to make a speech."

"But — but what am I to say?" Imre was terrified.

"Oh, talk about defending the underdog, and attack the government. It always pays to attack the government!" Bakonyi, an uncompromising liberal, was renowned as a permanent member of the opposition. Any opposition.

The advice sounded simple enough. But Imre achieved no resounding success in following it. As the railroad men's trial

11

extended over a number of days, he was able to peruse the pertinent documents in detail, which only served to confuse and alarm him the more. He fervently hoped that Bakonyi would show up in time for the closing arguments. From reports in the newspapers it was apparent that the forestry issue had been peaceably terminated; but, alas, Bakony seemed now to be plunging headlong into a parliamentary debate on the national budget. This meant that Imre must prepare and deliver the rail strikers' defence speech.

Though he was not yet admitted to the bar, Imre had absolved, in all, eight semesters of law school and had passed his examinations with honors, before walking out on a barrister's career. Should the time ever come, he told himself, when all other avenues were closed, he could always return and prepare his doctor's thesis, which would permit him ultimately to hang up his shingle. At present he could be regarded only as an *Advokaturskandidat*, a function recognized in Austro-Hungarian statutes as a kind of legal internship. In this capacity he could be delegated by an official attorney to plead a case in the latter's absence. It was assumed in such cases that the substitute speaker served merely as his mentor-employer's mouthpiece.

This did not happen to be Imre's present situation. Bakony had prepared no argument or final discourse, hence the half-baked law student in whose hands the cause of the railroad workers rested must confront the courtroom with a discourse of his own. Trembling inwardly he reached the speaker's rostrum and, with ineffectual voice, *opened* his oration. Remembering Bakony's advice, he began with a florid appeal for justice, followed by some garbled stammerings about venal government and the plight of the underprivileged. In general terms

12

what he said did not differ too radically from the usual platitudes
mouthed by accepted pundits, but his delivery was painfully amateurish
and uncertain. Spoken with Bakonyi's forensic power and persuasive
charm the same words might have carried the day. As it was, Imre real-
ized midway through his efforts that the rail strikers' battle could
not have been fought by a more incompetent Paladin. Without winding
up the pathetic tirade he fell abruptly silent and withdrew from the
platform.

The Public Prosecutor arose in triumph. "Never," he said
in withering tones, "have these august walls been assailed with a more
inept rodomontade of trash. Were it not laughable to dignify this
performance with further description, one might call it -- among other
things -- a disgrace!"

There was more, including the "other things" which the Prose-
cutor maintained he was reluctant to say. But Imre did not hear all
of it. Flushing a deep crimson, he had decamped in abject consterna-
tion from the room.

The following morning he asked Bakonyi for his dismissal. The
kindly statesman showed signs of remorse.

"It's my fault, son. I left you in the lurch, didn't I?"

Imre's personal humiliation did not keep him from speaking
his mind. "I am not thinking of myself, sir," he ventured boldly, "it's
those poor railreaders whom you let down -- "

"I see. Well, the verdict isn't in yet. Hang the budget,
I'll go to court this minute and demand a hearing. I'll give that
bully of a prosecutor an earache!"

He did, too. But the ultimate victory of the rail strikers

13

did not tempt Imre to change his decision. Once and for all he had
recognized his limitations. He was through with jurisprudence, and
speechmaking, forever.

Bakonyi wished to make some sort of amends. "Perhaps I can
find you another job, with one of my colleagues? I have considerable
influence, you know."

Yes, Imre knew. But he wanted no further distraction from
his main goal, music. He had only one request to make of his former
employer:

"I would be grateful if you did not tell my parents about
this."

"They're probably reading it right now, in this morning's
paper."

"Yes, of course. But I'd like them to think I'm still study-
ing law and that I continue coming to your office every afternoon."

Bakonyi was puzzled. "And what will you do each day with
those hours? Sitting around in cafes is expensive — "

"I shall rent a room with a piano, where I can compose."

"Ah!" Bakonyi was impressed. He jovially clapped Imre's
shoulder and promised to guard the secret. "Good luck to you, my boy."

Up to that moment the idea of a hideaway or "studio" had never
passed through Imre's mind. But once put into words the thought began
taking concrete shape. That same day he scanned the rental page of the
"Festi Napló" and copied a few addresses. Armed with these he set out
promptly on a tour of the city. Luck was with him. In less than an
hour's search he came upon an attractively furnished room in the Street
of the Three Moors, with geranium pots in the window, and an upright
piano against one wall. The neighborhood seemed quiet and the landlady

14

discreet. The only drawback was the price, which exceeded Imre's
slim earnings as a tutor.

He spoke about the matter to his friend and fellow student
at the Conservatory, Viktor Jacobi, who had a practical suggestion:
"Share the place with some other fellow, just as I do, and you can
split the rent."

"That's fine. But I need somebody right away, or the room
will be gone."

Jakobi was reassuring. "Don't worry, I think I know some-
one."

Later that day the two friends met again. Jacobi had good
news. "It's all set. The chap I had in mind agrees, provided you
accept an arrangement."

"What sort of arrangement?"

"You use the room, say, on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays,
while he gets it Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. As for the week-
end, you'll probably claim alternate Sundays."

Imre was delighted. "What's the -- er -- gentleman's name?"

"Oh, he'd rather I wouldn't tell. He's a prominent libret-
tist at the <u>Vigszínház</u> Theater and you needn't worry about his share
of the rent."

Imre was growing more befogged by the minute. If this stran-
ger who was to share his "studio" figured already among Budapest's
recognized artists, why did he need a secret retreat? "Has he a god-
father like mine," Imre asked ingenuously, "persuading his parents
not to allow any piano playing at home?"

At this Jacobi broke into a roar. "Who said anything about

15

piano playing, you nincompoop? Monsieur X. needs a hideout now and
then for his romancing. A love nest, get it?"

Imre got it, of course. But he was profoundly shocked.

 Wrapped in the fervor of his musical consecration, and hounded through adolescence by a bitter economic struggle, he had missed the customary adventures of youth. True, he had experienced a passing flutter for some pert ballet student in the girls' section of the Conservatory, as he nurtured an impassioned "crush" on a primadonna across the opera footlights. But the brazen reality of a _chambre d'amour_, this was something beyond his ken.

"What do you take me for?" he protested furiously. "I'll be no party to anything like that!"

"Who says you have to? What's it to you if the guy practi-
ces bullfighting or chess when you're not in the room?"

Imre tried to explain. The gracious chamber in the Street
of the Three Moors was to become the hallowed setting where he in-
tended to compose his immortal works. The thought of its defilement
by the amorous cavortings of a fellow tenant — well, it was sacrilege,
that's all.

"Fiddlesticks," said Jacobi, "stop being an infant! No
matter where you go you can't control what happens while your back
is turned. And furthermore, what's wrong with love?"

To this there was no rejoinder. Imre struggled, a bit more
feebly now, and ended by conceding the point. There was, after all,
the question of the rent versus the creation or suppression-for-lack-
of-space of his, Imre's, artistic output. No matter how reprehensible,
the morals of Monsieur X. must not be allowed to interfere with the

1

Chapter 9.

To offset Imre's ignominious abandonment of the barrister's
career so esteemed by his godfather, there were a number of agreeable
triumphs to be won at the Music Academy. The first of these was a con-
test among members of the composition class, for which Imre wrote a
group of songs to the text of an obscure German poet named Jakobowsky.
He gained honorable mention and the added distinction of hearing his
tunes sung by students of the opera department. This called for the
mimeographing of around a hundred copies, which gave him the happy
delusion of seeing his Jakobowsky Cycle in print. The work bore an odd,
ambitious title: Opus I. "Go Away, Go Far Away!"

In a school concert held on June 8, 1903, Imre and the more
talented of his classmates, among them Bartók, Jacobi, Weiner, Kodályi
and Szirmai, presented their initial efforts under the baton of Eugen
von Hubay, with Karl Détschy as pianist. Imre's contribution, aside from
"Go Away, Go Far Away!", embraced a Scherzando for strings, the opening
movement of his first Sonata, and a group of smaller piano pieces. The
reception on the part of public and press was gratifying. Greatly
encouraged, the embryo composers now plunged into an orgy of creation,
launching hopeful masterpieces at a fine rate. They also took a patro-
nizing attitude toward others not yet "in print", offering their ser-
vices, much in the manner of public letter writers, for a fee. These
services included the teaching of harmonics to amateurs with a yearning
for musical self-expression, as well as the furnishing of melodic ar-
rangements for innumerable samples of sad doggerel.

were
Imre was as active in this new field as the rest. He sup-
plemented his income by giving lessons in composition to the daughter

2

of a successful portrait artist who specialized in oversized animal
paintings of the Rosa Bonheur school. The teaching sessions took place
in the artist's villa which was literally plastered with enormous oils
representing horses, cattle, goats, sheep, and assorted wild beasts.
It was difficult enough, in such surroundings, to concentrate on musi-
cal matters, as the conglomeration of realistically daubed hooves,horns,
savagely seemed to
antlers, claws and bared teeth close in upon the visitor in overwhel-
ming gyrations. But Imre's task was further complicated by his pupil's
father, who insisted on being present during the lessons. It happened
that the young lady was by no means untalented, but her work called
for inevitable corrections, which elicited violent protests. The
prideful painter could tolerate no criticism of himself or his off-
spring, a circumstance that rendered the lessons pointless. After two
visits that terminated in stormy scenes Imre fled from the establish-
ment. Descending the monumental garden stairs he was pursued by a
yapping lapdog which, with all the ferocity of his master's depicted
jungle creatures, bit Imre in the leg.

A second venture in tutoring a budding composer ended more
happily, though it involved skimpier pay. A dilettante youth, the
son of a wealthy but pennypinching banker, had set a mediocre tune on
paper, only to learn that it was wrong in structure and could not be
played. For a re-writing job on this incompetent effort he was pre-
pared to pay a paltry five Gulden. Imre felt little enthusiasm for
the task, but he was in chronic need of money, so he accepted. After
tedious hours of changing, discarding, and finally re-creating a tune
that showed little relation to the original, Imre performed the com-
position for his customer.

3

"That's really excellent," said the happy young man, "my, I
didn't think I had it in me!"

To give the commonplace theme an added lift, Imre now played
it in triole-arpeggio form, whereat his listener was ravished.

"Oh, I like that best of all," he clamored, "that's the
version I want!"

Imre explained that the trioles were extemporary and, if
put in writing, would call for an additional fee. At this the self-
styled composer balked.

"Our agreement was five Gulden," he protested.

"For five Gulden you have a finished script right here," said
Imre, equally firm. "Trioles will be five Gulden more."

In the end the reluctant banker's son proved too enamored
with his own purported creation. He ordered the triole version, making
payment in advance. Imre pocketed the money and returned to the Con-
servatory. There, during noon recess, he invited his classmates and
a few girls from the choral group to an adjoining sweet shop. There
wasn't much one could do with ten Gulden, hence they might as well
be spent on good will, namely a round of hot chocolate and brioches.
Before even emerging from Imre's inkwell the trioles slipped merrily
down a dozen appreciative throats.

The second semester of that same school term brought an
event of special significance: a summons for the outstanding pupils
of the Academy to submit their compositions for a performance at the
Royal Opera House. The Budapest Philharmonic was to play, with Hun-
gary's top conductor on the podium.

Imre's contribution on this occasion was a symphonic work

4

for full orchestra, entitled "Saturnalia". This choice in nomenclature
bespoke his youth. Shy and unversed in revelries of either dionysian
or saturnalian complexion, Imre put no limits to his daring when he
sought a florid caption.

The "Saturnalia", it so happened, met with resounding applause. The date of its performance was Leap Year Day, February 29, of the Leap Year 1904, thereafter looked upon by Imre as a favorable omen. He had not, incidentally, over-rated his acclaim. Professor Koessler of the Conservatory called him after the Opera House concert to announce:

"On the strength of this performance by a major orchestra of one of your original works the Academy is ready to confer its degree upon you. We can no longer regard you as a student, but hail you as a musician."

From Koessler this was praise indeed. Imre rejoiced in the termination of his formal studies, but he could not bring himself to leave the Conservatory for good. He stayed on through that spring, attending Koessler's post-graduate course. It was a wise choice, for, in process of further composition, he won a coveted travel stipend permitting him to attend the Wagner Festival that summer in Bayreuth. Here was the first beckoning from the unknown world beyond the borders of his native land.

He could contain himself no longer. Now it was time to unburden his secrets, which had lain heavily on his conscience. He could tell parents, uncles, aunts, and the stern godfather about the long abandoned law studies, the foundered Bakonyi job, and the clandestine (trusting) rented room to which he had repaired when the family had thought him

5

either at the University or serving as apprentice-advocate in some law court. With a cash prize to justify his musical endeavors he no longer felt apologetic. Even his testy godfather, who measured success only in monetary terms, was now silenced.

The Bayreuth stipend had not been won by Imre alone. Several fellow students set out with him for the Wagner sanctuary in Bavaria and their first experience of grand opera on German soil. The performance of the four-part "Ring des Nibelungen" would forever after remain a high spot in the young peoples' lives. Imre in particular was carried away on wings of ecstasy. After the closing spectacle he was not ready to leave the enchanted scene. Carefully surveying his funds he decided to fend for himself by visiting the surrounding country. His first stop was the historic city of Nürnberg, a medieval picture-book town already familiar to him in imagination as the setting of "Die Meistersinger" and the home of Hans Sachs. The legendary place now came alive for him in all its color and charm: here was the ancient moated castle with its drawbridges and pentagonal tower, there the priceless Saint Sebaldus Church, and farther on the "Schöner Brunnen" ("Beautiful Fountain") with its Gothic lacework in wrought iron and stone. The house of Hans Sachs survived as another landmark, and of course there was the "Bratwurst Glöcklein" ("Little Sausage Bell") where visitors traditionally stopped for food and drink.

From Nürnberg Imre continued southward to Munich. Here he found inexpensive lodgings in an artists' pension on Maximilian Street near the heart of the city. Munich that summer was musically quite active: the summer opera season offered alternating Mozart and Wagner schedules, while the concert halls attracted sell-out crowds. But

6

for Imre the sojourn in the Bavarian capital gained special significance because of his meeting, through a fellow musician at the boarding house, with the Hungarian orchestra conductor Arthur Nikisch. The latter, a native of the tiny village Lebény Szent Miklos, had won wide acclaim in Europe and, during 1899, was appointed director of the Boston Symphony Orchestra; his current Munich engagement capped a triumphant concert tour.

Finding Nikisch amenable and easy to talk with, Imre ventured to submit the *partitura* of his "Saturnalia" for the great man's scrutiny. Nikisch generously made an appointment at his hotel, the "Vier Jahreszeiten" ("Four Seasons"), where Imre sat in silence as the leonine head bent over the manuscript. On reaching the last page Nikisch nodded solemnly. "Good work, my boy. I hope you'll keep it up!" Then, apologetically: "I meet so many people everywhere I go -- what did you say your name was?"

Imre paused. At Bayreuth and Nürnberg, as well as in his present lodgings, he had been advised against using the inverted Magyar form of patronymic-placed-before-Christian-name, that is, Kálmán Imre. He had also discovered in a pocket dictionary that in German translation he would be called Emmerich. Intoxicated by his new surroundings and the rich impressions that gave a fresh impetus to his plans, he resolved to westernize his name.

"I am Emmerich Kálmán," he said.

Nikisch underscored the moment's significance by employing a comradely professional apostrophe. "My dear Kálmán," he confided, "tomorrow I conduct 'Meistersinger' at the Prince Regent Theater. I'd like you to come with me." Actually he used "thee" instead of "you",

7

thereby establishing equality between them as artists.

On the following day Imre appeared punctually at the theater
only to find the box office sold out. But Nikisch had left a message
for him to come backstage. To his surprise he found that his new friend
had ordered an extra chair placed amid the orchestra, in the brass
section.

"The next time I'll put you near the winds, then the strings,
until you've got the *feel* of every instrument," Nikisch explained. "It
will be of invaluable help when you plan future ensembles."

This was of course true. Day after day Imre crouched in
that sea of musicians, enveloped in waves of sound and shaken to the
depths of his soul. From an ideal vantage point he could observe not
only the conductor's subtlest gesture, but also the audience reaction
as mirrored in hundreds of raptly upturned faces. As for the indivi-
dual instrumental effects, it seemed as if by some miraculous inter-
cession he himself had been given the fabled gift of many tongues, for
he submerged himself wholly in each variant of tone. Now it was he who
drew a tremolo from the flutes or struck a liquid chord on the gold
harp, before leaping on the strings of violin and cello to)ineffably
pitched thrill...

But the Munich days were not all music. Between concerts
Imre roamed through the picturesque suburbs, especially the handsome
park of Nymphenburg Castle, seat of the Wittelsbach dynasty. He also
made excursions to the all-year resort spots of Berchtesgaden and
Garmisch-Partenkirchen, finding it easy to make friends with the
jovial populace. In Munich proper he invented a special game as an
outlet for his chief foible, betting. He called it the "Dog Roulette"

8

because the city's numerous canines furnished the original incentive. The people of Munich, it appeared, kept all kinds of pets, but they were particularly addicted to dachshunde and foxtierriers. These appealing little beasts, collared and properly fed, had the freedom of the boulevards. Not only that. For the benefit of thirsty "Foxies" and "Dackeln" the city administration provided nice low water basins at various corners all over town. This greatly heightened the self-respect of every pup, since he knew himself loved and esteemed.

Now Imre had taken to guessing, as he wandered along, whether an approaching dog would stop at the next basin and drink, for this was by no means always the case. Many times the water, poured fresh twice a day, was merely sniffed at or ignored in favor of a more urgent call to fire hydrant or lamp post. Then again a dry customer with tongue hanging out might at the last moment be distracted by the approach of a ravishing "Dackel" dame, or terrier princess, if not a cute mongrel bitch. In short, here was the most unpredictable of gambles. For hours Imre and various of his new cronies from the orchestra took up their posts at a given street corner and waited for the outcome of their wager, particularly if a dachshund, the most capricious of four-legged creatures, hove into view.

"I've known the breed all my life," swore a Munich piccolo player. "I can tell you just how his mind works. If he thinks you expect him to drink he'll pass right on, nose in the air."

Imre, too, thought he knew "Dackeln". If the contrary rascal was on to the fact that you were on to him he'd just as likely cross you up and turn back for his drink. In fact, one could sometimes read just such a thought cross the sleek long-nosed face: "Oh, upon my dog soul, I forgot something!"

9

As for the bets, they were infinitesimal of course, in keeping with the players' slim finances. But the returns in laughter and fun were immense. During the following two summers, and years later -- whenever he chanced to pass through the beer metropolis -- Imre buttonholed the nearest acquaintance for a turn at his private "Dog Roulette".

Returning to Budapest after that first fling abroad, however, he must put aside such frivolity and establish himself in some part-time job that would still permit him to continue with his music. The best solution appeared to be a return to journalism under the familiar wing of the "Pesti Napló". The newspaper milieu, its suspense, crazy hours and camaraderie, the smell of printer's ink, the thumping roll of the presses, all cast an irresistible spell over him. Next to an artist's career, here was the only kind of work that attracted him.

His expectations were modest, as he hoped merely to take up his former duties. But there had been a shakeup during his absence, and a surprise now awaited him. Instead of being accepted as office boy he was offered the desk of the previous opera critic. The new position called for a trial period, to be sure, but his degree plus a few weeks of conscientious effort helped him to become firmly entrenched. During his earlier copy boy days he had been allowed to initial an occasional short paragraph, but now his writings carried a full by-line.

At about this time the "Pesti Napló" hired a new editorial chief named Molnár Ferenc, later to be known throughout the world as Franz Molnár. There was a difference of four years between them, Imre being the younger, but he and Molnár soon became fast friends. For

10

that matter, a general spirit of goodfellowship reigned under the "Naplé" roof, which greatly furthered individual effort. Imre for one applied himself with assiduity to his rather minor job. Then as now the music reviewer's column was relegated to an inconspicuous position behind political, economic, and social news. But he did not regard it in so dim a light. With brash and stubborn ardor he followed up his assignments and threw himself into the writing of his views as though the universe itself must stand or fall by them. And there was no tempering the vigor of his pen, whether in praise or damnation of a performance. Even when his editor instructed that an opinion be toned down for the sake of placating some international celebrity, Imre's youthful arrogance found the courage to resist. He wrote only what he himself could believe. Journalism was for him a battlefield of ideas, not a mere cyclorama of current events.

His salary as a militant pen wielder was small: the monthly sum of seventy Kronen. To supplement this he wrote short articles on musical subjects and a succession of condensed biographies of great composers. His outlet for these efforts was a fashionable young ladies' magazine. Each thumbnail sketch of Haydn, Bach, or Chopin brought him twenty Kronen in additional income. He did not always deal wisely with this surplus. Everybody at the "Pesti Napló" and the staff of the girls' magazine as well, had a passion for card playing. On pay day the whole tribe gathered across the street in the Edison Kávéház or else at a favorite artists' club, the Othonn, and gambled away the combined earnings. Not infrequently Imre found that, after having just collected a triple fee for the abridged lives of Mozart, Beethoven and Brahms, the magazine publisher won back his

11

purchasing price and the scripts went gratis. But the opposite could
happen just as easily: a Tschaikowsky article was paid for twice, and
Mendelssohn brought four times the stipulated sum. All this was of course
immoral and quite shocking, but it went with the kind of madcap life
known as Bohemian.

Among his associates Imre was well liked. As the youngest
he enjoyed a certain amount of protection and was indulgently permitted
an occasional prank. He was not above abusing his privileges. Thus
he pretended to know of a gypsy superstition that all horses of a
dappled gray color brought bad luck. Molnár, equally addicted to
mischief, supported the notion, with the result that a cab stand
outside the newspaper building soon found only its brown or black
beasts in demand while hacks drawn by innocent grays were shunned
like the plague. The notion spread to other areas until finally all
Budapest shared the ridiculous aversion.

Needless to say, despondent owners of unwanted hacks shook
the air with maledictions against the villain who had started it all.
"If we ever find that scamp," a fuming driver told Imre as the latter
moved on to a competitor's cab, "we'll tear him limb from limb!"

Actually the poor fellows lost little time in finding a
solution. A fortnight after the strange phobia had seized the city
there was not a gray equine to be seen on Budapest streets, yet the
number of rental vehicles was the same. The cabbies had simply in-
vested in some paint and had changed their beasts' coats to a more
popular shade.

Imre's newspaper career lasted from the autumn of 1904 to
early 1908, a period of sporadic gaiety, tomfoolery, experience, and

12

hard work. Twice in that time he had returned for summer holidays to Germany, in each case as the result of prizes won for postgraduate work at the Music Academy. One of these was the Robert Volkmann reward, named after an outstanding harmony and counterpoint authority, and furnishing the cash for a compulsory six weeks' study period abroad. Imre had chosen Berlin, a city that dazzled him with its sprawling size and keyed-up Prussian tempo. But he soon found himself in trouble, even before making a single musical contact. His Nemesis was the German capital's pioneer introduction of automobile taxis. Never in his life had Imre stepped into a horseless carriage. The experience so entranced him that he succumbed, day after day, to temptation. In a week's time half his funds were gone and he had not attended a single lecture or concert. But he knew most of the city's beautiful environs, from Grunewald Forest to the lake district of the Havel. It had become clear to him, furthermore, that taxis were not the only expensive item in Berlin living. Hotels, restaurants, theaters -- all topped the cost of princely subsistence in Bavaria. Wasting no time he bought a third class railroad ticket and returned to his beloved Munich.

In his luggage this year he carried the manuscript of a new composition entitled "Endre and Johanna" which, together with "Saturnalia", he hoped to have published. Both these works were symphonic in character, with dramatic overtones. Musically they seemed to fall between two chairs, as neither publishers of opera scores nor of pure concert numbers agreed to their purchase. This did not dim the Munich sojourn. Imre enjoyed the balance of his summer drinking his fill of that art center's offerings and arriving back in Budapest with a newly made decision: he would give up further efforts at composing "highbrow"

13

music. His next composition would be an operetta.

The news caused consternation among his former student colleagues and teachers. "Shameful!" they cried. "After spending years with only the best, you can think of stooping to the level of mere entertainment?"

His spirit faltered under these outbursts and for the moment he put the operetta idea aside. Instead he wrote some songs, twenty of them, dealing with love qualms, sorrow, autumn leaves, patriotism and similarly lofty subjects. To his astonishment the entire collection was snatched up by an eager publishing firm, Bárd & Son, of Budapest. Its appearance in print won for him the city's coveted Franz Joseph Prize, with expenses paid on a third trip abroad.

1

Chapter 10.

All of Imre's work during this period was made possible by
the pleasant little room he had rented in the Street of the Three
Moors. Contrary to the original arrangement of alternating days and
weekends, he and his "silent partner" had hit upon a more feasible
plan: Imre was in full possession during the morning hours while Mon-
sieur X. took over in mid-afternoon. On Sundays the gay Don Juan turned
his back on clandestine amours; he attended church and went on a relaxing country drive with his copious
family. This permitted Imre to plan long sessions of chamber music
with a group of composer friends, most of whom could not afford a
"studio".

Occasionally, on a rainy Sunday, the happy schedule was up-
set. Just as Imre finished preparations for his guests a key turned
in the lock and the eternal lover appeared.

"Sorry, old man, no outing today," he announced apologeti-
cally. "Lousy weather, you know, and my wife has a cold. Could you
let me have the room?"

He was always exquisitely polite, the rakish Monsieur X.,
and Imre lacked the countenance to obstruct him. Hence the dilemma
ended usually with Imre's dispossession and retreat, together with
his friends, to a nearby cafe, while Cupid took over the flat.

"That fellow collects women as a sheepskin coat does moths,"
said the slightly envious musicians.

Imre agreed. He would have liked even a fraction of his
room mate's success, either with women or in conquering the muse. For
that matter, his muse kept Imre quite busy nowadays inasmuch as he had

2

embarked on a music play entitled "The Heritage of Pereszény", based on a patriotic theme of the Rákóczy era. The book for this production was the work of Samuel Fényes, a man with a neat gift for blood-and-thunder fiction. Imre's own fiery melodic vein easily matched the gaudy text and furnished climax upon climax of heroic apostrophe. What practically guaranteed the show's success was its leaning on a sure-fire historic prop: the political rivalry between Vienna and Budapest, which for centuries had kept national tempers at boiling point. A dramatization of the Rákóczy clan, a princely house from Hungary's province of Transylvania, was bound to evoke echoes of proud defiance against past Habsburg tyrannies.

It happened that Imre himself was intensely monarchistic and, like most Magyars, fervently devoted to the present Empress-Queen, but this did not sully his with slacken his fascinated interest in 18th Century revolt and clash of arms. In his absorption he, and his librettist as well, lost sight of more recent trends throughout the empire, namely the budding rapprochement between Austria and Hungary in the interest of industrial and economic progress. Even as "The Heritage of Pereszény" reached rehearsal stage the long yearned for honeymoon between Vienna and Budapest was on the verge of realization. By fatal coincidence the play's première fell on the very day when the respective parliaments in the two capitals proclaimed an end to their chauvinist bickerings.

The impact on Imre's theatrical venture was disastrous. His most flamboyant war cries and the text of his script writer's best speeches fell flat, as the prevailing mood in the audience was one of sweet amity. With no echoing passions in the breasts of spectators, the

3

production wound up a resounding failure. The score was published by Bárд & Son, who reaped no joy from its sponsorship.

Paradoxically the following spring Budapest prepared to celebrate the second centenary of Ferenc Rákóczy's heroic campaigns and his subsequent exile to Poland. The festival committee called upon Imre to write an orchestral score to be performed at the Magyar Színház (Hungarian Theater). It was to be his first commissioned work, with a stipulated time limit of only six days. A poetic text written by Alexander Mezei furnished the theme, while the popular operetta hero Akos Ráthónyi agreed to read the lines.

For a more experienced composer the task might have proved an unbearable chore, but Imre burned with eagerness to show his mettle, particularly after the "Pereszény" fiasco. He wasted no time lamenting the shortage of time. Inspired by his friend Mezei's eloquent stanzas, and spurred on by the committee's promise that the composer himself was to conduct the orchestra, he poured his heart into the music.

The result was gratifying. Not only did Budapest listeners applaud enthusiastically, but two visitors from Vienna appeared backstage for an interview. They were the librettists Leo Stein and Karl Lindau, lured to Hungary for this occasion by a lesser known publisher with plans of his own.

"My Austrian friends would like to hear what you can do," the enterprising gentleman informed Imre. "Of course they are also interested in other local talent, but if you will sign this contract here I can arrange it so only you will be interviewed."

4

Imre's spirit, bruised by his recent failure, rallied at the
offer. To think that he was being given another chance! Without
hesitation he signed the proffered contract, agreeing to keep the
matter secret lest jealousy be aroused in other would-be candidates.

That night Imre met his friends Szirmai and Jacobi at their
usual cafe rendez-vous, for a review of the day's events. To his
astonishment he found his two companions as stony and uncommunicative
as his own pledge forced him to be. Before long a realization dawned
on all of them: the reason for their guarded and unnatural behavior
was that each found himself burdened with a secret.

"All right, what is it?" Jacobi broke the tension. "Have we all been sworn to silence because each of us is under consideration for an exclusive Vienna deal?"

The truth was out. Roaring with laughter the three friends
dismissed the questionable proposition as a practical joke. But the
next afternoon, it was Imre's twenty-fourth birthday, he was summoned
for a private audition calling for several hours of pianistic display
and a review of his compositions to date. After attentive listening
the Vienna visitors retired to a conference room for deliberation,
while Imre fretted because he had promised to be home on time for a
festive birthday dinner. The rented "studio" notwithstanding, he still
lived with his parents and considered himself bound by family schedules.

It was nine o'clock that night before the conference ended
and Imre heard himself hailed as the recipient of a cash advance of
one thousand Kronen. There was an exchange of bows and handshakes
before the Mssrs. Stein and Lindau hastened off to catch their train,
while the happy publisher folded the contract and slipped it into his

5

pocket. Imre had no time to inquire about further details. He knew
his mother's anxiety would by now border on hysteria; as for the birth-
day roast, it was probably burnt. He rushed home where he arrived
just in time to overhear a distressing conversation between his parents
regarding the evils that beset young men in large cities.

"No, no, he's a good boy," Mama was repeating over and over.
"He wouldn't be out in disreputable company — "

Papa Kálmán's answer was tinged with bitterness. "On his
birthday he does this to us!"

At this Imre burst into the room waving a handful of bills.
"Here's a thousand Kronen," he cried, "and I've earned it all through
my music! You'll never again regret letting me choose my own career,
I promise — "

The wonderful news instantly changed gloom to wildest joy.
There were cheers and embraces as the younger children danced, and the
roast, a trifle dry from waiting in the oven, was fetched to the table.
Though belated in starting, the birthday party ended on a note of un-
alloyed happiness.

Imre's bliss lasted exactly twenty-four hours. By the fol-
the distressing truth
lowing evening he was to learn, that no Vienna prospects were in sight.
The audition with Stein and Lindau had been a mere ruse through which
the publisher had obtained the rights to Imre's next three musical
works. In accepting the cash advance the youth had bound himself
irrevocably to a flagrantly unfavorable agreement. It was no use
running back with the money and demanding that the contract be torn
up. "The terms were there in black and white," said the firm's
attorney, "you should have read them before signing."

7

The logical place to look was Sascha Film Studios, where the elusive Vera was said to be employed. But this firm, presided over by a well-meaning but professionally inexperienced aristocrat, Count Kolowrath, tottered on the brink of bankruptcy. Yes, a Fräulein Makinskaja had been on the payroll, Imre was informed. A fine little actress too — had he not seen her in "Kaiser Jäger" ("The Emperor's Huntsmen")? Oh, she had a future, that one. Even an American producer, Mister Raoul Walsh, said so. Unfortunately, however, Sascha Studios had closed more than a week ago and all records were impounded, making it impossible to check the addresses of the personnel.

Count Kolowrath, whom Imre met in the salon of Baroness Conrad von Hötzendorf, knew even less. "Don't hound me about undiscovered Bernhardts and Duses," that harassed man exclaimed, "just tell me where I can borrow some cash to pay my screaming stockholders!"

The Baroness, born Princess Agnes Eszterházy, raised startled brows at Imre's inquiry. It was no secret in Vienna society that the noble Hungarian lady had tired of her husband "Pepi" (a cousin of the wartime General Franz Conrad von Hötzendorf) and that she nursed a wild infatuation for Emmerich Kálmán. Well-founded gossip had it that the heroines of two recent Kálmán operettas, "Countess Maritza" and "Circus Princess" were modeled after the fiery and tempestuous Agnes. In later years Imre himself would readily admit this, for he owed much to Princess Eszterházy's dedication to his cause. Nor did he lack the gallantry to respond within chivalrous limits to marks of favoritism which she showered upon him. But Agnes knew, as did everyone else, that he was immutably bound to the invalid Paula against whom no other woman could prevail.

8

With Paula's death a new hope took root in Agnes Esterházy's breast. Surely now what had been a tortured and equivocal friendship between herself and the composer could unfold before the world as an authentic grande passion. Without loss of time, she instituted divorce proceedings against her patient and accommodating spouse. It appeared axiomatic that, once she was free, the recent Baroness Hötzendorf would become Madame Kalman.

Imre thought so himself. He escorted Agnes to the theater and other public places, and appeared with increasing frequency at her intimate soirées. The fact that on one such occasion he showed undisguised concern about an unknown film extra meant less than nothing emotionally. He was a middle-aged man of forty-six, thirty years older than the child whose economic distress had stirred his conscience. Poorly dressed, skinny and doleful, Vera Makinskaja was no more than a depressing shadow that intruded reproachfully upon the relative comfort of his days.

Agnes saw matters differently. From the first mention of the girl's name the older woman sensed a rival. A divorcee now, Agnes did not intend to surrender the man of her choice to some insignificant chit who chanced to catch his eye across a restaurant table. She, Princess Esterházy, was daughter of a lordly and an illustrious Magyar house: since she designed to love him, Imre was hers and hers alone.

There appeared to be little likelihood of Vera's crossing his path again. As time went on Agnes became Imre's constant companion on all occasions when he was not engrossed in work. She urged him to revive the "Duchess Of Chicago" in a new version that might

9

offset its earlier unspectacular run. Unwittingly by this well meant counsel she opened the door through which the unknown little Makinskaja would re-enter his life.

It happened during the period of re-casting the new version of "Duchess Of Chicago". Imre had stopped with his friend Hubert Marischka for a quick supper at Sacher's on the way from the theater. While seeking out a favorite table his eyes skimmed the crowd and fixed suddenly on a figure at the far end of the dining terrace.

"Hubert," he stammered in sudden excitement, "there she is!"

"Who? What the devil is the matter with you?"

Imre flushed and quickly mastered his confusion. "I don't know -- I mean, we haven't been introduced, but it's a girl I've offended, and I owe her an apology -- "

"Wait a minute," Hubert repeated with a puzzled frown, "you owe her an apology although you haven't met -- look here, it doesn't make sense!"

But Imre had no time to explain. He was pushing ahead until he reached the young woman's side. With a hesitant bow he introduced himself, mumbling his name and plunging headlong into a vindication of his impulsive though admittedly tactless gesture of chivalry.

"I fear you took it as an insult," he concluded humbly, "when I wished only to be of help..."

It was Vera Makinskaja's turn to blush. Like a schoolgirl she rose from her chair, overcome by his presence.

"Oh, you don't need to tell me who you are," she gasped, "everyone knows your name, people are always pointing out the great Kalman! I am the one to ask forgiveness for not thanking you in person

10

-- but -- " she broke off, then finished resolutely, "I was so ashamed,
for my mother and myself -- "

"Ashamed?"

"We should have had enough character to refuse, but that
that is difficult when one is poor." She looked about guiltily. "You
will wonder I am seen in a place like this. It's the cheapest way
to eat, if you order warmed up chicory and yesterday's bread. We live
in a boardinghouse attic room with no cooking privileges -- we must
go out if we want something hot."

Imre felt a twist around his heart. He wanted to take this
pale child's hand and lead her to his own table for a substantial
five course meal, but an inner warning prompted him to move with dif-
fidence. Hubert Marischka approached and introductions followed.
Automatically the experienced actor and director scrutinized the
girl, observing her petal-soft skin, large eyes, and finely spun
blonde hair. A trifle thin, he thought, but far better underweight
than over. Had she ever considered working in the theater? His quest-
ion was casual, noncommittal, perhaps only a meaningless conversa-
tional device. But Imre took it up instantly.

"Certainly she has," he answered, covering Vera's dubious
hesitation. "My friend, you are talking to a film star!"

Hubert Marischka looked puzzled, but Imre pursued his ad-
vantage. With Sascha Films currently in receivership it was clear
that Fräulein Vera must be jobless at present; Hubert might be
persuaded to fit her somewhere into the "Duchess Of Chicago" cast.
Imre ventured a suggestion to this effect.

Director Marischka's eyebrows arched. "Can she sing?"

11

Alas, no. Desperately though she needed work, Vera realized it could not be obtained by lying.

Imre refused to give up. "She could try out for the chorus," he proposed, "or else a small speaking part. In any case, I'm starving. Shall we talk about this over some food?"

The delicate matter of buying Vera a square meal had been easily hurdled. Now there remained only the minor task of casting her in the forthcoming operetta.

Hubert Marischka was not very helpful. "We've got more leads, second leads, and understudies than we can use," he commented dryly. "There's nothing left but a short walk-on role in the Third Act. I hesitate to offer anything so insignificant to someone from the -- er -- cinema." He appeared still to be searching his memory, unsuccessfully to be sure, for the face of Vera Makinskaja among filmdom's great.

Imre found himself trembling lest the girl turn down the left-handed offer. "It's a start," he whispered to Vera. Then, before she had time to shape an answer he clinched the matter. "Settled!" he cried, shaking Hubert's hand. "I'll see that Fräulein Vera shows up for tomorrow morning's rehearsal."

He did not know what had pushed him into doing this. But, if questioned, he would no longer have been sure that his impulse was prompted by a mental association with his youngest sister. Not solely, at any rate. The girl Vera appeared to him quite suddenly as a vision of unutterable sweetness and helplessness. Without a trace of erotic implication he found within himself a welling up of tenderness toward her that forced him to take action. At the risk of making himself

12

a target for ridicule he wished to be godfather, guardian, protector,
fully realizing that by such sponsorship he put himself as well as his
protegee in an equivocal light.

Was it the same rush of pity that had chained him to Paula's
side? With a bemused smile he realized that Vera Makinskaja counted
one year less than the seventeen of his entanglement with the older
woman. No, there could be no parallel. If anything, Vera symbolized
the child or children he should have had long before this in a normal
and happy marriage, not with the fading Paula or a beauteous Eszterházy
princess, but a wife of his own age and social station.

Yes, he was sure the tenderness he felt was strictly patern-
nal. It could not, must not, be anything else.

1

Chapter 21.

Vera Makinskaja was older than her sixteen years.

She had been born a Russian, in 1912, when the political skies over Europe shone in deceptive brightness though the cataclysm of World War I was already in the offing. Before the child was two years old the thunder of Armageddon swept over the earth, throwing a pall over her earliest memories.

Of her immediate antecedents Vera knew little. Her mother had been a properly reared daughter of middle-class family and modest talents, but also of exceptional beauty which led her into the arms of a prominent *boyar* in the then supreme and inaccessible Czarist court. The romance threatened to become a public scandal until the hapless young woman's parents were given warning to remove their daughter from St. Petersburg, out of her smitten lover's reach.

Under Romanoff absolutism a "suggestion" of this nature was the grimpest of commands. In panic the young woman was spirited away to far-off relatives beyond the borders of European Russia, at the foothills of the Ural mountains. Here, in the small Siberian town of Perm, 720 miles eastward from Moscow, a baby was born out of wedlock and in utmost secrecy, to be baptized Vera (after the aristocratic father's unbending mother) and further appended with the maternal maiden name.

As far as St. Petersburg was concerned the disgraceful affair had ended. Never short of tidbits, gossip in imperial drawingrooms soon turned to new and juicier matters. But the old axiom regarding lovers' partings still held true. From Perm's desolate wooden shacks to the marble palaces along the Neva lay an insuperable gulf, yet

2

the overland post slipped past social bans and taboos. With faithful regularity funds arrived for mother and child, in addition to ardent pledges of imminent reunion.

With the outbreak of war these promises soon became fact. Disguised in cossack uniform the rebel boyar put in a sudden appearance at Perm and fetched his small family back to a hideout in the imperial capital. Here during the early war years the little Vera saw her father on frequent short leaves from the battle front. During his absences she was never allowed to forget the impact of his rank and high-born origin. Disciplinary admonitions were always accompanied by such phrases as "Remember you are a soldier's daughter" or "Is that the way a Grand Duchess behaves?"

The St. Petersburg apartment in which Vera's formative childhood was spent lacked no comfort or luxury. Beautiful furnishings, fine paintings, music, sculpture, literature -- and above all, love -- surrounded her, laying the foundation for a lifelong sensitivity to aesthetic values. But it was a fairytale existence, doomed to short duration from the start. Early in 1916, barely four years old, the child learned of her father's death somewhere in the Masurian Marshes. She heard also, in servant talk around her, that an abrupt change was taking place. Trunks were being packed and furnishings sold, as the expensive apartment had to be abandoned. Mother and child sought smaller quarters in a cheap, neglected neighborhood.

This move proved even less enduring. A political crisis was building up throughout Russia, originating in centuries-old patterns of despotism plus popular disaffection under the hardships of the war. Czar Nikolai II was himself no tyrant, but a dynast so

3

hedged in by the trappings of his exalted station that he lacked all
understanding of common people. Unwittingly he surrounded himself
with cabinet ministers whom the Duma disapproved, or, when that re-
presentative body was in adjournment, acted by ukase in matters that
must normally be subject to a Duma vote. In addition a sinister
force had made itself felt in the early war years whenever a direc-
tive issued from the Winter Palace: it was a reprobate monk named
Grigorj Rasputin, whose dominance over the imperial family invested
him with delusions of statesmanship. In December of 1916 this baleful
mesmerist was assassinated by a young patriot, Prince Yussupov, but
the downfall of the dynasty could no longer be halted. Public morale
had sunk to an irreparable low, bread riots broke out, and by the
following February there was a general workers' strike. Unrest at
home soon brought on army desertions and an open revolt of the gar-
rison at St. Petersburg. Panic gripped the Czar's household as
Bolsheviki bands encircled the unguarded palace. A helpless prisoner,
the monarch was forced to abdicate on March 15, 1917. With wife and
children, his physician Doctor Botkin, and a few loyal court servants,
Nikolai II was transported by freight car to the Siberian frontier
and to eventual execution in a cellar at Ekaterinburg.

Members of Russia's higher nobility and of the wealthier
middle class were likewise in grave peril. Cousins and nephews of
the Czar had been rounded up for slaughter, leaving only a scattered
few to make their escape. Among these fugitives were also lesser
beings whose association with the privileged classes made them targets
for mob revenge. Small Vera and her mother belonged in this cate-

4

gory; without baggage or funds they piled into a crammed refugee transport that barely managed to roll over the Finnish steppes and across the borders of Sweden.

At Stockholm they found sanctuary, but only for a limited time. The world had become passport conscious, and persons without identification papers no longer could choose new homelands at will. The great modern exodus of rootless wanderers had begun.

Throughout her childhood Vera was to experience many changes of scene. She would know Germany, France, Holland, and finally Austria, as her mother moved from job to job, staying in each country for as long as a visitors' permit could be stretched. On reaching adolescence the girl's haphazard schooling had ended, for she too must become a breadwinner. In Vienna it was Vera's earnings that supported her now sapped and weakening mother. But again, as Russian aliens, they faced expiration of their refugee sojourn and the certainty of deportation.

Emmerich Kalman and Hubert Marischka did not learn all this at that first Café Sacher meeting. Only at subsequent rehearsals of "Countess Of Chicago" was Imre able to piece together the young girl's story. He marveled even then at Vera's maturity and intelligence. She had an extraordinary mind, sharpened by experience and early contact with cosmopolitan milieux. Inevitably she was a linguist, having picked up a variety of tongues almost from the cradle. And she had obvious dramatic talent. Her grip on the flimsy Third Act role assigned to her transformed that single walk-on scene into an event.

Imre would have liked to tell her so, but he was seldom

5

alone these days. Princess Eszterházy, free of marital shackles, was
seen more and more in his company. She appeared at theater soirees and
concerts beside the composer, and it was whispered that his song "Eyes
Of Romance" ("Märchenaugen") had been written expressly for her.

In Vera's ardent imagination Imre was the embodiment of wordly
glory. She saw him perched on unattainable heights, yet generous and
big enough of heart to reach down and give aid to an obscure beginner.
For this she worshipped him with an unreserved adoration that fused
deep gratitude with youthful rapture. But there was no thought of flin-
tation since, on his sleeve, he still wore a band of mourning which --
theater colleagues explained -- honored the departed Paula. And in any
case there was the elegant divorcee who seemed to have taken an option
on Imre's bruised heart.

In view of all this it came as a startling shock when the
composer appeared backstage one evening to request Vera's company at
a late supper. Breathlessly she accepted, realizing too late that she
lacked anything suitable to wear. During intermission there were
huddled conferences with other soubrettes and the theater's wardrobe
mistress, resulting in an assembled rig -- long dress, gloves, fake
jewelry, and a feather cape -- in which Vera awaited the Cinderella
hour.

Alas, it never came. Agnes appeared at the theater that same
night and laid claim to Imre's attention. To avoid a scene he sent
his chauffeur with a written message, begging Vera's forgiveness.

She returned the borrowed finery and went home disillusioned.
It served her right, she told herself, for letting her heart spin its

6

foolish fancies. April-December romances were a favorite subject in
European fiction of that day, and Vera's own maturity caused her to
regard boys in her age group as distressingly boring. Her interest
and enthusiasm could be aroused only by the adulthood, mental and
physical, of a fullfledged man. She thought, during the weeks of
rehearsal for "Duchess of Chicago", that she had found him. But would
Emmerich Kálmán see her as anything but a half-grown child? Furthermore,
what had she to offer besides her youth and ardor to one who had
success, security, and the adulation of Vienna's prettiest women to
divert him?

For his own part, Imre spent a night of similar self-probing.
The broken appointment left him with more than a superficial pang of
regret. For the first time he found Agnes Eszterházy's stimulating
company no match for the obsession that had seized his heart. In
parting from his aristocratic friend he scarcely saw the noble features,
shadowed by bewildermant and doubt. His inner eye was fixed on
a vision of blonde loveliness and innocence -- Vera, Vera.

Daybreak came and with it he expected a reversal of such
lyric vapors. In the cold light of morning a man's chimerical rhap-
sodies usually gave way to common sense, the illusory dreams of night
bowing before reality. But he must be having difficulty waking up.
At least, despite routine demands such as claimed him daily, this
seemed to be no ordinary day. The gossamer of dreams was still about
him. His head and heart still spun with a preposterous rapture. There
was no way out, he knew, save to risk rejection and ridicule. Before
noon he was startled Vera in the wings of the theater.

"I didn't plan this, or I would certainly have chosen a better

7

place," he gulped, "but -- will you marry me?"

If Vera paled under her stage make-up he could not see it,
but the tears that rushed to her eyes defied disguise. She lost her
voice, answering only with a shy quick nod. Then, with a gesture --
half timidity, half abandonment -- she was in his arms.

The rest would be grist of Vienna gossip mills for weeks to
come. Agnes Eszterházy took the news of the engagement with the grace
and poise of a great lady, burying whatever hopes might have dwelled
in her proud heart. Vera's colleagues in the chorus, as well as a host
of working girls throughout Austria, pored over press stories and ex-
changed thrilled comment. Here was, if ever, a Cinderella fable come
true! An unknown little super-numerary, earning the equivalent of
$7.00 a month, was to become the bride of one of Europe's (and perhaps
the world's) top operetta composers! Why, it could happen to any-
body...

More than all others, Vera herself believed that she must be
living a fairy tale. From earliest childhood she had heard people
hum and had watched them dance to Kalman tunes. During her brief
career at Sascha Films, air from "Countess Maritza" and "Csárdás Prin-
cess" had been played, at her request, for mood music. He had shared
a good part of her life, this wizard of melody, whom she could never
think of save in some disembodied and ethereal form. Yet he stood
before her now, flesh and blood, a man of elegance, and gentleness
and understanding, a husband-to-be, such as she could not have dared
to expect.

"It is a fairy tale," she repeated to herself. "I'll never
think of it as anything else..."

8

The wedding took place a short time later, without fanfare or honeymoon trip, as Imre was tied down by commitments for a new production. It was "Das Veilchen Vom Montmartre" ("Montmartre Violet"), under consideration when he first met Vera Makinskaja, and thereafter shaped deliberately for her as a starring vehicle. She could still have it or reject it, as she wished. He was not asking her to relinquish career plans in favor of sternly oldfashioned marriage.

It happened that an oldfashioned marriage was just what Vera wanted. The theater was not in her blood, nor did she consider herself a budding Duse, consecrated to the boards. Her brief stage experience had been a livelihood, necessary for her own and her mother's support, but a poor livelihood at best. She was glad and infinitely grateful to give it up.

"You'll find plenty of girls to star," she told Imre. "I want to learn what it's like to have a home..."

1

Chapter 22.

The dependable Julius Brammer and Alfred Grünwald had done their usual best on the script for "Montmartre Violet". Dialogue and characterizations had been beautifully executed, while the play's sets and costumes evoked a properly nostalgic Nineteenth Century French atmosphere in contrast to Kálmán's familiar Danube scenes. The work now awaited musical treatment.

A happy bridegroom, for the first time and at a fairly advanced age, Imre had trouble returning to his writing tasks. Still, once he had scanned the libretto he recognized its possibilities and soon felt the composer's itch. The score came quickly, easily, as though it had long slumbered within him. Daily new melodies poured forth, released by the deep wells of his own happiness.

As the work neared completion Imre learned that the Johann Strauss Theater, where his earliest successes had been achieved, was in financial difficulty and threatened with conversion into a motion picture house. Always governed by old loyalties, he hastened to offer Director Erich Müller a first chance at the new operetta. The gesture was accepted, as the management's only hope of survival depended on a major musical hit.

The composer's noble impulse proved ill-advised. The Johann Strauss Theater, formerly as lavish in resources as it was rich in tradition, could no longer meet the demands of a modern production. Too late Imre discovered that stage properties, lighting, mechanical equipment, and even the orchestral facilities had sadly deteriorated through the postwar years. Such brilliant show pieces as "Circus Princess" and "Bayadere" would have been technically impossible on its

2

neglected boards. Even the less pretentious "Montmartre Violet" might incur grave risk. But contracts had been signed, and in any case a promise was a promise.

At the première, on March 21, 1930, Imre could not conceal his misgivings. Critics and public alike received the new opus warmly, praising music and plot, as well as the leading performers, opera diva Adele Kern and a popular tenor, Richard Waldemar. But there hung over the production an air of shabbiness and inadequacy far beyond the picturesque squalor called for by the script, which somehow communicated itself to subsequent audiences. Fading proscenium and declining neighborhood alike emanate a peculiar melancholy that no observer can escape. The Johann Strauss Theater's splendid Renaissance front still beckoned proudly across green esplanades and terraced stairs, but the fine stonework had chipped and building maintainance was all but nonexistent.

After four months of fair box office receipts but definite overall losses Imre gave up the struggle. He withdrew the operetta and the old playhouse was permanently closed. "Montmartre Violet" reopened late in July at a favorite Kalman stamping ground, the Theater An Der Wien, running through the autumn and an additional season at the Vienna Stadt Theater, for a total of 200 performances.

Touring companies were simultaneously formed. One of these, headed by Hungary's blonde Gitta Alpar, moved into the Metropol Theater in Berlin, while later German troupes played in that capital at the Theater Des Westens, the Schlosspark, and the Plaza, before the unassuming "Violet" passed its peak bloom. A Portuguese cast per-

3

formed simultaneously at Lisbon's Trindade Theater and a French one at the Variétés in Marseille, while a London opening was in preparation under directorship of Sir Oswald Stoll.

Imre had no hand in these outlying developments. His personal energies were concentrated only upon the original Vienna production, which he supervised and tended midwife-fashion till its hale arrival on an opening night stage. He allowed a subsequent period for inevitable revisions. But after that the shows took on a vitality all their own, moving out of reach into the hands of foreign producers, making their way across continents and oceans without further dependence upon him. Indeed, a void invariably set in with the departure of each brainchild, leaving him lost and ill at ease. Like a mother yearning to rock another cradle after her earlier brood has outgrown her care, Imre felt strangely troubled until some new project took form and got underway.

The times were not propitious to lighthearted composition. Was he to seek a grim social message in an unsettled and confused present, or should he return to the threadworn past of operetta's Turn-of-the-Century heyday? Neither choice seemed satisfactory. No sound ideas could be drawn from Austria's current situation which, politically and economically, was untenable. A state reduced to little more than its capital city surrounded by pretty but unprofitable scenery offered scant material for musical mirth. As to a period piece dealing with the playful gambolings of costumed and romantic aristocracy, that too belonged in mothballs, with other mementoes of Habsburg pomp and grandeur. For a time Vienna's historic past had

4

thrilled theater lovers throughout the world, providing an inimitable
setting for such masterpieces as the Richard Strauss light opera "Der
Rosenkavalier", a touching and bitter-sweet romance of Empress Maria
Theresia's day. Similarly the long reign of Franz Joseph had gloried
in the musical works of Suppé, Millöcker, Reinhardt, and Lehár. But
the dynasty had vanished, and the waltz kings were in hiding. Austria
grieved for a young emperor exiled, not by his subjects, but at the
behest of the victor powers at Versailles, and buried now in a lonely
grave on Madeira.

Decidedly this was no time for operetta patterns in tradi-
tional vein. Today the parquetry of Schönbrunn Castle did not ring
with the crisp tap of dancing feet. Instead there was the tired
shuffle of custodians opening the great empty salons to the gaze of
vaguely disappointed tourists. For, unwittingly, they who visit
such outworn shrines of forgotten splendor are royalist at heart,
searching subconsciously for some live vestige of that which in-
directly they themselves helped destroy.

No, Emmerich Kálmán could not in the Vienna of today re-
create the frolicsome spoof associated with chocolate soldiers,
merry widows, princelings in gypsy disguise, and all the other airy
routines of musical farce. The war that had left Europe prostrate
had not been fought with waltzing armies, nor were its drab widows
noticeably gay. As to the scions of erstwhile ruling houses, their
present "disguises" were pointedly real: two Archdukes of Austria
worked as airplane mechanics in Barcelona, a Romanoff Grand Duchess
sold dresses in New York, while one of the Kaiser's grandsons wore
overalls at his job in the Ford Plant at Detroit. Decidedly a new

5

kind of theater must evolve to fit characterizations such as these.
Or rather, with royalty busily learning the ways of common mortals,
musical comedy had better do the same.

As a transitional step Imre took an experimental fling in
films. For some years now the cinema had introduced sound and thereby
opened a vast medium to singers and composers, as well as to actors
of the speaking stage. Early in 1931 Berlin's UFA Studios sent out
calls for a composer to write the musical score for a scenario by
Emmerich (later Emeric) Pressburger and the character actor Reinhold
Schünzel. Imre received the assignment, together with two lyricists,
Rudolf Schanzer and Ernst Welisch.

The work was prolonged, arduous, but hardly fascinating.
With Günther Stapenhorst as producer, and Reinhold Schünzel directing,
the film — a drawingroom comedy entitled "Ronny" — opened in December
at Berlin's Gloria Palast, with simultaneous showings the following
day in major European UFA outlets. Starring roles were played by
the Hungarian Käthe von Nagy and a matinee idol of German films, Willy
Fritsch, both of whom assured a warm reception. By the same token,
however, Imre remained unconvinced regarding the merits of his own
contribution. Idolatry of screen personalities was already rampant
the world over. Audiences, predominantly adolescent if not younger,
filled movie palaces in adoring swarms, transfixed by the sight of
their celluloid favorites. Few paused to note the authorship of
music or script, just as no one cared a fig about the make-up man
whose artistry transformed the film diva or hero from plain ribbon
clerks into creatures of sheer ravishment.

6

But, credit considerations aside, Imre felt uneasy in the cinematic medium because he missed the immediacy of a live audience. As his score for "Ronny" was recorded on tape and sealed into metal cans he lost all sense of participation. He was sure he would never feel at home with the fast-reeling cameras. Repentantly he returned to his study for another try at his true craft.

A leaning toward regionalism drew him again to his native Hungary for subject matter. He had long been fascinated by the gallant record of the Honved Hussars, Europe's handsomest cavalry troupe. Their history, tied up with a modern story, might offer a worthy theme. For a beginning Imre already had a title, "Der Teufelsreiter" (The Devil's Horseman).

Paradoxically, the Berlin playwrights Rudolf Schanzer and Ernst Welisch begged for a chance to work on the libretto. Their familiarity with Magyar matters was largely academic, yet an acceptable script resulted. Drenched with authentic Kalman music, which included a paraphrase of the fiery Rakóczy March, the new work promised to match its predecessors.

While this undertaking was still in progress word came from overseas that producer Louis B. Mayer wished to film "Sari" and "Countess Maritza", with Jeanette Macdonald and Nelson Eddy in the leading parts. Emmerich Kalman was wanted in Hollywood to supervise the adaptation and décor of both pictures. The offer carried lavish financial terms as well as prospects of a brilliant American future.

At any other time Imre would have been overwhelmed with pride and satisfaction. But no gilded emoluments promised by the California Mecca could drag him from Europe just now, for Vera was

7

expecting her first child. Material success was something that, over the years, Imre had tasted in varying degrees. It held small lure beside prospective fatherhood. Thus the sale of the two operettas to Metro Goldwyn Mayer was accomplished but the composer's services were left out of the deal. Without regrets Imre remained at his wife's side and awaited the arrival of the baby, a son, who would receive the Hungarian name of Károly (Charles).

His cup of happiness overflowed. Having married late, and then choosing a young creature half his age, he would never cease marveling at his wonderful luck. Himself a devoted son with strongest family ties, he had abandoned all hope of establishing personal roots due to the long years of his entanglement with Paula. The blond and blue-eyed Karli whom he now held incredibly on his knee appeared to him like a cherub borrowed from some sacred altar group. He worried the child and its mother with almost pathological fervor.

The premiere at this time of "The Devil's Horseman" at the Theater An Der Wien, under direction of Hubert Marischka, left Imre almost indifferent. He was absorbed with newly-discovered paternal joys, from dietary problems and talcum routines to proud strolls beside the baby's perambulator under the Stadtpark trees.

Two additional children were to be born in following years, both girls, to be named Erzsebet and Yvonne (nicknamed Lili and Ilonka). But their arrival no longer coincided with their parents' happiest years, for an ominous change was coming over Europe, initiated in the neighboring German Reich with the rise of an obscure demagogue of Austrian birth: Adolf Hitler.

8

Little was known of this shabbily unimpressive World War I corporal save that his addiction to violent speechmaking brought him into repeated conflict with police authorities. The parks and street corners where he set up his soap box frequently changed, but the subject of his eloquence was always the same: he preached the rebirth and resurgence of the Teutonic nation to its former state of respectability and power.

"A leader will arise," he promised, "to make these words come true!" He did not perhaps even himself believe, in that first fever of garbled political oratory, that the messiah (the word he used was Führer) so heralded could conceivably bear his own name. It remains as shattering testimony to the prostrate state of the former Central Powers, that precisely such a travesty could come to pass. Exacerbated by lost manpower, war reparations, inflation and hunger, dejected Austrians and Germans were ready to heed any prophet who pointed to a way out of their purgatory.

Europe's soul must have been ill indeed to furnish no enlightened counter force to this molecule of mediocrity, Adolf Hitler, whose personal inefficacy was such that throughout his early manhood he seldom knew where his rent or his next meal would come from. Yet out of microscopic bacteria or a single invisible virus can spring a plague to sweep the earth. Germany's rise under the bane of Hitlerism was but an added illustration, in history's tragic chronology, of this basic natural law.

1

Chapter 23.

If statesmen and diplomats did not recognize the abyss into
which the irrational peace structure of Versailles would hurl mankind
it was hardly to be expected that poets, artists, or musicians --
whose pursuits drew no inspiration from the cynical checkerboard of
politics -- should see disaster in the skies.

For Imre this was especially true. Deliriously happy in
his new marital state, and rendered almost absurdly aglow by unex-
pected fatherhood, his life was wrapped up for a time in purely per-
sonal concerns. He was still busy as always with musical creation,
letting no day go by without working over his manuscripts and per-
forming a set stint. But composition took longer nowadays, as he
permitted himself the full enjoyment of reality alongside that dim
world of fancy in which all his time used to be spent. No operetta-
a-year schedule now, for he had better things to do, simply watching,
enjoying, loving and living with his dear ones -- yes, living life
instead of merely making music about it. The works that would grow
now, out of his full maturity, would be two, three or five years in
the making. For there was no hurry. Indeed, he could not spare
the time from happiness to waste on what could only be its pale re-
flection.

He took his little family to Ischl, the beloved mountain
resort where Austria's Emperor Franz Joseph had spent his childhood
years in rustic leather shorts and feathered Tyrolean hat. There
was a small house on the edge of town, known as the "Villa of Roses",
because of its profuse flower garden and stone hedge covered with

2

perfumed creepers. Here Imre had vacationed in his early Vienna period, first as the guest of Franz Lehár who tenanted the place, and later as sole master. Vera and the babies must now be introduced to the enchanted retreat that was known far and wide also as the *Musiker Häuschen* ("Musicians' Cottage"), a name more suited to its modest dimensions which comprised in reality only three rooms.

Many memories were enclosed in the rose-bordered walls. The first composer to dwell there had been Giacomo Meyerbeer, writing his opera *Le Prophète* in a cloud of fragrance pierced by the trill of nightingales. Johannes Brahms followed, and Joseph Joachim, the violin virtuoso. Then Franz Lehár and Emmerich Klemm, who led the way for such moderns as Baron Ludwig von Bocy and the brilliant Julius Bittner. It was a place of dreams, far from the hates and poisons that beset the outside world.

In turning his back on that world Imre was not at first conscious of personal guilt. His was an artist's vocation, free of partisan ambition or political taint. As he had bowed unquestioningly to established order under a centuries-old Habsburg regime he now accepted, sadly but with resignation, what evolved out of the sur-realist chaos with which, under terms of a vengeance peace, it had been replaced. Quantity against quality, was the new motto, launched by the democratic West. What the majority wanted must be best, simply on the basis of numbers. Well, if most people approved this, the trend to something called Fascism or Nazism that seemed to be spreading with hurricane speed, Imre, had certainly no wish to hamper the joy of the masses.

It was not long, however, before the true nature of the

3

new movement was brought home to him. With the death of Germany's
nominal president, Field Marshal von Hindenburg, and Adolf Hitler's
accession to Chancellor of the Reich the pattern of violence and
aggression became clear. What had at first looked like a rebirth of
Teutonic industry and euphoria disclosed itself as the rise of a
shocking tyranny. Its most alarming manifestation took the form of
racial persecution, with emphasis on anti-Semitism for a start, but
extending later to every kind of minority.

In Austria Hitler soon found a partner, the misguided young
Prince Ernst Ruediger von Starhemberg, who fervently believed that
in uniting his crippled country with Germany the way to national sur-
vival was assured. With the aid of Starhemberg's personal followers,
the Heimwehr (Home Guard), the Anschluss was accomplished and the
shadow of the Swastika extended as far as Budapest.

Now there was no longer any dodging of reality. Into the
romantic quietude of the "Rose Villa" at Ischl broke news of street
riots in the Hungarian capital, with kidnappings and expropriations
the order of the day. For Imre a dreadful realization dawned. Not
only were his mother and sisters in grave danger, but his own im-
mediate family might be forcibly broken up, with the Aryan Vera com-
pelled by law to leave a husband of Jewish antecedents. Terrified
by this thought he took immediate measures to spirit Mama and the
girls out of Budapest while his personal removal to Switzerland, with
Vera and children, was planned.

To his dismay these efforts came too late, at least as
far as relatives in Hungary were concerned. Two of Imre's sisters,

4

Rozsika and Milike, managed to send a message through underground channels that their husbands, members of a respected banking firm, were in a concentration camp, working as hod carriers. Rozsika's son Stefan, shot down for insubordination, had been buried alive (through deliberate simulation of death) only to scratch his way out of a mass grave and return to the life of a haunted, hunted beast. No, there was no hope of getting anybody out of Hungary, where the terrors of Béla Kun were being repeated in a new and more fearsome guise.

The little family in Ischl could tarry no longer. Each moment of delay might see the closing of borders and removal of the last avenue of escape. The safety of Vera and the little ones was now at stake, not to mention Imre's own life. With heavy heart he turned his back on all other considerations. By night, with doubtful passports and a fast motorcar, the fugitives set out across the Alps to the haven of Switzerland.

A kind destiny watched over the perilous enterprise. Drowsy patrols en route, numbed by the chill mountain air, made only cursory inspections. Besides, one glimpse of the fair-skinned Vera and the golden-haired children sufficed to reassure the most rabid racial purist that he had the very flower of Teutonic genes before him. With no further molestation the travelers reached Zurich and began what was to be a long life of exile.

Imre had not been able to take out money or personal valuables from Austria, since speed and inconspicuous movement had been of paramount importance. He now depended upon such royalties as had

5

been earned by his works in foreign lands and accumulated there in
the war years and through the deadlock of its aftermath. With these
funds a home of sorts was now established and the children were put
in Swiss schools. But this did not eliminate all cares. There was
the family group in Hungary to be thought of, whose ultimate rescue
continued to occupy Imre's mind. Also, past earnings might easily
become exhausted; the future must be planned for.

He searched his soul for a new direction that his always
lighthearted muse might take. There was no gaiety in him now and
he saw no excuse for making happy songs. Perhaps he ought to turn
to history for his next theme, drawing a parallel to Europe's pres-
ent crisis by pointing up some similar period in the past. He thought
of other tyrannies, under Caesar, Alexander, Ivan The Terrible, or
Genghis Khan. In more modern times, Spain's Philip II, and of course
Napoleon. Any one of these would do for an illustration of how man-
kind had first endured, then overcome the evils of enslavement. A
moral and a ray of hope might thus be furnished for today's troubled
generation, beset by dangers of far greater scope.

But scarcely had Imre weighed this premise than he recog-
nized its futility. They, the thousands -- or millions by now -- who
needed help and encouragement, languished in police dungeons or behind
barbed wire where no cheering moral drawn from history's examples
could have the slightest effect. As for the rest of the world, out-
side the walls of travail, it seemed blissfully ignorant of the great
canker that was gnawing at its vitals. In all the Western capitals
people turned a deaf ear to sober-voiced prophets, whether in church

6

or theater.

For some years Imre had busied himself with the subject of
Napoleon, mapping out a work of serious import and heroic dimension.
However, it had soon become clear to him that his was a talent of
special character and limitations. No amount of suffering, no depths
of melancholy into which he might be plunged, could turn Emmerich
Kálmán into a disciple of the Tragic Muse. The paradox that forever
marked his professional life lay in the fact that despite a pensive,
almost sad disposition, he had a gift for comedy and airy lightness.
Like Lehár, Blech, Fall, and the Strauss dynasty, he belonged among
the masters of operetta while remaining a lost soul in any other
field.

Bowing to this realization he had dismissed the mighty
Bonaparte and turned to a more ingratiating aspect of the Napoleonic
theme: the Empress Josephine. The finished work, titled after its
heroine, had been given a successful Zurich première on January 18th,
1936, a fact which partly governed the author's choice of that city
for his anchor in the coming years of self-exile.

In the beauteous scenic background that was Switzerland it
should have been an easy matter to gain new energy and inspiration.
But the reports from home grew increasingly worse. War clouds were
gathering on the horizon, and there was talk that even the neutral
Swiss, with their long record of passivity in Europe's upheavals,
would not be safe from aerial attack. When, in 1939, hostilities
opened with the German march on Poland, Imre decided to move on to
safer shores. With Vera and the children he booked passage on the

7

Italian liner Conte di Savoia and, in March, 1940, sailed for the
New World. Aboard ship was the American Under-Secretary of State,
Sumner Wells, returning home from Chamberlain's futile "Peace In Our
Time" conference which proved but a curtain raiser to the world drama
ahead.

While the thunder of war swept over Europe there was work
and a hopeful future beckoning to Imre from the Gold Coast film capi-
tal, Hollywood. Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, years ago, had shown eagerness
to put the leading Kálmán operettas on celluloid. Studio represen-
tatives greeted the composer in New York and smoothed his way west-
ward, where he was awaited with demonstrations of equal good will.
Another phase of his career, perhaps the most spectacular, was about
to begin.

Or so it seemed.

Actually the heaviest blow of Emmerich Kálmán's long pro-
fessional life lay now in wait. Picture negotiations were barely
getting under way when the disaster of Pearl Harbor threw the United
States into the world conflict, and all dealings with Axis nationals
(albeit unwilling ones) were abruptly curtailed. In Hollywood a new
cycle of patriotic motion pictures went into production, while Vienna
waltzes and other Central-European *materia cinematografica* were scorn-
fully tossed into the discard. Vera had barely unpacked the family
trunks when it was time again for them to go.

Strangers, as yet unable to master English, the wanderers
went back to New York. Manhattan's large refugee population afforded
them at least a chance to make themselves understood until, gradually,
they felt at home in the new tongue.

8

Young Karli and the older of his two sisters entered public school where, presently, the boy acquired an American name, Charles. He insisted upon this with great earnestness, for, in the young, the process of assimilation is rapid.

Vera, accustomed early to strange places and strange sounds, possessed a natural cosmopolitan flair which aided her in making any adjustment. Besides, she was a born linguist for whom new tongues held no terror. Before anyone else in the household, she laid aside her dictionary and ventured forth to test her skill. It did not let her down.

Imre, understandably, had the hardest time of all. His was the heavier burden of years, the deeper nostalgia for a world long lost, and the necessity to start afresh making a living. This would not be easy in a land whose character he had not yet studied and whose spirit remained a baffling mystery. How was he to enlist that spirit when the only idiom that he knew, his Danube voices, had grown dissonant in the hateful chorus of war?

Desperately he immersed himself in studies of American folklore and history, hoping to find a theme that could be adapted to his pen. He listened to negro rhythms in Harlem, then took a college's advice and traveled to North Carolina to attend a "country sing". With a notebook full of mutations he returned to his desk and set to work. But no Edna Ferber "Show Boat" or Hammerstein "Oklahoma" emerged. To write of any land one must have deep roots in it.

All this time contact with America's musical and theatrical

9

elements grew, from superficial encounters during the brief Hollywood interlude to close and helpful association in the tightly knit professional world of Manhattan. Years ago, in Europe, Imre had struck up a warm friendship with George and Ira Gershwin whose dual rendering of "Rhapsody In Blue" he never tired of hearing. A small memento of that happy experience was a four-color automatic pencil which George, on an impulse, took from his pocket and handed to his host. Imre carried the treasure with him still.

He now met other American colleagues, no less exuberant than the Gershwins, and certainly as helpful and openhearted as the Budapest and Vienna conferences had left behind. Cole Porter came to call and, seeing Imre surrounded by Vera and the children, exclaimed: "All artists ought to live like this!" Paul Whiteman, tasting his first Austrian *Backhaendel* (jointed chicken fried in finest bread crumbs) at the Kálmán table, begged to be asked again, promising in turn to initiate Imre into his particular brand of American jazz.

Similarly Vincent Youmans, Jerome Kern, Irving Berlin, Sigmund Romberg, Lorenz Hart, Oscar Hammerstein II, Richard Rodgers, Herbert and Dorothy Fields, Ray Goetz, and other Broadway figures welcomed the composer of the unforgettable "Sári" into their midst.

There was contact with more awesome names as well, since the Hudson metropolis was a cross-roads of the great. Into the Kálmán drawingroom walked Artur Rubinstein, Fritz Reiner, Béla Bartok, Géza Herczeg, Igor Stravinsky, Arnold Schoenberg, Richard Tauber, Erich Wolfgang Korngold, Eugene Ormandy, and a string of celebrities from stage, opera and screen.

In this Babel of scintillating glamour and supercharged

10

verve Imre became increasingly conscious of his own creative impasse. Never had his muse been so becalmed, so frighteningly inert. It was as if the very din that was New York, the dissonant symphony of thundering traffic, blaring loudspeakers, hawking commerce, and all pervading Tin Pan Alley drumbeat must end in drowning out his gentler voices which -- perhaps? -- belonged neither to this time nor place. Tortuously he wracked his mind for the old familiar compulsion that drove him forward, irresistibly, to ever heightening performance of his special magic. But he was feeding on strange fruit that gave no sustenance to his art. In trying to grasp and command the American idiom he could only sacrifice the individual alchemy of his own music without attaining the electrifying virtuosity of the New World's experts. Decidedly, in a too fervent effort at Americanization the gifted foreigner robs his new country of the very treasure he would bring to it...

While floundering thus Imre was suddenly gladdened by a re-encounter with an old friend and former librettist, Karl Farkás, who was himself attempting to gain a foothold in an as yet alien milieu. Together the two erstwhile compatriots exchanged worried confidences, unburdening their heavy and bewildered hearts. Through these mutual disclosures, happily, a sudden beam of light pierced the fog of their bafflement.

"We are idiots," said Farkás, "trying to make Dixie music and Yankee folklore -- nobody does this better than Americans themselves! Why don't we stick to the thing we do best, the thing at which no one on earth can beat us?"

11

The veil of darkness before Imre's eyes was torn asunder
and he blinked in the clarity of regained sight.

"Of course!" he shouted. "You are right! I was a fool, try-
ing at my age to turn myself inside out... War or no war, everyone on
earth loves Danube waltzes and Hungarian gypsy tunes -- and that is
what we shall again give them!"

Years ago, in Budapest, Imre had been knighted in recognition
of his service to Magyar culture. As Baron Kálmán he now smilingly
raised a symbolic hand and clapped his friend's shoulder.

"Well done, noble Farkás!" he said hoarsely. His voice vi-
brated with the telling emotion of one who has come home.

1

Chapter 24.

Several problems immediately confronted the two friends. They must fix on a fresh, usable subject which, even if it belonged to a familiar tradition, could be given a new and provocative treatment. Next, an American collaborator was necessary to surmount inevitable language difficulties, since this would be the first instance of a Kálmán production being put together strictly for New World consumption. Lastly, the special requirements of modern American stagecraft could be met only by a librettist with experience in that field.

The choice of subject matter proved a major hurdle. Imre wanted no cliché cinderella story with standard props and cardboard figures whose dialogue and pinweight problems could be predicted from the curtain's rise. There was to be the ancient Danube, true enough, with its undying, ever poignant and nostalgic mood. But while atmosphere survived the test of endless repetition, characterization and plot did not.

"There's one incomparable story I've always wanted to use," Imre mused hesitantly, "but it took place in real life and has an unbearably tragic ending."

"What is it?" Fárkás demanded.

"The drama of Mayerling."

"Ah — "

Both men fell silent, well aware that the heartbreaking romance of Archduke Rudolf of Austria and lovely seventeen-year-old Baroness Marie Vetsera could not be turned into musical comedy. No

2

double operetta ever ended in suicide. Or single, for that matter.

What was wrong with setting a precedent? Well, everything.
The Rudolf story was historical fact, known the world over and there-
fore-- if accurately treated -- its opening scene already bore the
shadow of a starkly inevitable dénouement. Even while viewing the
lovers in their lightest moments an informed audience anticipated the
anguish ahead. Under such circumstances it would be impossible to
pit early measures of musical gaiety against the dark chords of ir-
remediable, approaching doom.

"It can be done in opera," Imre conceded, "but never in operetta."

Other themes were considered, including a brief story en-
titled "Farewell 'Toinette", which dealt with a little known lyrical
interlude during the journey of young Archduchess Maria Antonia Josepha
Johanna of Habsburg to marriage in Paris and future fame as Queen
Marie Antoinette of France. But here too, though the narrative did
not extend beyond its heroine's girlhood, audiences knew too much.
No merry musical could bear up under the shadow of the guillotine.

A non-historic, happy tale was of course the only solution.
It could not deal with today's Vienna where bombs were dropping on
Saint Stephen's Cathedral and Communist terrorism stalked in the wake
of retreating Nazi horror. The past, the past, prior to both World
Wars -- the *fin de siècle* warkdaxaf setting of carriage horses, gas-
light, *froufrou* parasols and leg o' mutton sleeves -- there was the
rich and innocently naughty reservoir of plots for endless masquer-
ades.

"We are back with Rudolf and Vetsera," Fárkás pointed out

3

glumly.

By now a librettist recruited from the film world, George Marion Jr., had entered the conclave, lending a California note to the proceedings.

"You'd better have a Happy End," said Mr. Marion, "if you want people coming to your show!"

"Mayerling -- and Happy End -- it is sacrilege!" Imre pro- tested. No play at all, no further effort at rebuilding his career, would be preferable to so irreverent a mutilation of history. Never would he forgive himself (nor would his audiences!) that kind of gro- tesquerie...

And then a sudden realization dawned. Was not the whole Mayerling story an unsolved mystery, handed down from decade to decade in ever more obscure and preposterous versions? Nobody knew for sure whether the shocking events of that January night in 1839 truly in- volved jealous murder, political assassination, or a romantic and vol- untary death by two lovers who could find no other way out. Did any- one have proof that more than one body was found in the snow-covered royal hunting lodge? To this day rumors survived in Austria to the effect that a wax effigy had been buried in Rudolf's supposed coffin, while the Archduke and his sweetheart lived somewhere in exile under assumed names.

Almost simultaneously the three plotters, gathered about the Kálmán conference table, shouted three possible solutions:

"Maybe nobody died at Mayerling?"

"What about Rudolf and Vetsera escaping to America?"

"Don't tamper with history... Just let poetic imagination

4

furnish an answer where history has failed to do so. We don't need to say this is the truth, but only that it could be the truth!

A fever of activity now ensued. All available material on the life of Rudolf of Habsburg was sifted for colorful dramatic incident, of which there happened to be more than enough. The young prince was in his day a popular figure, loved alike by countesses and chorus girls, but he had been joined in an unhappy marriage of state to the haughty and cool Belgian Princess Stephanie. When this union produced no male heir to the crown, Rudolf had appealed to the Pope for an annuement, so that he might take a wife of his choice, the beautiful Baroness Marie Vetsera; but from the Vatican had come stern refusal. Their dream of happiness turned thus into a hopeless affair of sordidly clandestine meetings, the lovers sought for another way out. With the aid of a small group of friends, sworn to secrecy, a suicide pact was acted out to cover the pair's escape. The dignified Emperor Franz Joseph, Rudolf's father, could be counted on to support the ruse before the world rather than plunge his house into so juicy a scandal: better that Austria's Crown Prince be declared dead than exposed as a faithless husband, on the run with his light-o'love...

Where did Rudolf and Vetsera find haven? In America, of course. The Archduke's favorite Viennese coachman, Bratfisch, now a whitehaired cabby in New York, tells the story to a pair of teen-age lovers whom he is driving through Central Park.

The play's title? "Marinka", after the name Marie Vetsera was called by family and friends, and of course by Rudolf himself.

Casting problems next arose. Never before had an Emmerich

5

Kalman production been tailored from start to finish for American voices, with Broadway stage techniques, and in the New World idiom. But Imre was soon to discover that no one loved grease paint and show business better than did ebullient Americans, and that New York casting offices were burgeoning with eager talent. From that vast reservoir he chose Joan Roberts for his title role, Harvey Stockwell as Rudolf, Romo Vincent for a chubby Bratfisch, and a fabulous comédienne, Ljuba Malina, as a second feminine lead.

Rehearsals started in the spring of 1945, with composer, playwrights and orchestra working around the clock. Overture, grande valse and love songs were falling into place, with the Bratfisch "Vienna Fiaker" number marking a high spot in an imaginative and nostalgic plot.

Two weeks before opening night, in the late morning hours, Imre started in a taxi for his apartment at 417 Park Avenue and met with a traffic accident. Both he and the driver were dragged unconscious from the wreck and taken to City Hospital on Welfare Island before efforts at identification had been made. Not until the next day, after a night of panic, was Vera able to locate her injured husband and bring him home. The incident, for anyone with European stage background, was fraught with excellent omens. "Hals und Beinbruch!" ("Neck and bone-break!") was a traditional Austro-German exhortation before a theater curtain rose, sure to bring good luck. Well, Imre's lower extremities had got off with mere bruises, but he had fractured his right arm. He might not be able to conduct, yet the wild pain in his elbow could mean only one thing: with

6

"Marinka" all would go well.

The première took place on July 18, 1945, at the Winter Garden Theater, with an exiled Habsburg, Archduke Franz Josef of Austria, and his wife, Princess Marta, present in one of the boxes. Less identifiable with the subject, but equally susceptible to Viennese rhythms, were New York's mayor, Fiorello La Guardia, and China's Madame Chiang Kai Shek.

The production received an almost unanimously favorable acceptance among top critics, though there were die-hards whose knowledge of the traditional version of the "Mayerling Tragedy" could not allow a margin for fantasy. Their reports charged playwrights and composer with callous and even ghoulish desecration of a starkly macabre theme. This was precisely what Imre had feared when he had first considered and then discarded the subject of Marie Antoinette, about whose ultimate fate -- unlike Rudolf's -- there remained no shade of doubt. Despite the dissident minority, however, "Marinka" enjoyed a fair run well into the following year before a touring company was contemplated.

A hard blow awaited Imre during this time. Ever since his arrival in America he had engaged in a search for his Budapest relatives who through the war years had been cut off from him by a curtain of silence. Now, in New York, he had been told of an Hungarian newspaper which through underground channels managed to make contact with oppressed peoples abroad. He began inserting messages in the classified columns of this journal and scanning its pages for some guarded reply.

7

Eventually, exactly one month after the "Marinka" première, the incredible happened. A short paragraph, unsigned, gave news of three sisters -- Rózsika, Milike, and Ilonka -- and of Rózsika's son Stefan. There was no mistake: these were his loved ones. And the news was shattering: Rózsika lived, with Mama, under untold hardships while Stefan, surviving firing squad and live burial, managed in hiding to find for himself. But Imre's two younger sisters had met with a harrowing fate. While being transferred, on foot, from one concentration camp to another the exhausted women had been unable to withstand the march. First one, then the other, dropped unconscious by the wayside and was left to die. This happened in the vicinity of Bécs (Raab) during midwinter, and there was no way for frightened relatives to ascertain whether merciful peasants of the region had given the bodies decent burial. All that the family could learn was that Milike and Ilonka never arrived at the new prison camp to which they had been sent.

For Imre the blow was almost unendurable. He suffered a complete collapse which put his own taxed heart in danger. Suddenly the success of "Marinka", the struggle to gain a foothold in America, the hope of rebuilding a triumphant career against a New World setting, all ceased to matter. He was submerged in sorrow and despondency, mingled with self-reproach which was the more irrational as no singlehanded effort on his part could have halted history's brutal course.

Many months passed under a cloud of melancholia, with Vera and the children suffering equally at sight of Imre's grief.

8

It was his love for them that broke finally through the pall and restored him to a semblance of active life. He had no thought of further composition. To his bruised heart ambition itself had become stale, meaningless. But memories of home, and of happy childhood years in the Hungary that was no more, pressed now upon his mind. His thoughts turned autobiographical as the need arose within him to strip his loved homeland of the horrors that today enveloped it, and to salvage for a shocked outside world a true picture of that country's soul. If only he could write of his own life and thereby give expression to even a fragmentary phase of the Magyar spirit, atonement might be done and the fair name of Hungary might glow once more through the blood and shame now obscuring it.

While he was brooding about this purpose, in which Vera ardently supported him, a startling letter reached his desk. Its post mark named a small town in a part of Europe which since the cataclysm of World War II had, for Imre, ceased to exist: Germany. Even to rip the envelope, let alone read its contents, would call for the utmost in self-compulsion. He tossed it scornfully aside. It was Vera who remonstrated gently against such an excess of bitterness and rancor.

"Thousands of Germans too gave up their lives for hating Hitler," she pointed out. "This letter may come from someone who feels exactly as do we..."

She happened to be right. The unknown correspondent was a provincial orchestra conductor who described the near-extinction of all cultural life in Germany's pulverized cities, and the efforts

9

of a feeble artistic phoenix to rise out of the ashes. "We cannot assemble full-sized orchestras as yet, for opera or great symphonic concerts; nor would the nerves of our war-battered population bear up under such offerings. But the gentle magic of Emmerich Kálmán's music, always loved here by young and old, could form a needed and joyful bridge across our spiritual abyss. We request, humbly and urgently, that you return for a tour of the bombed cities where once your greatest triumphs were celebrated, and wield the baton while our ragtaggle musicians -- many of them maimed in battle -- strive again to play a Kálmán tune..."

It was an outrageous appeal. Could a civilized individual anywhere in the world be expected to forget the unspeakable barbarities only so recently committed on German soil? Did not he, Imre, personally bear the scar of losing loved ones in that wave of evil which had raged wherever Hitler's armies rode roughshod?

Grimly he closed his mind and heart. Let them make music as best they could, without the help of one so deeply injured and affronted as himself. Let them pull themselves up by their own boot straps, if indeed ever again they could.

Days went by during which he reaffirmed his adamant decision. And then, abruptly, he suffered an acute and stinging change of heart. What idiocy could have possessed him to view the course of history and of human disaster in a strict pattern of black and white? Had not the craftiness, greed and injustice of international politics created, throughout the centuries, a soil in which such scourges as Attila, Genghis Khan, Ivan The Terrible, the Caesars,

10

Herod, and modern day tyrants of the Mussolini or Hitler stripe could flourish? No leader, regardless of the seeming multitude of followers he may boast, could ever be the complete exponent of a nation. Recurrent savage lynchings in the United States justify no general indictment of the American character, anymore than evidence of sadism in state concentration camps called mental institutions, or police brutality in jails should be so interpreted.

Yes, Vera was right. She who had suffered persecution in Russia, not for racial or religious reasons but because she had risen a life of to privilege and ease, knew well that through mankind's past record the innocent were ever crucified along with the guilty. As Milike and Ilonka, and their husbands, had died, so untold German martyrs who had dared to cry out against criminal leadership were ruthlessly rubbed out.

It was almost grotesque that those who survived, even the "maimed in battle", should return to something so long silenced and forgotten: music. Not martial airs they asked, nor flamboyant and super-charged Wagnerian blasts, but the soft and caressing strains of Magyar folklore and the smiling grace of a Viennese street song.

Quite suddenly Imre's hostility turned to hesitation, then to inspired resolve. Of course he would follow the summons! He would travel across rubble-scarred Europe, to the remotest town or village, wherever they wanted him. God was the Avenger -- not he, a mere confused and powerless human being... His life as a musician had never obeyed any purpose other than to bring happiness into men's hearts. This was his purpose still.

11

During the spring of 1949 he sailed with Vera and the children on what was destined to become an unforgettable, proud pilgrimage. Not Germany alone, but France, Austria, Italy and the Scandinavian kingdoms hailed the composer with overpowering cheers. In Stockholm Imre wore the royal decoration of the North Star (awarded by King Gustaf) while at an official reception in Vienna the Austrian Chancellor Figl pronounced him the waltz capital's most honored citizen.

Everywhere, on this journey of brotherhood and regeneration, Kálmán rhythms poured forth to new joy and life.

And everywhere he, Imre, conducted.

Until one day, at a gala performance in Wiesbaden, the glory and the happiness that filled his heart threatened to prove too much.

"You must slow down," a stern physician warned. "Have you forgotten to count birthdays?"

It was true. He had. He would be sixty-eight, come next October, and it was time for a change of beat. He turned to his son Karli, whose musical development he had personally supervised through the passing years.

"How would you like to step up on the podium," he asked quietly, "and take over for your tired father?"

Charles Kálmán beamed with all the pride and confidence of untried youth.

"Sure!" he said, supremely trustful of his own personal star. And, reaching for the baton, he went forth to occupy his father's place.

Imre sat back among the listeners, bursting with satisfact-