as rightfully "Roumanian" territory.

The name of Ferenc Molnar became world-famous. He was equally acclaimed as a playwright in Berlin and New York.

Everyone knows the beautiful Margaret Islandi which faces Budapest from the Danube. St. Margaret's cloister was founded here in the far past, and here John Arany, greatest classical national poet and Ady's ancestor, made his home. And now Molnar lived there in a whitewashed room the walls of which he covered with the myriad playbills that displayed his work from Paris to Tokio. His first international success was "The Devil", written in a Budapest cafe and destined to enthrall New York. Here it was presented in two theatres simultaneously; this was possible in the early nineteen hundreds, since the Hungarian playwrights were not yet protected from literary piracy by copyright law. Molnar should have received thousands in royalties. He never got a cent. Nor did this disillusion those literary bohemians in Budapest, for they gaily continued to turn out their now-famous novels which were the pride of the local papers' Sunday supplements. It was in this way, as a short story, "Liliom" first appeared.

I was one of the group that frequented Molnar's table in the cafe. At that time I was just starting to publish the weekly "Pesti Putar" (Budapest Herald), a caustic and polemical magazine on the order of Karl Krauss' "Fackel". As an eager and earnest young man of twenty-five I joined my youthful enthusiasm to the others' in an effort to provide Budapest with a paper which would pass judgment, in grave pronouncements, on affairs literary and political.

Budapest caught its breath when the first "Pesti Putar" appeared; its blandly provocative cover shocked the peaceful town. People thought the periodical would not live more than a few weeks. Either I or the magazine were sure to be bemobed.

They were wrong. For thirty years I edited and wrote the paper alone. In the spring of 1938 we celebrated our thirtieth anniversary; the "Pesti Putar" and I had our only vacation during the Budapest Commune in 1919. At that time I fled

4.

from Bela Kun. For more than a year the magazine did not appear— and now again it may not be published. A half year ago certain governmental regulations sounded the death-knell of the "Pesti Futar".

I was forced to stop publication from one day to the next. The readers, who perforce were learning to acustom themselves to change, accepted this unemotionally. At most they said "It's too bad about Nadas" weekly. Its demise will leave Budapest yet a bit poorer."

I edited my "Pesti Futar", relentlessly championed the cause of the Hungarian literature whose golden age began at Molnar's table in the cafe. Many others, besides Karinthy, of those literary pioneers are no longer alive.

Endre Ady, whose most beautiful songs were of revolution, died a tragic death. When the post-war revolution was finally achieved in 1918, the times had so destroyed his spirit that he had no song left. At a literary gathering where he was to speak in praise of the revolution his tongue would no longer move, and Endre Ady could but stammer inarticulately. The magyar poet died young of love and liquor as did his idea, Verhine. This was in 1918.

Sandor Brody is dead also; the author of "School-mistress", of whom all Europe knows that he made the soil of Hungarian literature so fertile, who sang beautiful new magyar songs, is no more. Jules Krudy, teller of tales and Hungary's Turgeniev, is dead, and so is that wittiest of critics Zoltán Ambrus.

Hungarian writers do not frequent Budapest's Newyork cafe anymore. The other day, when I was still in Budapest, I looked into the cafe; book-dealers and salesmen were noisily finishing their dinners. Where Joseph Kiss the poet had been wont to sit, a local baker drinks his demi-tasse.

Those of us who are alive don't go to the Newyork anymore. I am here in the United States, Molnar is in Ghent. The two of us are to meet here in early October.

5.

I accepted without much ado the fact that my thirty-year old "Pesti Putar" must cease to exist. I wrote a last editorial. It was the thirty-thousandth article of my career. I wrote a fond farewell to the public, thanked them for bearing with me so long. For I was on good terms with the public, we understood each other. I had kept them amused for many years, and truth to tell, had had a good time of it.

I was like a good-natured entertainer who sings only his own favorite son-gs. By the same analogy, the "Pesti Putar" was very much like an intimate literary bar, the proprietor being chef and waiter at once. For many years I sat at an invisible piano, humming my own compositions. I never worked to order, nor did I ever play a request. I was the whispering baritone; nevertheless, when irate, I was known to shout. I made fun of my own customers and excepted no one. I could allow myself this freedom because I was poor and without means; I started with a single desk and when I finished I had no heartaches for an unemployed office force. I had no assistants. I rolled down the top of my desk and the shop was closed—now my poor American-made robbitop is gathering dust....the pen is rusting, the ink is dry.

I have said that I made many enemies during those thirty years. This was not quite so. There was a popular theatrical weekly in Budapest which strove to capture the public taste by praising everyone indiscriminately. One day I spoke to the editor of the weekly. "It is easy for you; you have but to praise everyone in your paper, and they all like you."

"You're wrong!" he answered. "If I play someone up he's happy, but the rest are green with envy and throw the magazine aside. On the other hand, whenadas castigates someone in the "Pesti Putar", that someone will boil with rage while the rest gleefully buy the issue."

Be that as it may...my friend the editor is in America now, and so am I. And where are the others? Disappeared, dead. Perhaps they are celebrating Karinthy's success on Olympus.

BUDAPEST: THE TOWN WHOSE MODERN LITERATURE WAS BORN IN A

CAFE

*

Marble Plaques mark the places of Hungary's
Past Literary Pioneers

*

by Sandor Nadas

Americans are not acquainted with the concept of literary cafes. Nor can they understand the custom by which the members of each literary circle have a table permanently reserved, where they eat, drink and write far into the night. Famous writers can be seen here who for decades have composed their work in the same cafe, brooding with flushed faces over black coffee. In a rainy night in 1948 Kossuth and Petofi started the fight for freedom of the Hungarian press from the Cafe Pilvax. This was the magyar's heroic age.

Modern Hungarian literature found its inspiration in the New York Cafe on the Erzsébet Korut early in this century. Ferenc Molnar, Sandor Brody, Frigyes Karinthy started their careers from here.

Present conditions are not conducive to the literary spirit. New press regulations have deprived many a writer of his means of livelihood. These Hungarian writers have lost their taste for poetizing. Many of them have had to emigrate to Paris, London, The United States to earn their living. And these expatriated authors are forever filled with a nostalgic longing for Hungary, and keep an eager watch on all literary developments at home.

The Hungarian writers dwelling in America are greatly esteemed by the acclaim with which Frigyes Karinthy's novel, "Journey Around My Skull", has been received in its recent local publication. This author is no longer alive; about two years ago he died of a serious brain disease. He was operated on and had but time enough to write his sensational novel in which he bravely noted in repertorial fashion the details of the operation, as a good reporter would record each moment of his own impending death. He finished his book and died.

3. as rightfully "Roumanian" territory.

Everyone knows the beautiful Margaret Island which faces Budapest from the Danube. St. Margaret's cloister was founded here in the far past, and here John Arany, greatest classical national poet and Ady's ancestor, made his home. And now Molnar lived there in a whitewashed room the walls of which he covered with the myriad playbills that displayed his work from Paris to Tokio. His first international success was "The Devil", written in a Budapest cafe and destined to enthrall New York. Here it was presented in two theatres simultaneously; this was possible in the early nineteen hundreds, since the Hungarian playwrights were not yet protected from literary piracy by copyright law. Molnar should have received thousands in royalties. He never got a cent. Nor did this disillusion those literary bohemians in Budapest, for they gaily continued to turn out their now-famous novels which were the pride of the local papers' Sunday supplements. It was in this way, as a short story, "Liliom" first appeared.

I was one of the group that frequented Molnar's table in the cafe. At that time I was just starting to publish the weekly "Pesti Putar" (Budapest Herald), a caustic and polemical magazine on the order of Karl Krauss' "Packel". As an eager and earnest young man of twenty-five I joined my youthful enthusiasm to the others' in an effort to provide Budapest with a paper which would pass judgement, in grave pronouncements, on affairs literary and political.

Budapest caught its breath when the first "Pesti Putar" appeared; its blandly provacative cover shocked the peaceful town. People thought the periodical would not live more than a few weeks. Either I or the magazine were sure to be emrobbed.

They were wrong. For thirty years I edited and wrote the paper alone. In the spring of 1938 we celebrated our thirtieth anniversary; the "Pesti Putar" and I had our only vacation during the Budapest Commune in 1919. At that time I fled to France.

5.

I accepted without much ado the fact that my thirty-year old "Pesti Putar" must cease to exist. I wrote a last editorial. It was the thirty-thousandth article of my career. I wrote a fond farewell to the public, thanked them for bearing with me so long. For I was on good terms with the public, we understood each other. I had kept them unused for many years, and truth tell, had had a good time of it.

I was like a good-natured entertainer who sings only his own favorite son-gs. By the same analogy, the "Pesti Putar" was very much like an intimate literary bar, the proprietor being chef and waiter at once. For many years I sat at an invisible piano, humming my own compositions. I never worked to order, nor did I ever play a request. I was the whispering baritone; nevertheless, when irate, I was known to shout. I made fun of my own customers and excepted no one. I could allow myself this freedom because I was poor and without means; I started with a single desk and when I finished I had no heartaches for an unemployed office force. I had no assistants. I rolled down the top of my desk and the shop was closed--now my poor American-made robbit is gathering dust....the pen is rusting, the ink is dry.

"You're wrong!" he answered. "If I play someone up he's happy, but the rest are green with envy and thrive on the magazine aside. On the other hand, when I castigates someone in the "Pesti Putar", that someone will boil with rage while the rest gleefully buy the issue."

____________________

DR. EDMOND PAUKER

CAPITOL THEATRE BUILDING

1639 BROADWAY NEW YORK

CAFE

*

Past Literary Pioneers

*

by Sandor Nadas

Americans are not acquainted with the concept of literary cafes. Nor can they understand the custom by which the members of each literary circle have a table permanently reserved, where they eat, drink and write far into the night. Famous writers can be seen here who for decades have composed their work in the same cafe, brooding with flushed faces over black coffee. In 1848 Kossuth and Petofi started the fight for freedom of the Hungarian press on a rainy night from the Cafe Pilvax. This was the <u>magyar</u>'s heroic age.

Modern Hungarian literature found its inspiration in the Newyork Cafe ün the
Erzsebet Korut early in this century. Ferenc Molnar, Sandor Brody, Frigyes Karin-
ty started their careers from here.

Present conditions are not conductive to the literary spirit. New press
regulations have deprived many a writer of his means of livelihood. These Hungar-
ian writers have lost their taste for poetizing. Many of them have had to emigrate
to Paris, London, The United States to earn their living. And these expatriated
authors are forever filled with a nostalgic longing for Hungary, and keep an
eager watch on all literary developments at home.

The Hungarian writers dwelling in America are greatly elated by the acclaim
with which Frigyes Karinthy's novel, "Journey Around My Skull", has been received
in its recent local publication. This author is no longeralive; about two years
ago he died of a serious brain disease. He was operated on and had but time
enough to write his sensational novel in which he bravely noted in repertoral fashion
the details of the operation, as a good reporter would record each moment of his
own impending death. He finished his book and died.