6

This was true, of course. But the very fact that he had been trapped by his own lack of perception whipped Imre now into a frenzy to be free. Daily he laid siege to the publisher's office, decrying injustice and repeating his demands for redress. This went on for weeks, then months, yet the plaint fell on deaf ears. Spring and summer passed with no chance for a vacation abroad as Imre's time was swallowed by his daily chores at the newspaper office and the now routine battle for release from the contract. At last, after almost a year of resistance, the publisher had enough.

"You're so busy fighting me," he barked in disgust, "that you seem to have lost all interest in composing anyway. Take your signature, give me back the advance, and we're quits."

The suddenness of this about-face after [stubborn months of] battle left Imre reeling. All at once, having gained his passionately sought freedom, he was not sure he knew what to do with it. In a way, the reprehensible publisher was right. A year had slipped by without a single creative effort to show for it, and with no one currently begging for the honor of getting Imre's future output into print. For the first time he grasped that there was a certain professional reassurance in being wanted. Was it not better to have a publisher who stooped to guile for the sake of promoting new but promising talent, than to have no publisher at all? Furthermore, there was risk on both sides, as neither could be sure of getting a return on the investment. Certainly the name of either Kálmán Imre or Emmerich Kálmán as yet cut no ice in any but the most localized music circles.

He sank into a period of doldrums, undecided as to what he might do next. Perhaps those amiable gentlemen from Vienna, Leo Stein and

7

Karl Lindau, would let him try his hand with one of their libretti? He wrote a detailed letter, recalling the Budapest meeting and stressing his probable qualifications. But there was no response.

In the midst of this gloom a summons came from Bárd & Son, who appeared willing to forget the misadventure of "Pereszény". The firm, it developed, was launching a contest for the best melody to a humorous text by Eugen Heltai, intended as a vehicle for the beloved musical comedy star Sári Fedák. The song's title derived from the opening line: "En vagyok a Fedák Sári szobalanya" ("I'm Fedák Sári's Pet Kitten") and the top prize amounted to a mere forty Kronen.

Having surrendered a thousand Kronen during the past year for the questionable privilege of finding himself adrift, Imre swallowed his pride and responded to Bárd's call. He read the Heltai couplets and found them highly amusing, though of course beneath consideration on the part of a serious musician. Regretfully he withdrew from competition.

Heltai and Bárd scoffed at his fastidiousness. "What's wrong about making some money with a hit tune? Popular numbers bring in a lot more than the classics."

Imre reconsidered. "If I stoop to the writing of cabaret ditties it will be under a pseudonym."

He went home, haunted by the clever rhymes which of themselves seemed to take on a rhythmic pattern. In an hour's time a rollicking tune was ringing in his mind. He committed it to paper and hurried back that same afternoon to the Bárd offices, where Heltai again chanced to be present.

"Bravo!" Imre was greeted by both men. "So you've decided to

8

enter the contest after all!

Imre shook his head. He would have no part of a match that brought forty Kronen for top award. "I've got a song," he announced simply. "If you like it you'll have to buy it in the regular way and call off the contest."

Heltai and Bárd looked nettled, but their curiosity had been aroused. As Imre sat down at the piano and ran through his composition their faces brightened. The tune had just the right flippancy to fit the droll verses.

" Splendid, splendid — " cried publisher and lyricist. "This is exactly what we want; the competition is canceled! "

The song was published and introduced in Budapest's first variety house, which opened within a few weeks. Public acceptance was so enthusiastic that Fedák Sári herself arrived one night to listen. What she heard delighted her.

"I don't have a cat," she declared, "but my dog Buberl would fit into a parody. I'd like that song for my next revue."

A special skit was written for use at the Király Színház (Royal Theater) with Sári masked as an imitation Sári. Buberl, who was an aging dachshund, came on stage with his mistress and replaced the text's original pet. Finally, under pressure from the admired actress and from the Royal Theater's director, Beóthy László, Imre's pseudonym was dropped and his full name appeared on the program.

The song's success replenished its composer's limp finances, though it did not make him rich. There was no wealth to be garnered on Hungary's stages in those days, even with a resoundingly cheered operetta. Budapest boasted three handsome comedy houses, the People's,

9

the Royal, and the Hungarian Theater, respectively. Local acting calibre was very good, and there were five particularly gifted light opera composers gaining prominence in Imre's day: Akos Buttykay, Eugen Huszka, Pankrac Kacsó, Albert Szirmai and Viktor Jacobi. But the outside world had not yet taken notice of Hungary's stage offerings, due to the bewitching waltz magic of nearby Vienna. Only in the concert field had Liszt's glorified gypsy airs managed to pierce the veil that isolated Magyar art from the unknowing West. As far as Europe was concerned the Danube ended somewhere on the outskirts of Schönbrunn.

Under these circumstances Hungarian theaters played only to local audiences, with little influx from abroad. This meant short runs and proportionately limited earnings. To write for stage or concert hall was therefore a matter of consecration and love, with slim hopes of more than nominal gain. All who were so engaged soon found it necessary to find supplementary employment, as did Molnár in the editorial offices of the "Pesti Napló", and Imre on the same paper's critical staff. Their collective poverty did not, however, lead to bitterness or jealous rivalry. Instead there prevailed in Budapest's Bohemian artist circles a warm camaraderie as proverbial as that of the French capital's Left Bank.

For meeting places the apostles of the arts used any convenient coffee house, where philosophic questions were debated ad infinitum, or music theories expounded with the aid of a baffled gypsy band. Molnár in particular sparkled at these gatherings, furnishing wit and sophistication. His knowledge of wines and liqueurs determined what was to be ordered, his favorite drinks including Cordial Medoc, Absynthe, Yvette, and Chartreuse.

10

Imre took part from the sidelines. His shyness continued when he found himself to thwart self-assertion in large groups, just as inexperience and the dictates of economy hampered his knowledge of drink. But he was filled with admiration for his confrères, watching their jovial antics for hours on end without himself giving utterance to a word.

His closest friend at this time was Viktor Jacobi, with whom Imre felt a strong spiritual kinship despite the fact that musically their tastes were diametrically opposite. Jacobi's talent leaned toward gracefully refined French phrasing and tempi, just as he adored Paris and could think of no greater bliss than to spend his holidays there. Imre on the other hand composed in pure Magyar idiom, with earthy rhythm and a rustic beat; his passion, where it reached out searchingly for foreign stimuli, was fixed on Austria and Germany.

This latter fact became more evident from day to day, until a daring decision took form in Imre's breast. He must leave Hungary and take root for a time in Germanic soil so as to draw deeply from the music founts to which he felt most kin. Through the balance of 1907 he had composed a number of acceptable works:

"The Farewell of Mikes" — a symphonic melodrama for mixed chorus and orchestra (Performed in the Hungarian Theater, and published by Rozsanyai-Verlag)

"Bernát" — a musical farce, with libretto by Eugen Heltai (Performed in the Comedy Theater and published by Rózsavölgy & Co.)

"Lloyd Couplet" — a review song with text by Ferenc Molnár (Published by Rózsavölgy & Co.)

11

"A Letter from Mother" -- art song with text by
Eugen Heltai
(Published by Rózsalvolgy & Co.)

"Son of Kings" -- art song with text by Alexander
Nádas

The last three items had been written for the repertory of
a small organization that called itself the "Modern Theater" and was
operated by Heltai and Molnar, with Szirmai in charge of a reduced
orchestra. While the playbill offered predominantly prose drama there
were occasional music interludes to attract a wider audience.

Imre felt exceedingly flattered at being asked to collaborate
with already established craftsmen. But he could not suppress a gnaw-
ing realization that his own part in this enterprise verged on dilet-
tantism and hardly justified the years of arduous study that lay be-
hind him. An inner voice demanded something better or, at least, more
substantial. Slowly his mind fixed on another dream: despite the
absysmal failure of his first effort at musical comedy he must try
again. He must write a new operetta.

1

Chapter 11.

He needed a libretto.

The woods were full of would-be authors with grandiose ideas for novels or plays, which could be had on a commission basis or for nothing at all except a credit line that might furnish a springboard to professional recognition. But Imre had learned his lesson. The "Pereszleny" story had been grossly amateurish and inept, with no hope of redemption even through the most inspired music. What he needed was more than a libretto: it was a good libretto.

A distinct handicap presented itself. As a result of the "Pereszleny" blunder the neophyte composer Kálmán Imre had emerged from obscurity to questionable fame. His name was no longer unknown. It had appeared in lights and on the drama page of the city's leading newspapers, but not in the glow of rising prominence. The fame that attached itself to him was the stigma of miscarriage. Under this circumstance it became almost impossible to win the confidence and interest of currently successful playwrights or even lyricists.

True, there were his good friends of the "Modern Theater". But Molnár was absorbed in perfecting his particular mastery of elegant drawingroom comedy (he had not yet achieved the imaginative earthiness and fantasy of "Liliom", that would lend itself one day -- in a New World theater center -- to rich melodic treatment.) Heltai, Hungary's best lyricist for many years to come, could not be persuaded to abandon his tried specialty (love couplets and ballads) in favor of complex plot structures and nimble dialogue.

Budapest boasted several topnotch operetta librettists at this time, among them Rajna Ferenc, Bakonyi Károly, and Martos Fer-

2

enc, all of them inaccessible to a nonentity like Imre. To approach
Martos was out of the question for yet another reason: he and Viktor
Jacobi had entered a collaboration agreement which in theatrical circles
was more sacrosanct than marriage. Rajna and Szirmai were flirting
with similar intentions, indeed their professional "betrothal" was
a matter of recurrent gossip. This left Bakonyi, perhaps the most
expert of all, who had recently broken with his composer-partner Kacsóh.
But to ring Bakonyi's doorbell would have been more than futile: it
would have earned Imre the ridicule of Budapest's artist world.

It was Jacobi who decided differently. "There's a change in
Bakonyi's situation," he pointed out to his despairing friend. "His
last work with Kacsóh came a cropper for the same reason that your
'Pereszleny' did: he depended on patriotic rodomontades to see him
through." This was undoubtedly true. The play in question, set to
florid martial music, had been entitled "Bakocy", and its dependence
on nationalistic pride rather than legitimate drama had met with full-
scale rejection on the part of Budapest's discriminating public.

"That may be so," Imre agreed. "But where does that leave
me? I'd never get across Bakonyi's door sill."

Jacobi cut him short. "Leave it to me. I'll go myself and
give him a good sales talk."

"You'll be wasting your breath. When they cool off, Bakonyi
and Kacsóh will get together again, you watch."

"Never! That's where you show you don't know anything yet
about the theater. When two collaborators have a success on their
hands each secretly believes that his portion of the work is respon-
sible, and in time -- perhaps several successes later -- this leads

3

to their rupture. If on the other hand they have an outright turkey
the split-up comes sooner. But in either case it is ferociously final.
Now don't be a cretin; let me follow my plan." With this the optimis-
tic Jacobi was on his way.

Two days later he reported results. "What did I tell you?
Bakonyi is willing to talk things over with you tonight at the Café
Berger."

Imre could hardly contain himself. Meeting the great man
would be honor enough, but to be seen among the habitués of the Café
Berger -- the exclusive rallying point of Király Színház celebrities --
was equivalent to having "arrived". He presented himself at Bakonyi's
table no less anxious than a suitor pleading for his Juliet's hand.

The interview that followed was diffident and noncommittal.
The experienced librettist wished to know what kind of book was under
contemplation and Imre explained, somewhat haltingly, that the army's
annual autumn maneuvers appeared to him a colorful background for
pageantry and romance.

"There's this village, and the encampment just outside its
borders," he spun his visionary thread, "boy meets girl, folk dances,
soldiers' choruses -- "

Bakonyi listened in silence. It was impossible to divine
his thoughts. Imre tried a different tack:

"No one could handle such a theme more capably than you, sir,
the son of a general and yourself a former officer who has traded his
sword for a pen..."

That did it. Bakonyi preened himself a little and agreed
that there was something to be said for the idea. He would like to

4

sleep on it. "<u>Viszontlátasra</u>! (So long!)

A week went by while Imre lived in an agony of suspense.
Then, as he met Bakonyi again at the Café Berger he found that the
great man's interest had cooled. "All sorts of splendid dialogue
bits have flashed through my mind," Bakonyi admitted magnanimously,
"but frankly, my dear fellow, I'm up to my ears in other projects
and simply can't spare the time. Perhaps some other day?"

Even a novice like Imre knew when he was being brushed off.
Despite Jacobi's intercession he should have expected this. An es-
tablished playwright did not want to risk tying himself to an unknown
composer, or worse, to one whose only public splash -- in the realm
of show business -- had been occasioned by a belly landing.

His cause appeared all but lost, yet Imre refused to give
up. He began talking about a young artist friend who, though loath-
ing all things military, had just absolved his year of compulsory
army training. "He enjoyed every moment of it -- the outdoor life,
the wholesome exercise, the glamour of the uniform, the marching
songs, the bands, the girls, and the satisfaction of being counted
among those on whom even in peace time the fatherland could rely..."

Bakonyi listened with half an ear. He stifled a yawn. But
Imre went on.

"This friend described the nights in the field, around an
open camp fire. There was a sergeant of dragoons, an excellent story
teller, who sat through the late hours talking. After every few
sentences he would stop and growl "Period!", whereupon his listeners
must answer "Mop it up!" by way of indicating that they were still
awake. Gradually, however, the answering voices thinned out until

5

only two or three were left, and then these faded likewise into silence.
The sergeant was left talking to himself until, after a final pause,
he responded to his own "Period!" with a fine sonorous snore. Thereafter
the fire died down to a mere glow as, in the distance, a trumpeter blew
taps. My friend said it was powerful!"

"It is powerful!!" cried Bakonyi, suddenly electrified. "We
can build an effective scene out of that -- I'll get to work on it at
once." He appeared to have forgotten the pressing projects that, only
a moment earlier, claimed his time. The collaboration agreement was
thenceforth an established fact.

Bakonyi never worked from an outline or even a prose synopsis.
Like a painter who sees his entire canvas before picking up a brush, he
had the gift of full envisioning which enabled him to turn out his play-
scripts in single draughts. Thus scarcely a fortnight after the above
conversation he handed Imre the first act, following three weeks later
with the second. Summer was meanwhile on the way and Bakonyi, who --
aside from his theatrical pursuits -- held a post in Hungary's Ministry
of Agriculture, was given his annual vacation furlough. He decided to
write Act III while lolling on a small yacht off the beautiful Dalma-
tian coast.

"You can be working on the music," he told Imre. "Then
we'll get together in the fall and whip the whole thing into shape."

Imre agreed. He too was due for a short leave from the
"Pesti Napló". Instead of basking in Wagnerian delights under Ger-
manic skies he repaired to the provincial town of Graz, in Styria,
some 140 miles southwest of Vienna. Here at incredibly small cost
he found a picturesque garret room in the outskirts section of Krois-

Bach

6

Contrary to his intention Imre did not spend the long leisure-
ly summer days anchored to his writing desk. Life came with him always
before letters -- or music bars. There was for one thing the fine
medieval city to explore, with its Late Gothic (1462) cathedral and
earlier churches (one built in 1283). There was an ancient ducal
castle known simply as the Landhaus, belonging to the lords of Styria,
while the venerable university, founded in 1586, continued to serve
the needs of some two thousand annual students. Graz had a passable
orchestra, but Imre missed most of the concerts in favor of meditative
walks along the river Mur that cut through the center of town. He
also investigated completely irrelevant matters, such as the industrial
quarter where machines, steel goods, rails and railroad carriages were
hammered into shape, or the wine, sugar, and perfume distilleries, and
the manufacturing plants of stearine candles and soap. All this had
nothing whatever to do with composing, and his conscience plagued him,
but he could not help himself.

When he met Bakonyi in Budapest that fall the latter asked:
"Well, how far did you get with the score?"

"I've finished it," Imre said quietly.

"Good. May I have a look? I've got a lyric writer lined up
for the songs."

Imre gulped. "Oh, there's nothing on paper yet."

"I thought you said you were finished?"

"I am. But it's all in my head."

"You mean --" Bakonyi broke off speechless.

"I can play the whole thing for you," Imre nodded. And it

7

and was true. He sat down at his piano, started playing for two solid hours.

Bakonyi shook his head in disbelief. "Why didn't you write it out? My God, man, aren't you afraid you'll forget half the tunes?"

No, Imre was not afraid. But he saw no reason for the grueling task of committing his melodies to paper before a producer and a theater were guaranteed. A discouraging thing had happened at the close of the last winter season: two of Budapest's three musical comedy houses had changed policies and would reopen this autumn with straight dramatic offerings. This left only the expensive Royal Theater, where the younger Johann Strauss's "Waltz Dream" was scheduled. To compete with this irresistible piece would be sheer madness.

"No use waiting for the end of the run," Imre said glumly, "they tell me that 'Waltz Dream' (will go on forever."

"Oh, I don't know," Bakonyi mused. "Why don't you grapple with the management. You know, put up a good front -- "

Imre allowed himself to be persuaded that it might be worth a try. Coached by his partner he called on the Király Színház director Beöthy and informed this startled gentleman that a brand new operetta to be named 'Tatárjárás' (Autumn Maneuvers) would be made available, provided the Király heads committed themselves to a première on or before February 15th, 1908.

Beöthy was so nonplussed that, instead of laughing out loud, he graciously assured consideration of the new work after the "Waltz Dream" drawing power declined.

"Ah, my good sir," Imre parroted his well rehearsed speech, "we -- the author, and myself, the composer -- can't possibly wait beyond February 15th. I'm dreadfully sorry!"

8

"Those are my exact sentiments," said Beothy, reconsidering. He had risen and in unmistakable token of dismissal had opened the door. Before another word was spoken Imre found himself outside.

Bakonyi was disgusted. "It's a good thing you gave up a career at the bar," he commented, "if this is as near as you can come to winning a case!"

The challenge stung. Imre now was a young man with a mission. He felt he must prove competent in Bakonyi's eyes or give up the theater altogether. Armed with the playscript (there was still not a sheet of written music) he went directly to stage manager Faludi of the Vigszinház, Budapest's luxurious equivalent of the Comédie in Paris.

"Our policy is strictly theater," Faludi explained with regret, "straight theater. Oh, in June and July we insert an occasional musical skit for the summer crowd, but a full length opera-ta? Quite impossible, my friend."

Imre was undaunted. "There's no law against it, is there?"

Faludi's patience wore a little thin. "Look, young man, our schedule is all set for the season. We're doing a Pirandello, a Bernstein, a Molnár, a Herczeg, Heltai, Brody -- that leaves no room for experimentation."

"Just the same," Imre persisted, "you are really unfair to yourself and to the public if you don't read this script before rejecting it."

"Oh, very well, leave it if you must." The Vigszinház manager obviously wished to waste no more time in arguing. Politely

9

he escorted his visitor to the street.

Imre departed, sick at heart. Even though he had deposited the script on Faludi's desk (this much at least was accomplished!) the dreary conviction beset him that no one would turn or glance at a single page. He dreaded seeing Bakonyi and admitting that he had attempted to crash the one theater in town that could be guaranteed to turn down any work calling for orchestral equipment. Whatever Bakonyi expected of him, it did not include the ignominious peddling of a signed manuscript from one obviously hopeless prospect to another. News traveled fast over the backstage grapevine: a series of refusals could mark an author and put a curse upon his future effort. This held for composers too, as Imre realized with dire misgivings.

For the next two days he stayed away from his parents' home, and likewise did not go near the Street of the Three Moors. Instead he visited his sister Vilma, whose flat afforded a safe hiding place. But on the third day he realized that such tactics only prolonged the suspense, or rather, the absolute certainty of complete defeat. He might as well crawl out his retreat and face the worst.

On arrival at his father's door he was received with a flutter of excitement. The family had recently achieved the luxury of a telephone. This diabolical machine had for the past twenty-four hours kept the household in a panic, not only through its incessant ringing but because with each call the alarm regarding Imre's whereabouts was intensified.

"Thank heaven you are alive," said Mama shakily. "Here is the number you are to call."

No less frantic, Imre picked up the wall receiver and

10

turned the crank, half hoping there would be no answer. But the new-fangled contraption, given to frequent failure, happened on this poign-ant occasion to be in fine fettle. It not only worked, but Faludi was instantly on the wire.

"Where the devil have you kept yourself?" he cried excitedly. "Do you know that you've got a hit on your hands? Our production board has decided to change policy and open with your operetta. Where's the music?"

Imre caught his breath. "It's not written yet," he admitted lamely.

"What?!" There were groans at the other end, as though Faludi had just dropped with apoplexy.

"Oh, that doesn't matter," Imre put in quickly. "I can come over right now and play the full score for you -- out of my head."

"Out of his head, out of his head!" Faludi's voice seemed to be repeating into space. "He's going to drive me out of mine!!" This time there was a real crash as someone else spoke into the phone: "Director Faludi's secretary talking. Will you hurry over, sir? Director Faludi has collapsed in his chair!"

Imre flew out of the house. Arrived at the Vigszínház of-fices, he found Faludi already recovered and set for the audition. Without further ado Imre sat down at the piano. He was by nature a master of improvisation, but this did not mean that the tunes his fingers now conjured up were fished tenuously out of the air. What he had said was true. In its main melodic line and structure the whole operetta already existed in his brain. Except for the tedious chore of orchestration the actual creative work had longbeen done.

11

The audition went without a hitch. In a body the production
staff applauded the project and urged the fixing of an opening date.
It was again Leap Year, always a temptation to mystically affected
theater folk.

"How about February 29th?" Faludi proposed.

Imre had no objection. He began to wonder whether throughout
his future professional life this date would have a special signi-
ficance.

1

Chapter 12.

On meeting with Bakonyi that afternoon Imre drew two thousand Gulden from his pocket.

"There's the cash advance," he announced casually. "You can keep all of it. I prefer to collect after the profits are in, not before." He had learned a discomfiting lesson at the time of the Stein and Lindau visit, which had ended with his having to return the joyously accepted coin. Never again did he want unearned money on his hands.

Bakonyi had no such scruples. There was a landscape by the painter Munkácsi which he had long coveted for his studio.

"Excellent, my boy," he approved. "Now how about getting busy with some pen and ink?"

Thus, while his partner planned a methodical campaign against an exorbitant art dealer, Imre plunged into his music labors. The partitura, which would take four months in composing, called for many hours of night work. Budapest in those days already enjoyed the benefits of electric lighting, but the room on the Street of the Three Moors as well as the home of his parents still depended on oldfashioned oil lemps. The fixture on Imre's desk burned with a particularly high flame which, if not properly tended, smoked atrociously.

On the first evening of blissful effort and concentration the young composer grew suddenly aware of an annoying clangor beyond his window. He had long ago acquired the creative artist's first mechanism of defence: the ability to ignore outside disturbances. Unperturbed he continued at his work. But now there was a banging on the door, coupled with the street noises and the echoing gallop of the

2

fire brigade. A glance at the low ceiling of his room relieved his perplexity; the attic beams were merrily aflame. With commendable efficiency the hand pumps were put to work and the conflagration was extinguished. Imre waited on the sidelines, lost in detached cerebration. After the hullabaloo was over he returned to the damp chamber, the spark of his muse undimmed.

One thing alone interfered with the currently intensified working schedule. Molnár and Heltai, of the "Modern Theater" group, made repeated inroads on Imre's time by submitting bits of comic verse which, in a half hour's span, he could turn into a light chanson. In itself this sort of interruption did not slow progress on the main task before him; in fact, there was an almost therapeutic value in the release of tension through a change of pace. But Bakonyi saw the matter in a different light.

"If you continue frittering away your talent on catchy bar room tunes," he protested, "no one will accept you as a musician of stature, even in the lighter field of operetta."

Imre recognized the truth of this and he promised to pass up further well paid but frivolous offers. This was not enough for Bakonyi, however.

"I know you won't resist temptation. Under Molnár's persuasive pressure you'll dash off ditties with one hand while working on our project with the other. No, my friend, I want a signed statement that will commit you to one job alone."

With this, Bakonyi drew up a written pledge for Imre to read and affirm in presence of a notary. Only thus could the unhindered advance of the operetta be assured.

3

One person besides Bakonyi burned with impatience to see the coming production take shape. This was the music director of the Vigszinház, Kun László, who yearned for a chance to perform something more than brief overture and intermission trifles. A fullfledged tonal work would indeed permit him to enlarge his orchestra with a view to a continuance of the new policy.

Whenever possible Kun buttonholed Imre for details regarding the character of the coming opus. "Is it to be a heroic work, with great symphonic passages?" he inquired hopefully, for he was expanding his harp department, kettle drums, and brasses.

"Oh my, no," Imre disillusioned him, "if anything, we're doing a comedietta with songs, something nearer to vaudeville."

At this the frustrated maestro wilted. But when he was allowed a glimpse of the first vocal numbers his mood lifted. "You are too modest, my good man, this is no music ball flim flam -- you have created a stupendous operetta!"

Some days later the finale of the first act caused Kun to revise his opinion. "Joi Istenem! (My God!))" he exclaimed. "It's no operetta -- it's an opera, that's what it is!" Already he saw himself in competition with the Verdi, Donizetti, and Wagner contingents in Budapest's artistic life.

The following week, when Imre submitted for consideration an ambitious choral suite for a third act curtain, the baton master's elation knew no bounds. "Opera, bah!" he proclaimed yet another diagnosis. "This has reached the sublime: it is an oratorio!"

Needless to say, during the first rehearsal which took place before Christmas, manager Faludi ordered the oratorio passages ruthlessly

4

stricken.

Once the full orchestration had been completed and sent to the printer (Rózsavölgy & Co. of Budapest would undertake publication) it was time for Bakonyi's favorite lyricist, Gábor Andor, to write the song texts. As Gábor worked fast and rehearsals moved apace it appeared that the premiere could take place one week earlier, namely on February 22nd. This struck a note of doubt in Imre's superstitious nature, which presently proved well justified.

To begin with, there had been a certain amount of casting trouble, as the Vigszínház operated in stock company fashion with a permanent acting group. But these artists were not singers, hence a number of musical comedy stars had to be hired from the outside, at least for the leading parts. The tenor Julius Hegedüs accepted the principal male role while a capricious diva, Berta Kornai, sang the heroine Marosi opposite him. It soon developed, however, that the primadonna thought her part too skimpy; she wished a special aria with which to make her first entrance on stage.

Imre had no objection to such a proposal, but both Bakonyi and the stage manager maintained that the first act was already too long. In addition, the company's "real" actors chafed and looked down their noses at the unbalance and dramatic inadequacies of a typical operetta script.

"If we pad La Kornai's role any further," Bakonyi warned, "the rest of them will walk off in a body."

"What shall we do?" Imre wanted to know.

"Just stall around. Tell her you're working on something magnificent, and at the last moment have a nervous breakdown or

5

simply confess that the cadenza didn't do justice to her gorgeous
voice. It will be too late then to make any change."

Imre had some misgivings. "Are you sure? What if it's
Kornai who walks out?"

"Bah! Anyone giving up a fat plum like the Marosi part is
crazy. Kornai's too smart for that."

The days went by and Bakonyi's ruse worked, up to a point. That
is, the primadonna accepted the explanation and she appeared tractable
while going through her part. But at each rehearsal she enforced a
fifteen minute wait on the part of the orchestra, to allow for the
prospective aria plus possible curtain calls. The foreseeable outcome
was dreadful to contemplate.

The blow-up came exactly as Imre had feared. Two nights
before dress rehearsal the diva demanded her prize number. On cue,
Imre first pretended mental exhaustion, then went through the humbug
concerning his inability to find something befitting her rare gifts.
La Kornai was not to be pacified. In fact, she hit the roof. Giving
everyone on stage a thorough dressing down, she next stormed into
Faludi's office where, witnesses averred, there was an exchange of
blows. Capping the evening's catastrophe, the enraged lady flounced
out of the theater with screeched oaths that she would never return,
but never.

At this point the bright Bakonyi knew no solution. It was
up to Imre to take the helm and keep the production ship from founder-
ing on the rocks. He hadn't the faintest idea of how to go about the
salvage work, but his first thought was to trail the fleeing singer
and to go on his knees before her in humble propitiation. For this,

6

speed was of the essence, hence he must take a two-horse fiacre.

At the Kornai home all was gloom. The servants maintained stoutly that their mistress had set out on distant travels, destination uncertain; but an opportune bribe slipped into the boudeir maid's hand drew forth the more concrete information that Madame had got no farther than the Széchenyi coffee house. Presto fortissimo with the two horses across the Erzsébet Bridge to the popular restaurant and tavern. La Kornai? Ah, yes, she had been here a little while ago, but now she was gone. Where? Shrugs: who could tell?

"You can tell!" Imre challenged the headwaiter while counting out a tip.

The man's memory improved notably. "But of course, sir, she went from here to visit her fiancé."

The address? A few more coins elicited this also. But at the fiancée's home, a flat in the fashionable Buda sector, the conspiracy of silence continued until the valet's palm was suitably greased. The master, it developed, had welcomed his lady not more than thirty minutes ago, but he had made -- er -- different plans for the evening and was therefore rushing her back at this very moment to her own home.

Now Imre felt at last that he was getting somewhere. With a glance at the mounting meter he ordered the fiacre back to the mad junket's starting point. A flustered parler maid opened the door. Yes, Madame had arrived but she was having a fit of hysterics and would see no one; even the fiancé and a doctor were pacing the carpet outside her locked bedroom, taking turns at cajolery and name-calling through the keyhole.

7

With time growing short and costs exorbitant, Imre sped outside once more and drove to the nearest florist shop for a gigantic bouquet. While this was being tied up he penned a hypocritical note, begging the "irreplaceable" diva to take pity on her harassed co-workers: poet, composer, producer, and cast. Clutching the blooms and letter he drew up for the third time at the Kornai gate and sent his tribute inside. The raging primadonna condescended to receive him at last.

She was stretched out on a divan, with a wreath of torn lace handkerchiefs scattered about her. Imre did not stop, however, to take stock of histrionic claptrap or tears. Instead he drew the puzzled lady to the adjoining music room where he sat down at the piano.

"Here's your aria," he announced, extemporizing on the first theme that popped into his tired brain, "you didn't give me time during rehearsal to play it for you!"

La Kornai's bruised vanity rallied to the preferred straw. But the ingrained habit of sulking gained the upper hand. "Too late," she fumed, "I don't care what masterpieces you bring me, I'll never again set foot in that theater!"

A full hour of arguing ensued, during which Imre supplicated, the fiancée thundered, and the doctor slammed the door in disgusted flight. The end result was nil.

"We'll have to use the understudy," Imre told his friend and legal advisor, Miksa Márton, who arrived for the final phase of the debate. "It's too late to hire another star."

"Not only too late but practically suicide," agreed Márton,

8

"any established singer would regard such a last-minute offer an unpardonable affront. On the other hand, the understudy is young and quite pretty. She could turn into a sensation."

Without another glance at the ill-tempered shrew, whose jaw had dropped at this sudden drift in the discussion, the two friends departed. On their heels was the alert fiancé, a gentleman with an abiding interest in the theater, not to mention a fine capacity for trailing a new scent.

Back at the Kinotheque Vigszinhaz for a resumption of rehearsals Márton counseled Imre: "Get to work on the new song, even if you have to stay up the rest of the night. I guarantee that we've got Kornai worried. She'll show up tomorrow."

Imre slipped through a backstage door and entered the artist locker room of the cafe next door. He called for the proprietor.

"I have urgent work to do and must not be disturbed. You are not to tell anyone that I am here, understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Every half hour I want a cup of black coffee, and don't let me run out of smokes."

When he was alone he took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. Now for drafting of an acceptable melody.

Within an hour's time the thin treble was completed, giving the composition's general line. Now for the filling in of a piano score and the instrumentation for the full orchestra. But there was no use in undertaking this intricate job unless he could be certain that it would not be wasted. He dashed out to a telephone.

"Hello, Miksa, how are things going?"

9

"I think we're making headway," Márton answered, "Kornai's agent is on our side. Go on back to work."

Imre returned to his manuscripts and labored over the partitura. He had scored the cellos, first and second strings, and his eyes were burning when he phoned again.

"What's the news?"

"The she-devil is cracking. We've got Faludi's lawyer threatening to sue. How soon will you be finished?"

"Oh God, I don't know. I wish I'd never started this. I'll never write another operetta!"

Numb with fatigue he gulped down more coffee and resumed his chore. The partitura was half done when a bell rang shrilly. This time it was Márton calling up.

"Everything's settled. We're one big happy family. Faludi and his sons are throwing a midnight supper at the Café Upor for La Kornai. Get your scripts together and hurry over there."

"Midnight supper? It's two o'clock now!"

"Nevermind the quibbling. Hurry over or the madwoman will blow up again!"

Imre gathered his things and stumbled out into the street. Again a two-horse fiacre was essential as the hours of night were shrinking fast. At the Café Upor the big reconciliation ceremony was already in full swing as the specialty of the house, Wiener Schnitzel, was being passed around on a huge platter. But Imre was in no shape to partake of the convivial feast. Swallowing two raw eggs, to sustain him through the balance of the night, he retired to a back room and continued writing. To keep him from falling asleep his colleague

10

Victor Jacobi( who had dropped in for a late drink) and the Upor pro-
prieter volunteered to join in a vigil. They took up posts on either
side of the half-conscious composer.

By four o'clock it became apparent that new recruits were
needed to watch the watchers. Two matrons, ready to start the morning
cleanup, were promptly commandeered for the task. Too bewildered to
question their curious assignment the aproned scrubwomen settled them-
selves at Imre's elbows until, long after dawn, he scrawled his final
chord. As the pen dropped limply from his hand he accorded each a
sleepy bow.

"I trust you ladies didn't mind too much," he muttered apol-
ogetically, "having to keep me company for such long hours?"

The baffled crones broke into beaming grins. "Think nothing
of it, good sir," they reassured him eagerly, "it was sure nicer work
than washin' out the toilets!"

1

Chapter 13.

As if the turmoil of the past twenty-four hours had not been enough, there came as yet the supreme indignity. Exhausted from his labors and weak for lack of nourishment, Imre lurched wearily through the café in search of his festive colleagues. But they had all repaired to their homes and respective beds. The place was dreary and deserted. He needed sleep himself and was about to summon a hack when the realization struck that the manuscript he had worked on all night must be rushed to a copyist and thence to the printer so as to be at the orchestras disposal that evening. Well, he was too desperately tired for this additional errand. He looked about, half hoping for a messenger boy to materialize by incantation, but there was no one besides himself and the two cleaning matrons.

Resourcefulness being one of the minor marks of genius, Imre availed himself of the only possible expediency. Escorting the pair to a waiting fiacre, he entrusted them with the transport of his partita to the opposite end of town. While he himself hurried home for a few hours of sleep the scrubwomen, delighted to leave their pails and mops behind, rolled happily through the morning sunshine in their once-in-a-lifetime role of priestesses of the arts.

Though Imre himself could scarcely believe it, the première took place that night with a sold out house. Singers and actors alike performed with brilliance and gusto, the former hoping to sway the Vigszínház management to a permanent musical policy, while the latter strove equally hard to re-emphasize the incontrovertible superiority of straight drama.

The press reports mirrored this conflict of opinions. Critics

2

with a preference for the speaking stage proclaimed firmly that the
vocal and orchestral score hampered the excellent libretto. Members
of the musical faction wrote in turn that the book was poor stuff
when compared to the composer's art. All were unanimous, however,
in praising the show's stars, Kornai, Hegedüs, Kelety, Sarkadi, and
Vendrey. The primadonna in particular, having recovered from her
tantrums, sang with angelic tones that ravished her adoring listeners.
If Imre had wondered whether it was worthwhile to put up with the
antics of artistic temperament, the answer — in this instance at
least — was plain. La Kornai's opening aria, which she carried off
without benefit of a single full scale rehearsal, drew a wave of
applause that shook the rafters.

The reading public of course was equally divided, depending
on the papers to which they were partial. Director Beőthy of the
Király Színház, who had turned down Imre's plea a few months earlier,
took comfort in printed reports that the regular Vigszínház performers
could not sing, while the singers tossed willy-nilly among them could
not act. Each contingent furthermore showed its scorn of the other
by reading lines or trilling tunes to show how this was really done
by experts rather than amateurish misfits. Director Beőthy rubbed
his hands and went to church to thank Saint Anthony for having been
spared such a calamity.

He regretted it soon after. When all the critical returns
were in the consensus showed overwhelming approval of the new pro-
duction. People rushed to buy tickets, standing in line until the
next fifty performances were sold out. So great was the advance
demand that for the following seven weeks the box office remained

3

shut, with neither seat nor standing room left to sell.

From now on the course of Imre's life was to take a swift
turn. Things began to happen, first indirectly, then impinging
sharply on his personal destiny.

The great rival theater under Beethy's direction had fin-
ished a successful run of "The Waltz Dream" and, in order not to lose
ground to the Vigszínház competition, plunged at once into a new pro-
duction. The choice fell on "The Dollar Princess", a splendidly
fashioned operetta by a former student of the Vienna Conservatory,
Leo Fall, who himself attended the Budapest premiere in company of
Karl Wallner and Wilhelm Karczag, joint managers of the Austrian
capital's Theater An Der Wien.

Once the "Dollar Princess" got trimly under way the Viennese
guests decided to have a look at whatever else the Hungarian scene
might offer. They made the rounds of gypsy dance halls and wine
cellars and also took in a Molnár production and the much talked of
Kálmán hit. The latter captivated their imagination to the point of
Rushing backstage during the first act intermission for a meeting
with author and composer, the visitors outdid one another in verbal
effusions. Before the second curtain they reached an irrevocable
conclusion: Vienna must have this music-play in German translation,
with the title of "Ein Herbstmanöver". Again they met with the
authors, this time to propose a contract.

Both Imre and his librettist Bakonyi were somewhat incred-
ulous. The fashion for Hungarian theater, especially either musical or
spoken, had not yet seized the outside world. To win the attention
of even nearby Pressburg or Prague was a proud feather in a Magyar

4

author's cap. A call from Vienna bordered on being summoned to Olympus
itself.

Negotiations were carried on in a suite of the Hotel Royal.
What facilitated matters greatly was Leo Fall's magnanimous attitude;
a writer-composer himself, he appeared interested primarily in further-
ing the best interests of the Kálmán-Bakonyi team. Only in later years
did Imre gain sufficient insight into the vanity and self-interest
among artists to recognize the nobility of this complete stranger.

Once the contract was signed, Karczag and Wallner returned
to Vienna where they arranged for a young translator, Robert Bodanzky,
to begin work on the script. Leo Fall stayed on in Budapest another
week to finish taking in the sights, a decision which almost cost Imre
the loss of his "Pesti Napló" job. Fall was a gay blade and a con-
firmed night owl. In the company of Imre and the latter's cronies,
Szirmai and Jacobi, Fall made the rounds of every cabaret, sipping sweet
Tokay wine and singing unintelligible czigány tunes. Not till five
in the morning did the friends part at the Hungaria Hotel's steam baths
where the sturdy Vienna guest subjected himself to a dowsing, followed
by a rub-down and a few hours of rest before embarking on another day's
wassail.

Between duties as a host Imre had still his newspaper as-
signments to fill, particularly a report on the controversial new
double bill, "Cavalleria Rusticana" and "Pagliacci", at the Royal Opera
House. As tactfully as possible he imparted this news to Leo Fall.

"Very well," was the cheerful rejoinder, "I'll go with you!"

This seemed an acceptable solution, but its folly soon be-
came all too evident. Tired out from a week's carousing, Imre and Leo

5

fell asleep after the opening measures. What was worse, the Vienna
visitor's snores were loud enough to drown out some of Mascagni's
subtler lyric passages.

The "shushings" and angered comments from members of the
audience quickly roused the culprits, who made their exit in befitting
haste. Since neither had heard much of "Cavalleria" and nothing at all
of "Pagliacci", Imre was hard put to it furnishing his paper with a
write-up. Together the two friends pored over the problem and managed
a page of innocuous copy before the usual 5 AM parting at the Hungaria
Bath's portals. Leo Fall's return to Austria had been set for that
same morning, on the 8 o'clock Vienna Express.

"I'll see you to the train," Imre promised weakly, "we can
have breakfast together in the station. <u>Servus!</u>"

They waved to each other with limp hands. Three hours later
Imre, bag in hand, joined his friend as the latter boarded the train.

"I'm going with you, Leo," he announced breathlessly. "I've
decided to have a look at Vienna!"

"But your job -- what will your editor say?"

"I'll wire Molnár that I need a vacation. Besides, after
he reads that review we cooked up last night he'll wire back to make
it permanent."

"Splendid; now let's have some breakfast."

The journey northwestward, through a blossoming spring
landscape, was spent in optimistic daydreams. During May the opening
of Fall's newest musical comedy "Der Fidele Bauer" ("The Happy Peasant")
would take place at the Theater An Der Wien. In addition the management had scheduled some eighteen other productions, with the Kalman

6

opus pretty well near the end. Imre looked crestfallen.

"Oh, don't worry," Fall consoled him, "there are bound to be half a dozen or more failures, running through two performances before folding up. My Jolly Peasant may even be among them."

This general prediction proved quite true, except for Fall's own work. The "Fidele Bauer" proved as rescinding a success as "Dollár-prinzessin" had been and, in Imre's opinion, surpassed the earlier piece. Particularly outstanding was a youthful comedian, Max Pallenberg, whose gifts seemed calculated to bring any show to life. When the playbook finally changed, in accordance with stock company plans, Imre appealed to Director Wilhelm Karczag (whom Hungarians in Vienna called Vilmos Bácsi — "Uncle William"):

"The success of 'Autumn Maneuvers' would be guaranteed if you could put Pallenberg in the role of Wallerstein."

Karczag agreed. Later that summer Pallenberg was sent to Budapest where, at the Vigszínház, he familiarized himself with the characterization and ended by suggesting a few new comedy angles, including a hit tune tailored to Austrian tastes — "Das Ist Mein Freund Der Löbl" (I've Got A Friend Named Löbl).

Despite this excellent outlook Imre found the period of writing waiting a great strain. Autumn and winter went by, with no prospect as yet of a Vienna production. Every few weeks Imre skipped back and forth between Budapest and the Austrian capital until his job at the "Festi Napló" became no more than a sporadic pastime. His conscience troubled him and, in November of 1908, he asked for his release.

Surprisingly neither Molnár nor the paper's owners wished him to go. "What the devil is the matter," they asked in chorus, "do you

7

want more pay?"

"No, it's just that sooner or later I think I'm going to move to Vienna."

"Well, think again, and come off that Pegasus. Vienna is full of talent. They've got no room for boys from Budapest."

"Just the same, I'd like to make a try."

It was pitiful, Molnár's expression indicated.

"What about Lehar?" Imre persisted. "He was Hungarian born and is now the rage of Austria and of all Europe!"

This was true enough. Lehar Ferenc, known to the world as Franz Lehar, was the reigning operetta king. Born in the year of the France-Prussian War, he was at thirty-eight an international celebrity. Only three years ago, on December 30th, 1905, he had scored his greatest triumph with "Die Lustige Witwe" ("The Merry Widow") in a brilliant Vienna première. Though a native of the Hungarian Danube town of Komarom, which Austrians called Komorn, Lehar's predilection for the imperial city of the Habsburgs caused him to be regarded as a typical Viennese. Actually his music had more Germanic than Magyar flavor; his way with a waltz was in the best Johann Strauss, father and son, tradition. The implication that Imre aspired to a career equalling Lehar's could only be taken as a symbol of youthful overbearance. There was no answer for it except a burst of guffaws.

There happened to be another reporter on the "Pesti Napló", also named Kálmán, who worked on the financial page and had come to be known as "Stock Market Kálmán" or, in tribute to his shape, "Dumpling Kálmán". Imre on the other hand was "Tunesmith Kálmán" or, due to his

8

intoxication with melody rather than alcohol, "Tipsy Kálmán". It went
without saying that from a literary standpoint Imre's pen was the more
valued of the two. His employers actually did not want to lose him. But
they likewise saw no point in interfering, once it was clear that he
had made up his mind. From desk to desk the news spread, evoking every-
where the same hilarity. This time young "Tunesmith Kálmán" must be
really tipsy: he thinks he can compete with Franz Lehár...

Within the next two weeks the move to Vienna had become a
reality. While packing his belongings at home Imre explained to his
family that this would not mean a protracted parting, since he expected
to be hopping back and forth between the two capitals every few weeks.
But his parents knew better. They had begun to sense that with this
journey Imre was not merely crossing the border into Austria, but
mounting the first stepping stone that would propel him around the
world. There were tears at the railroad station, mingled with prayers
and maternal benedictions. As the train slowly pulled out and waving
handkerchiefs grew smaller in the distance Imre too felt that a new
chapter in his life had opened.

In Vienna he was received by the translator, Robert Bodanzky,
who had promised to find Imre a furnished flat. The stipulation had
been that the address must permit quick contact with the theater, due
to the impending rehearsals.

"I've got just the thing," Bodanzky swore, "a fine room in
the house of an aunt of mine, with all modern facilities."

In truth the establishment was charming, as was the aunt. But
the address, 13 Alserstrasse, called for a half hour taxi ride to the

9

theater. Added to this nuisance was the presence, in an adjoining room, of a young lady violinist whose commendable devotion to her instrument was demonstrated by interminable hours of practice. While this damsel sawed eagerly away at her strings, Imre was forced to plug his ears with cotton so as to concentrate on the new arrangements called for by the Austrian version of his scripts. Needless to say, new lodgings would have to be found as soon as possible. But for the moment there was no time: rehearsals had begun.

From the start of the Vienna enterprise good fortune smiled on the Kalman-Bakonyi production in the form of an outstanding operetta cast. Two romantic singers, Grete Holm and Otto Storm, carried the serious leads while Pallenberg and a celebrated comedienne, Louise Kartousch, made a personal triumph of the buffo parts. Here as in Budapest the Marosi aria brought forth storms of applause, proving that the tempestuous Kornai's demands had been theatrically right. An additional star in the Vienna firmament, Fritz Albin, who played the role of Fieldmarshal von Lohonay, rounded out the show's effectiveness by the sheer pomp and splendor of his personality.

The opening performance took place on January 21st, 1909, with a skeptical public in the boxes and stalls. Vienna knew itself the operetta metropolis, and her composers the only masters of this colorful metier. The advent of a moderately known Magyar librettist, teamed with a musical nonentity from the same theatrical backwoods, was hardly expected to raise more than a ripple of interest. Most devotees of the Theater An Der Wien were attending merely because they held season tickets.

Audience reaction, cool at the rise of the first curtain, was

10

soon swept to heights of unrestrained enthusiasm as laughter and song
spilled over the footlights and beguiled melody-charmed ears. Incred-
ible, nay, outrageous though it seemed, here was the kind of magic
that matched Vienna's masters! To cap it all, the obscure composer
whose rhythms dared challenge the best that the Danube citadel had
to offer was thoroughly versed in the witchery of an authentic waltz.
Having hurdled this test his conquest of Viennese hearts was secure.

Acceptance of Imre's music did not imply lesser praise for
the pleasing Bakonyi libretto. But in prolific Vienna good prose
writers and lyricists came by the score. The laurels fell more pro-
digally, therefore, to the rarer music prodigy.

The following morning Imre saw his name proclaimed in the
form to which he would hereafter grow accustomed: Bemerkich Kálmán.
Despite his intense Magyar patriotism he learned to accept the Ger-
manic version and the dual personality it conferred. For, as in the
case of Franz Lehár, the Habsburg city had begun to claim him for
her own.

1

Chapter 14.

Following its happy baptism in German translation "Ein
Herbstmanöver" traveled that same year across Central Europe. Its
premiere in the northern Reich took place in Hamburg's Operettenhaus
during April 1909 under the direction of Wilhelm Bendiner. Berlin
arranged bookings from May through September, with Stockholm plans
being worked out apace. Early in 1910 the Casino Theater at Copen-
hagen invited Emmerich Kálmán to conduct the opening performance
for which Denmark's master of stagecraft, the novelist Hermann Bang,
had assumed the artistic direction. Italy too called for the compo-
ser to wield the baton at Genoa's revered Politeama Genovese Theater,
under management of Signor Mauro.

America was heard from soon after the German openings. Henry
Wilson Savage, native of New Durham, New Hampshire, and president
of Boston's Castle Square Opera Company as well as director of various
theatrical producers' groups, made inquiry regarding a possible trans-
lation into English. "For U.S. audiences, however," he ventured a
comment, "the title is not just right." He suggested changing "Autumn
Maneuvers" to "The Gay Hussars".

Since Savage had already scored a New York triumph with
his production of "The Merry Widow" it was certain that he would
give the Kálmán-Bakonyi work an equally good launching. The pro-
ducer's European representative, a motion picture pioneer named
Fellner, persuaded Imre to sail with the show as its musical head.
It was a tempting proposition, the more so as Fellner undertook the
purchase of steamship and railroad tickets, hotel reservations, and
the handling of all the unfamiliar burdens attendant upon a trans-

2

atlantic crossing.

Imre had some misgivings at thought of skimming an ocean,
but the lure of adventure won over timorous qualms. Of course he
must return to Budapest for a leave-taking from his family prior to
so daring a venture. Fellner, leery of sentimental influences that
might abort the plan, went along.

Papa and Mama Kálmán took the news as a major calamity. The
thought of their younger son bouncing in a mere nutshell over the
monstrous sea (they had never seen a vessel larger than the little
*paquebots* puffing down the Danube) filled their hearts with despair.
Heavy in spirit they made preparation for a farewell dinner at which
relatives and all of Imre's more intimate friends were present.

As the evening wore on and sundry speeches had been made,
Papa Kálmán rose to offer a toast. As a display of eloquence it was
not much, but the effect on the chief listener proved devastating.
"What will you do, my dear Imre," said the paternal voice, "if on
your third day at sea you suddenly yearn to sit under the trees out-
side a familiar *káveház*, and all you will see about you — for several
weeks, they tell me — is water and sky?"

The imaginary scene caused Imre to shudder. Impulsively
he reached into his pocket and drew forth tickets, baggage checks
and all other travel papers, which he pressed into the shocked im-
presario's hands.

"You can't do this to me!" cried Fellner in protest. "What
will my client say?"

"Tell him I've got St. Vitus Dance and can't hold a baton;

3

tell him anything -- " Imre said firmly, "I am not going."

In the end his decision proved no fatal handicap to the
Savage enterprise. "The Gay Hussars" opened at the Knickerbocker
Theater in New York during August 1909, to be followed by a tour of
principal eastern cities. England too was now heard from. Director
Edwardes of the Adelphi Theater promised an ambitious London première,
besides provincial engagements and a possible season in Australia or
South Africa.

These distant names and places carried an aura of unreality
for the twenty-seven-year-old composer who had never been far from home.
Foreign reviews, printed in languages he could not read, left him un-
moved, as though they concerned someone other than himself. Besides,
while "The Gay Hussars" embarked upon their world travels he was
already back at his desk, deep in the throws of new composition.

His workshop from now on would be definitely Vienna. His
family reluctantly became reconciled to this fact, grateful that he
had not chosen emigration overseas. As to the latter threat, Imre
knew in his innermost heart that there was another reason besides
consideration for his parents which prompted his refusal to quit
Europe. He had fallen in love.

The object of his rapture was a mysterious woman well past
her first youth, of Czech origin and almost ten years older than
himself. Her name was Paula Dvorák; her avocation, music and paint-
ing. With her aging parents she inhabited a pink stucco house in
the picturesque Grinzing suburb.

Introduced to Imre at a gathering of artists, Paula did
not immediately become aware of his sudden adoration. Her manner

4

was benevolent, helpful, even a trifle maternal, for she was known to take pleasure in furthering the careers of gifted youngsters crossing her path. Why had this attractive and warm-hearted creature, who certainly did not lack admirers, never married? No one knew, though more than one rejected suitor reappeared persistently in her modest salon, seemingly still hopeful of success in pushing his troth. Almost unnoticed, Imre joined the circle, his shyness forcing him to sit in tongue-tied concentration while round about the air crackled with repartée and wit. Only as, ever more frequently, Paula encountered his blue eyes fixed upon her did she realize that something was amiss: the self-effacing young man from Budapest had obviously lost his heart.

Up to this period of his life Imre had braved no serious romance. In school and during his later student days there were momentary enthusiasms for some pretty member of the opposite sex, but the hardships of his early youth quelled any deeper attachment. Love's ardor was quickly dampened when one must count fare or the cost of even the shabbiest tryst. Small wonder then that Imre's thwarted passions found sublimation and release in music, transposing the creative urge from physical to spiritual plane. There were no banked fires in his compositions: in the embrace of his muse he could let himself go.

Matters changed after his meeting with Paula. Suddenly the safe realm of illusory romance suited him no more. It was a flesh and blood woman he wanted, and must have. The fact that Fräulein Dvořak remained cool to all advances only fanned his eagerness the more, for this was the era of Strindberg, Wedekind and Schnitzler whose novels, built on erotic frustrations and repressions, were feversishly devoured by young and old. Rejected passion? That was the only kind worth tormenting oneself about!

5

It would be some time before the secret of Paula's negation of romance became clear to him, and when it did Imre was already enslaved by his own ardor. The facts were brutally simple. In adolescence the spirited and vibrant girl had been stricken with tuberculosis, not the pulmonary form made fashionable by the younger Dumas' *Camille* or Puccini's *Mimi*, but of the spine. The slowly advancing disease, though incurable, had mercifully delayed its crippling effects, a fact attributable to parental wisdom. For her own protection Paula had been told the truth by an aggrieved mother and father bent on prolonging their daughter's life as far as possible. Obviously this precluded all thoughts of marriage or serious romance.

For the diffident and inexperienced Imre a platonic friendship proved ideally suitable, for he needed time and confidence before declaring what was in his heart. Thus his courtship of Paula took the deceptive form of innocent country drives or short walks in the Prater and the Wiener Wald. Occasionally they visited a picture gallery, a concert hall, a museum, and of course there was always a topic of joint love and enthusiasm: the theater.

Through the Dvořak family Imre's eyes and ears opened to the Habsburg capital's rich lore. Dry schoolbook facts came to life as he listened to Paula's professorial father hold forth on prehistoric themes. The entire Danube basin, it appeared, had harbored human life through Stone and Bronze Ages, followed around 1200 B.C. by the far-spreading civilization of and ancient people, the Celts. Under the latter, most of Europe and its surrounding isles had flourished and adhered to a matriarchal system, with avuncular descent of authority rather than paternal. Only the rise of Rome's Empire in the West and the coming of Attila from the East had overlaid these now forgotten cultural strata with new patterns of their own.

*Vindobona* the "Good Breezes", Roman legionaries had called the Austrian city because of its gentle and beguiling air. The concept,

6

amended to encompass spiritual and emotional reactions, would carry
over to the adjective "Viennese" until this day.

With the downfall of Rome and the advent of the Germanic races yet another chapter opened. The Caesars and their far-flung satraps were replaced by towering figures steeped in Eddie and Nibelungen myth. Through these Indo-Aryans of enormous vigor and barbaric pucelage an effete continent underwent rebirth and a change of visage that would lead (to mention architecture alone) from worn-out classicism to the recondite riches of a Gothic age.

With Paula at his side Imre explored the mighty Danube, formerly an uncontrolled network of spilling freshets that originated in the far off German province of Baden and periodically had turned the Austrian flatlands into a dreary swamp. Long ago human industry had stemmed this wanton blight that brought destruction and disease. The river was deepened and forced into a broad single bed which now tumble over a stretch of 2000 miles to a vast delta on the Black Sea. Vienna, lying on the right bank, was bisected by a water way called the Danube Canal into which a small stream, the Wien, empties. It was the latter rivulet which had given the Theater An Der Wien its name.

In the Inner City, with its many vestiges of 12th, 13th and 14th Century grandeur, Imre had soon reconnoitred every celebrated sight. At the Hofburg Palace he inspected the 1,000,000 volume library and viewed the official mainsprings of Habsburg rule. The impressive cathedral of Saint Stephen with its fine asymmetrical tower of 450 feet, the highest church spire in Europe, thrilled him daily anew. Its steep roof, emblazoned on one side with the imperial double eagle in mosaic shingles, evoked long centuries of panoply and pomp.

7

Since the death of the romantic Empress-Queen, Elisabeth, the aura of the Habsburg dynasty had dimmed. Hungarians in particular gave expression to independent thinking on the Empire's manifold political problems. Another ethnic group, the Slavs of Bohemia, Slovenia, Croatia and Slavonia, similarly stressed their importance in the federated structure, keeping jealous guard against any encroachment on their rights. But the shield of the double eagle and the symbolic figure of the aging bearded monarch in the Hofburg held the Danube states together, forming the historic wall that through the centuries had protected Europe and Christendom against the Infidel's advance, and beyond that, against the Asiatic hordes. Herein lay the justification of the union of lands under the Habsburg scepter: their dissolution would mean the opening of the floodgates to the ever-present population pressures from the East. A grasp of this fundamental fact went with every European's elementary education.

It was with this in mind that Imre's eyes took in the heraldic blazon of the **Stefanism**, as he beheld also the colorful Good Friday procession -- with the Emperor Franz Joseph, bareheaded and in white and scarlet regalia -- walking through the streets. Under the mellow charm of Vienna's atmosphere individual nationalistic urgencies relaxed; like Paris, here was a city to beguile the world.

Equally entrancing as the capital itself were the Viennese environs. On the northwest rose verdant mountain ranges topped by two peaks, Kahlenberg and Leopoldsberg, about 1400 feet in altitude and reached by a picturesque serpentine railway. From these heights a splendid view was gained beyond the city's farthest limits and across the vast Danube plain.

8

To the southwest lay Schönbrunn Castle, favorite residence of the great 18th Century Empress Maria Theresia whose opulent tastes showered Vienna with embellishments of exquisite baroque art. Here for a time, in 1805 and 1809, the conquering Napoleon made his headquarters, planting two golden victory eagles at the gates, while nearby the battlefields of Aspern and Wagram stretched out, commemorating Austria's defeat.

But there were less grim reminders of the past. At Paula's side Imre visited the homes of Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, Haydn and Gluck. He traced the steps of Liszt, Brahms, Bruckner, Mahler and the Strauss quatrefoil (two Johannes, Oskar, and Richard). Inevitably the realization impressed itself upon his mind that Europe's artists and intellectuals, many of them not Austrian by birth, had been assimilated by Vienna and made the Danube city their permanent home, a happy fate that presently became his own.

As yet, however, the future looked uncertain and there was work to do. The success of a single opera did not establish Emperor Kálmán among the entertainment world's elite. On the contrary, critics and musical colleagues with long experience behind them viewed his sudden rise as a possible blind fluke. The season had been poor, it was pointed out, with a number of box office failures scored by the Theater An der Wien before, perhaps in desperation, the management had boosted "Herbstmanöver" into a sensational spectacle. As a stock company production, however, neither the play nor its music was considered competition against the current king of musical comedy, Franz Lehar. To enter the running for serious attention Imre must make another try. By Viennese standards only his second, third and fourth

9

efforts would show whether he was more than a fly-by-night minstrel.

From another quarter the true nature of Imre's talent was held in doubt. Musical comedy techniques had in the Vienna of that day reached a high virtuosity, not easily attained by pedestrian composers still tied to the classics. Imre's Budapest reputation as a serious musician(who had perpetrated several symphonic works, art songs, and an early operatic effort entitled "Endre and Johanna")was used as an argument against his intrinsic grasp of the lighter theater. "A fish out of water," self-assured colleagues agreed. To overcome such disbelief he must hasten to prove himself anew.

Again the problem of finding a good script was uppermost. Since the theme of "Herbstmanöver" had originated in Imre's imagination, to be developed by Bakonyi into a usable plot, the librettist himself now wished to furnish an entirely fresh story. While brooding about the matter it was Bakonyi's luck to run across an acquaintance, likewise engaged in writing for the theater, who called his attention to a newspaper report. According to this an Austrian soldier return-from the front during the Italian campaigns of 1850 brought news of a comrade's death to the latter's mother, only to find her faith so strong that he could not bear to break the truth; instead, noting his own resemblance to the fallen hero, he passed himself off as the woman's son.

"What a theme for a play!" Bakonyi exclaimed, unaware that his friend's thoughts were already taking a similar turn.

On hearing of the incident Imre warned against using the material even though it belonged in the public domain. "If that fellow is carrying the clipping around with him it stands to reason

10

that he has some purpose in mind. He may have the outline of a play
already written!

Bakonyi demurred. Some days later he learned that his
friend had left for America. "You see!!" he triumphed, rushing to
Imre with the news. "An immigrant on his way overseas has farming
on his mind, or digging for gold..."

"Wishful thinking," Imre replied. "I still say you ought
to work on something original without danger of duplication. Besides,
a soldier back from the wars isn't exactly a lighthearted subject!"

But Bakonyi had become obsessed and was not to be pried from
his purpose. During early summer he departed for the island of Helgo-
land where he spent the entire sojourn at work on the script. By fall
Imre's fears were realized as the supposed "immigrant" returned from
New York, brandishing a finished play that tallied scene by scene
with Bakonyi's subject. There was nothing for it now but to enter
into negotiations for some sort of collaboration deal. In the end
the matter was resolved goodnaturely enough.

"You are the better writer," Bakonyi's friend admitted cheer-
fully, "so I'll just step out of the picture." He accepted a modest
price for his brain child and surrendered all rights, including a
credit line.

Now it was Imre's turn to set the musical pattern. The
Bakonyi book had been given a Magyar background and its title was to
be "Az Obsitos" ("On Leave"). Musically the mood assumed a sentimen-
tal and folkloric character which was in sharp contrast to the reck-
less frivolity of "The Gay Hussars". It also permitted the use of

11

choral work and of such lyric songs as he had composed during his
Budapest student days. This factor indeed determined the choice of
the Magyar capital's Vígszínház for the new play's première, which
took place during early March, 1910.

1

Chapter 15.

Vienna critics had spoken of "Herbstmanöver" as a **succès de circonstance**, ascribing its popularity to the long run of failures that had haunted the Theater An Der Wien; audiences had been starving for laughter, and the "Gay Hussars" had given them something to laugh about.

The new production, "On Leave", with Irene Varsányi and Julius Hegedüs in the leading roles, was now reported by Vienna correspondents in the Hungarian capital as a **succès d'estime** or, if readers cared to search between the lines, a triumph that might bring its authors pre- tige but no money. Much was said for the librettist's grave and emo- tional writing, while the composer's adherence to genuine folk melodies and rhythms gave to the production an almost epic quality. This was good regional opera, the reportage agreed, but never an operetta!

Imre was of the same opinion. From the beginning he had not deemed the subject matter a proper choice, though in dealing with it he preferred to respect the wistful story elements without distorting them to fit musical comedy requirements. Having started his career as a symphony addict and opera enthusiast, he considered the above criticism no stigma.

Surprisingly, both Austrian and German producers showed in- terest in "Az Obitos". A translation was undertaken by Vienna's most successful librettist, Viktor Léon, who proposed considerable plot re- visions and a transfer of the play's scene from Hungary to the high- lands of Upper Austria. This called for musical changes in accord with the chosen locale, a task that Imre found extremely trying. He retired with Léon to the village of Unterach on the Attersee, in Austria's lovely lake region, for the performance of this major operation. The

2

result appeared alien to him, as did the play's revised title "Der Gute Kamerad". But collaboration with an experienced theater craftsman like Viktor Léon gave Imre an insight into stage techniques, dramatic build-ups, the sequence of suspense-crisis-and-grand-finale to which the composer no less than the librettist must adhere.

On October 10th, 1911, the Austrian version of "On Leave" opened on one of the less glittering stages, that of the Bürgertheater, and its reception differed little from that accorded in Budapest. At the last moment Imre underwent a fit of remorse and tried to withdraw the production, but commitments had gone too far. In short, he would again read words of condescension: "Achtungserfolg" Austrian reviewers echoed their Magyar colleagues, a "success of prestige".

The experience brought a temporary separation from Bakonyi, as Imre's tireless search for a fresh and truly original libretto had at last been rewarded. Even while working on the revisions for the Bürgertheater venture he had begun outlining the musical score for "Zigeuner Primás" (Gypsy Fidler), a script by Julius Wilhelm and Fritz Grünbaum. This subject matter, reminiscent of his own childhood visit to the Puszta, entranced Imre and enabled him to compose with flowing ease. He was living currently in a small suburban flat at Purkersdorf, within walking distance of Grünbaum's house in Gablitz, so that the two collaborators could meet each afternoon when the day's stint had been completed. The first act finished, they traveled to Bavaria where Wilhelm waited at Possenhofen. Here, within sight of the girlhood home of the Empress Elisabeth who had been born a Wittelsbach Princess of Bavaria, the remaining acts were completed.

3

Placement of this new work met with no difficulty at all. Director Erich Müller of the elegant Johann Strauss Theater instantly saw the theme's popular appeal and its suitability as a vehicle for Vienna's stage idol, Alexander Girardi. The role of Grandfather Rácz Pali, retired gypsy master violinist who was fetched from his home village to play before the Paris élite, gave the aging Girardi a chance to hold the spotlight without being forced into an ill-fitting youthful pose. At the same time, however, other performers in the cast feared the veteran actor's propensity for scene-stealing. Max Brod, Willy Strehl and Grete Holm at first sent back their roles with polite regrets. Only on hearing the contagious music did their doubts give way to whole-hearted enthusiasm, and rehearsals could begin.

The première, on October 11, 1912, was a resounding triumph. Even Richard Specht, Vienna's leading enemy of all operetta forms, hailed Emmerich Kálmán as the "most hopeful of musical comedy talents, free from the stereotyped artifices of the French school of degenerate farce". Quite accurately the unanimous critical kudos pointed up Imre's folkloric resources which again and again saved him from the banal melody or trite music line.

International acceptance of "Zigeuner Primás" was avid and immediate. Productions quickly sprouted in Germany, Hungary, Russia, and America where Mr. Savage requested that the title be changed to "Sári". With Hungary's Mitzi Hajós for its feminine star, the show delighted New York audiences at the Liberty and New Amsterdam Theaters while several road companies toured the length and breadth of the United States for the following three years. Everywhere the irresistible "Sári Waltz" won tribute and applause until its melody was

4

hummed and whistled the world over, as it still is, by persons unaware
of either its origin or name.

But what gave Imre the greatest satisfaction was the show's
invasion of Budapest's proud Royal Theater where, only a few years ago,
there had been no interest in his work. With the beloved Hungarian
diva Fedák Sári in the role bearing her name, the Király Színház put
on so brilliant a performance that the entire company was invited to
Vienna for an encore at the Carl Theater.

Riding the crest of his new-found fame, Imre was seized with
a fever of creation. His friend Bakonyi had reappeared on the scene,
eager to recover lost ground. Together with a little known playwright,
Franz Martos, Bakonyi had hit upon a Graustarkian plot of royal in-
trigue. Its title befitted the tastes of a monarchic age: "The Little
King". But unlike Edmond Rostand's "L'Aiglon", the frail hero of
which gained dignity and stature by being given presentation in a
straight play, the operetta format could make of "The Little King"
only a vapid divertissement. Despite inner misgivings, Imre prepared
a musical score and signed Robert Bodanzky as translator for the
Austrian script. Director Karczag of the Theater An Der Wien gave
his best efforts to the production, counting on the success of the
still present "Zigeuner Primás" to carry the new work along, but
this proved a miscalculation. "The Little King" was destined for
brief enthronement.

Again Bakonyi retired crestfallen while Martos produced
another colleague, Max Brody, with whom he had finished an operetta
text in Hungarian, entitled "Szuazi Kisaészony" (Miss Suzy). While

5

only partly to his liking, Imre could not restrain his urge for com-
position. He must pour out the wealth of harmonies that surged within
him even if a lightweight theme like "Suzy" served as a peg for his
muse.

Under his present dynamic pressure the work came easily and
fast. Nor did Imre have trouble finding a producer: the Vigszínház
management under whose auspices he had launched his first operetta
made a bid for the new opus. Gay and melodious, "Suzy" was well re-
ceived. Under the title of "Miss Springtime" the play was brought
to America for a tour of the Klaw and Erlanger Circuit.

Long before this trifle had been taken off his hands, how-
ever, Imre had again plunged into a major effort. At the Vienna
Bürgertheater he had met an expert dramatist, Leo Stein, who in part-
nership with an almost equally talented associate, Béla Jenbach, had
furnished the book for Edmund Eysler's lyric show "One Day In Paradise"
On seeing Emmerich Kalmán the two authors at once besought him to
consider one of their projects, tentatively named "Long Live Love".
Once more Imre's strong regional instinct rebelled against the hack-
neyed phrase and its implication of routine stage romance, but there
were elements of plot and character delineation that captured his
interest. Set against a background in which he felt at home the mater-
ial was sure to take on flesh and blood. Long discussions followed,
during which Imre outlined his story demands, with the result that
a new epos of distinctly Magyar flavor evolved, to be named eventually
"Die Csárdás Fürstin" (The Csárdás Princess).

While engrossed in this creation, which was to become one
of his masterpieces, Imre lived cloistered from the world and blind to

6

the darkening clouds that gathered on political horizons. For some years now the Balkans, chronically in a froth, had engaged in a series of open conflicts designed to drive Turkey from its last foothold in Europe. From 1908 through 1913 each of these outbreaks, discreetly watched by major world powers, inflamed local nationalisms and gave rise to separatist ambitions. Forgetting that progress and economic welfare depended on united co-operation, the pigmy states of eastern Europe began dreaming of individual sovereignty and might. Tiny Slav units outside Austria-Hungary began gnawing at the structure of the Danube Federation, beckoning to Czechs, Slovenes, Croats and Slovaks with the lure of a grandiose Pan Slav coalition. In defence against such undermining tactics the central government in Vienna maintained a strict surveillance of each border clash, particularly along the frontier of seething Serbia and the already rebellious provinces of Bosnia and Herzegovina, where terrorist agitation was at a peak.

Characteristically, however, Austro-Hungarian citizens were not generally given to "viewing with alarm." Rumors and sparks of nearby conflagrations touched their lighthearted natures with no more frightening threat than might the explosive fireworks of the Wurstl Prater Amusement Park. Even the heir to the throne, Archduke Franz Ferdinand, disregarded warnings from diplomats and press against making a personal tour of disturbed areas. He had married a beautiful Czech countess, Sophie Chotek, thereby pleasing the Slav element in the realm. What did he have to fear? Proud and self-confident, with his wife at his side, the Archduke set out late in June, 1914, for the provincial capital of Sarajevo. During the same week Imre, seeking a few days of rest, left Vienna for a Hungarian sojourn with his family. On arrival at the

7

railroad station in Budapest -- the date was June 28th -- he heard the tragic news: Franz Ferdinand and Sophie had been assassinated by a fanatic conspirator, Gavriel Princip, a member of the Serbian Black Hand.

The course of history ran amok from that day forward. Though the issue, a case of double murder, concerned Austria and Serbia alone it was used as a pretext for general scrimmage by a world too long at peace. A police action that could well have remained confined to the chancelleries of Vienna and Belgrad proved too great a temptation to the competitive nations of Europe or, for that matter, America. In no time at all the whole world was aflame.

For Imre the shock was paralyzing. Though he hurried back to Vienna in the hope of resuming his work, the flow of musical inspiration had abruptly stopped. For weeks the piano remained closed as he walked through the streets in a confused mental fog. His inactivity did not really matter much, as all theaters had been closed by government order and no contract commitments were honored. Young men were called up for military service, depleting the ranks of actors and musicians. It was decidedly no time for operetta.

Imre himself, now nearing his thirty-second birthday, was not considered soldiering material, at least at this stage of the crisis. He thought therefore of returning to his journalistic activities and replacing some correspondent who had gone to the front. But almost immediately his services were required by the state council for public education and diversion. Government circles had quickly recognized their mistake in closing all places of amusement, for a mood of

8

defeatism and gloom settled at once over the population, lowering morale and inhibiting the zestful conduct of the war. Theaters would have to be reopened; there must be spectacles, parades, patriotic panoply and song! Let poets and composers show their mettle by spouting cheer for soldiers in the field and comfort for those bearing the financial burden of Armageddon at home.

An immediate demand arose for plays and musical reviews with martial overtones. Director Karczag of the Theater An Der Wien saw a new chance for the moderately successful "On Leave", provided Imre and Bakonyi agreed to some changes in the story's setting and time. The soldier impersonating his fallen buddy was to be a hero of the present campaign rather than of the Austro-Italian conflict some sixty years ago. A fresh title seemed also advisable. As civilians throughout Europe were enjoined to aid armament programs by surrendering their precious metals -- particularly wedding rings, for which inscrip- iron substitutes were issued -- the phrase "Gold I Gave For Iron" had gained wide use. It would make an ideal billboard caption.

Karczag's instinct was right. People flocked to the show which in its earlier versions had made only a mild splash. Men and women looked upon the ungainly steel circlet on their fingers with a new sense of consecration. Did not the inscription tally with the title of a patriotic drama brought to life there above the footlights, making them in a sense the play's actual protagonists? Audience identification, participation, sublimation, these were Karczag's keys to theatrical success. With the wartime re-issue of "On Leave" he proved the accuracy of his judgment. To assure a prosperous and long

9

run he had obtained an excellent cast, including the romantic team of Hubert Marischka and Betty Fischer and the comedians, Ernst Tautenhayn and Louise Kartousch.

With the extension of the war across Europe other countries began to feel the need for suitable theatrical fare. German producers quickly negotiated for the rights to "Gold I Gave For Iron", since its story of noble deception for the sake of restoring broken hearts was ideally suited at a time when casualty lists kept pace with the sale of widows' weeds.

On Allied theater bills the play appeared in various guises, with different titles and new dramatis personae, but always based on the same Kálmán score. Needless to say, since the composition was the work of enemy authors and as such could be regarded a booty of war, no royalties were paid out. Thus Imre and his partners had for years an international success which brought them neither coin nor glory. At the Apollo Theater in London and the Shubert Theater in New York as well as on tour through the English provinces and the American hinterland the production enjoyed long runs under the name "Her Soldier Boy." Tearful and nostalgic, it helped fight a senseless war in fitting paradoxical fashion: from all sides at once.

Another Kálmán opus also enjoyed sudden revival. This was the shining "Herbstmanöver" or "Gay Hussars". Anything that enhanced the dash of uniforms and gallantry of military service was now the fashion. Combined with ringing tunes the right stage offering lifted despairing spirits and veiled the sordid realities of war.

At one point in its career "Herbstmanöver" found itself literally taking part in enemy action. During a provincial tour of

10

eastern Hungary and Transylvania the performers were on stage in a Kronstadt theater when, in August of 1916, a Roumanian invasion force entered the city. Instantly the theater was cleared and the actors, taking no time to change clothes, made a hasty exit in their handsome regalia. This caused enemy vanguards to mistake the "Hussars" for genuine, if excessively pretty, troopers and to open up with blasts of infantry fire at their gilt and plush targets. Only a week later when General von Falkenhayn, German commander of the Austro-German armies, reconquered Kronstadt and swept into the Roumanian territory of Dubrudja did the error in tailoring become established. The true face of war had little in common with operetta.

1

Chapter 16.

On Tuesday evening, November 21st, 1916, shortly after nine o'clock, Austria's eighty-six-year-old Emperor Franz Joseph died after a brief bronchial attack.

In the midst of a raging war which for the Dual Monarchy was not going too well young Archduke Karl and his wife Zita of Bourbon-Parma ascended the throne. A new crown prince, small Archduke Otto, rose to sudden prominence, and captured public fancy with his grave childish charm. A short interlude remained before the coming Habsburg twilight.

Prior to his assumption of the crown the Archduke Karl had been a popular figure. From the outbreak of hostilities he had served on every front, aiding the morale of his troops by sharing with them the danger and filth of rain-soaked trenches. On occasional leaves he appeared, still wearing battle dress, in Vienna, Prag, Bratislava or Budapest, where in the company of his soldier friends he enjoyed a few hours of relaxation. Already the seeds of dissension were burgeoning among the heterogeneous elements of the realm, but the smiling Archduke's appearance again and again quelled riots and discontent.

Emmerich Kálmán was witness to one such event in a crowded theater at Prag. It happened during a performance of "Herbatmanöver". As an array of glittering uniforms moved across the stage a group of Slav patriots started a riot by shouting: "Down with Habsburg domination -- long live the Czech Republic!" A seething rumble mounted throughout the house until in one of the stage boxes a tall cavalry figure rose. Slender, blond, boyish, the heir to the throne exposed himself to the

2

demonstrators' view. He made a perfect target for knife thrust or
bullet. But no one held a grudge against this unpretentious and
friendly young man. He was the Emperor's heir only by accident, fol-
lowing the deaths of Rudolf at Mayerling and Franz Ferdinand at Sara-
jevo. Childhood background and schooling had prepared him for no
pompous role, hence when he did ascend the throne he could not help
but become a people's monarch, unhampered by frozen majesty. Somehow
this essential humanity that characterized Karl made itself felt in
the aroused Prag theater. For as he stood there, gentle of mien and
unafraid, the crowd's temper changed. Rebel cries were drowned out
by shouts of warm loyalty, while on stage the "Gay Hussars" relaxed
and presently went on with their show.

By the spring of 1917, however, the new Emperor's personal
popularity did not suffice to stem the tide of history. As the war
progressed and hardships increased on the home front the Slav separa-
tist forces gained momentum. The outlook for the Central Powers grew
darker still when, on April 6th, the United States entered hostilities
on the Allied side. Now Germany's star too would begin to set and
the break-up of Central Europe loomed on the horizon.

For Emmerich Kálmán the tragedy of war assumed personal
aspects as well. During the early years of the conflict he had been
swept up on a tide of patriotic activity, throwing his full energies
into the task of sustaining public morale by keeping the theaters
open. Special touring companies carried his shows to troop centers
near the front as well as into prison camps. His highly successful
"Csárdás Princess", performed 800 times in hungry and war-darkened

3

Vienna, simultaneously opening in Berlin's Metropol Theater with Fritzsi
Massary as its star. Hostile Russia, despite her hatred of all things
Austrian or Hungarian in the field, loved Viennese operettas and could
not resist borrowing the Kálmán hit for adaptation to Muscovite needs.
Under the title of "Sylva", the "Csárdás Princess" played to packed
houses in St. Petersburg and the Russian provinces until the eve of
the Bolshevik Revolution.

Finally the United States, busily trouncing the Central
Powers abroad, retained a taste for Danube music at home. During the
summer of 1917 a safe conduct permit was requested from Washington
by the New York producers of "Csárdás Princess" in the hope of bring-
ing the composer overseas for the première. But Imre found himself
unable to accept. He had just lost his brother Béla by death, while
from Budapest the family reported that Papa Kálmán was ill with pro-
gressive diabetes. These sorrows, coupled with the disaster that
soon would leave his homeland prostrate, weighted his heart and left
him without joy in foreign triumphs.

His creative impulse had been over-active until now. But
suddenly there was an end to inspiration and to faith in his own muse.
Linked by every tie of blood and spirit to the land that had given
him birth, he sickened with the death throes of a world immeasurably
dear.

There were still calls upon his time and talent. The
Johann Strauss Theater of Vienna requested a translation of the
moderately successful "Suzanne", to be directed by the able Erich Müller.
Imre turned the work over to the librettists A.M.Willner and Rudolf

4

Osterreicher, who produced an agreeable new version to be entitled "Die Faschingsfee" ("Carnival Spirit"). In this form the earlier operetta which previously had been only slightly known on German stages enjoyed a notable revival.

From a musical standpoint the score of "Die Faschingsfee" was outstanding because it disclosed the Kalman waltz technique at its peak. On first attempting the transition from his Hungarian rhapsodic Magyar roots to a Viennese melodic pattern Imre had obeyed traditional rules. His early waltzes thus alternated their main theme in the opening and the third quarter. But his strong original flair soon became evident in bold departure from standard precedents. The fabulous "Sári" waltz repeated its opening measures in four successive modulations, while in "Csárdás Princess" a similarly sweeping effect was attained by exact duplication of certain tone designs. As he began formulating his own rules Imre swung suddenly in yet another direction: the grandioso valso of "Faschingsfee" ran through forty measures of mounting rhythm without repetition of a single thematic phrase — a masterful demonstration of architecture and melodic resourcefulness.

Much of the success encountered by the new "Faschingsfee" in Germany was at first ascribed to Fritz Massary who sang the title role in Berlin. But when, under the stress of war and revolution, the star forsook the cast and fled to safer shores the show continued with an unknown understudy in the lead, piling up a run of more than 600 performances. If anything, this would appear to prove that music and libretto carried far greater weight than the identity of the most talented performer.

5

While war-weary civilians, unable to buy food or coal except in pitifully small quantities, frequented theaters just to keep warm, Imre withdrew suddenly into a shell. With the sensitivity of the artist he shuddered at the brutalizing of mankind through violence and hate. What imponderable losses in cultural values! In a world deafened by clash of arms and thunder of bombardment would there ever again be room for literature, music, philosophy? A human race reduced to the level of snarling jungle beasts had certainly no need for lyric song... Under the chill of this despondent mood Imre found all inspiration frozen within him.

A shadow had fallen also upon his personal life. Early in the war Paula Dvořak's parents had died in quick succession as the result of malnutrition and lack of medical care. The pink stucco house in Grinzing, unheated and in disrepair, had been abandoned by Paula in favor of a furnished room in town. It was then that Imre had taken courage. No bevy of suitors hovered about her now, competing with him for her attention. The wall of his reserve broke down as, in halting words, he proposed marriage.

Paula's eyes filled with tears. She had struggled long against vanity, pride, and a normal urge for happiness, but the hardships suffered in the nightmare years of war had sapped her strength. She saw no need for further concealment; on the contrary, it was unfair to Imre to withhold the truth. In bleak, unvarnished words she disclosed her sickness, revealing the first symptoms of the creeping invalidism that had begun to close in upon her.

"Marriage?!" She smiled sadly. "You'd soon have a wheelchair wife on your hands —" Her back was stiffening and even a walk across

6

the room now gave her pain. She bade him recall how often in the past
months he had found her a poor walking companion.

"But that's natural —" he protested. "You are undernourished
like everyone else — a little care, a rest in the mountains, with milk
and fresh eggs, will do wonders for you!"

She knew better. The only wonder was that he, so young and
full of promise, should cleave to her in the face of inevitable agony.
For, cleave he did.

"If you won't marry me," he begged, "at least let me look
after you!"

Over-ruling further objections, he ordered her belongings
moved to his flat in the Paulanergasse where, as he put it, she would
live at his side as did Madame George Sand at Chopin's. True, the
analogy was hardly fitting as, unlike the frail Polish composer, Imre
enjoyed rugged health, whereas Paula lacked Madame Sand's indestruct-
ible vitality. But the strange pact of loyalty and love was closed.

Thenceforth Imre's life was circumscribed by the responsibili-
ties he had imposed upon himself. Unwilling to accept Paula's grim
estimate of her plight, he combed Vienna for specialists who might
prove earlier diagnosticians in error. X-Ray treatments, medicinal
baths, diathermy and a variety of nostrums were tried out, always with
the same disheartening result. Soon Imre could deceive himself no
longer. He knew that Paula had spoken the truth and that, for both
of them, a cruel ordeal lay ahead.

A fierce rebellion gripped him, not for his own sake but for
the beloved woman who had given wings to his art in return for little

7

more than piteous friendship. There was much he must make up to her,
at no matter what cost, to offset the unfathomable injustice of fate.
That Paula's approaching invalidism would call for a heavy drain on
his mental and material resources did not shake Imre's purpose. Her
needs were foremost in his thoughts. Music, career, ambition, all
must wait.

It was not easy in the dark months of 1918 to obtain adequate rations for children or adults, much less for the infirm and bed-ridden. Throughout Austria foodstocks were low, with no prospect of help from the outside, as Germany herself was near collapse while Hungary -- formerly the breadbasket of the Danube -- lay prostrate with internal strife.

Militarily the world drama was entering its last phase. In
the West, during July, the Germans lost the battle of the Marne, with
further defeat awaiting them at Soissons and Château Thierry. By Sep-
tember the Meuse-Argonne offensive served as a pralude to the grande
finale at Versailles.

Austria's plight was scarcely less acute than that of her
ally. Foreseeing defeat, the thirty-year-old Emperor Karl approached
Wilhelm II with plans for a negotiated peace, but national pride stood
in the way of Germany's acceptance. It happened that Karl was un-
burdened by a warrior's ego; he saw only the useless stupidity of
further slaughter which was wiping out a whole generation of innocent
young lives. He had no delusions about the idealistic merits of war.
For him it took no scholar's perception to grasp that martial campaigns
drained nations inevitably of their best blood, leaving behind only
the aging, the misfit, and -- worst of all -- the criminal, who could

8

not be deployed in military service. Was such progressive deterioration of the human race worth the monstrous price? Were statesmen blind not to see that the good, the brave, the noble of heart were forever being mauled in the jaws of Armageddon while the cowardly, inferior, dishonorable and evil dregs were preserved? It was no accident that throughout a so-called civilized world the need for jails and penitentiaries increased with each generation, since man-kind's best elements were constantly drained off, allowing its worst to survive in rampant vigor.

Reasoning thus, the Emperor of Austria addressed himself to the Entente, requesting terms for a separate peace. But here, as in Germany, he encountered the same militaristic hauτeur. Nothing short of attrition on the battlefield was deemed acceptable to the Allied might. In the enemy camp the same harrowing idiocy held sway, unmindful that decimation of the white race (by its own hand!) would only bring nearer the day when the pigment peoples of Asia devoured the feeble remnant.

Twice rebuffed, Austria had no choice but to remain in the fray. In October of 1917 Habsburg troops scored a major victory on the Bainsizza Plateau, at Caporetto, forcing the Italians back to their Tagliamento line. Reverses came however during the following summer when French, British and American re-enforcements gave support to an Italian counter offensive along the Piave.

By October 1918 the Habsburg armies were in full rout, surrendering Trent and Trieste. The Austro-Hungarian command acknowledged defeat and accepted armistice terms on November 4th. This was followed only a few days later by Germany's collapse along

9

her entire western front, from St. Quentin and the Sensee Canal through Cambrai, Le Câteau, Valenciennes, Dixmude, Passchendaele Ridge, and Gheluvelt. As the British were entering Mons, before dawn of November 11th, word came that a truce dictated by the Allies and submitted through General Foch to a German deputation at Compiègne had been signed.

On the eastern front a more confused picture prevailed. Ill-equipped from the start, Russia had fought an uneven war. To the north she had met more than her match in Germany's iron-fisted triumvirate, Hindenburg, Ludendorff and Mackensen, while Austria's top strategists, Danke and Brudermann, harassed her southern flank. But the Muscovite problem was aggravated by a far greater threat that lurked behind military lines. Nihilist forces had long riddled the foundations of the Tsarist state with seeds of revolution planned according to a well calculated timetable. By March 1917 uprisings in St. Petersburg had forced Nicolai II to abdicate while a provisional government under the Siberian-born socialist leader Alexander Kerensky seized power.

Following the Tsar's imprisonment and removal to the Ural town of Ekaterinburg where, with his wife and children, he was to be butchered the following year, Russian participation in the war took on a chaotic aspect. With the presumed removal of tyranny, discipline too had gone by the boards. The army disintegrated and before long Kerensky and his cabinet found themselves swept out of office by the rising tide of bolshevism, an extremist system promulgated by a new prophet, Vladimir Ilyitch Ulyanov, who during years of exile in Switzerland had changed his name to Nikolai Lenin.

10

A different set of titles now entered Russian speech. Lenin called himself Chairman of the Council of Peoples' Commissaries, an official body bent on wide-reaching reforms. Proclaiming as his purpose the establishment of a new social order for Russia's long-suffering masses, Lenin had made quick overtures to Germany before that country's final crash. His efforts led to the flimsy peace of Brest-Litovsk, after which all formal combat in the East ended, but a fresh and long-term threat to western civilization was born. For thelest that had brought down the House of Romanoff would roar on with rampaging force, bent on sweeping across the world.

Its siren song was a doctrine of brotherhood and equality along non-capitalist lines. Its definition: Communism.

1

Chapter 17.

Events in Europe moved swiftly after the Armistice.

On the same date, November 11th, 1918, the Emperor Karl abdicated the throne of Austria. Two days later he stepped down from the eminence of kingship over Hungary, Croatia, Bohemia, and the Empire's lesser states. With his wife and children he retired to private life until the victorious Allied Powers demanded his exile. In April of 1919 the Austrian Parliament agreed to annul the sovereign rights of the House of Habsburg and to banishment of all its members from their homeland.

In Germany, royalty likewise had taken a fall. Following the surrender, which had been speeded up by mutiny of the fleet at Kiel, returning troops joined a hungry and despondent populace in demonstration against the government. On November 28th, 1918, rather than fanning a useless civil war, Wilhelm II relinquished his crown and appealed to neutral Holland for refuge. He was assigned a small villa in Doorn where, permanently cut off from his people, he entered the twilight years.

Men gathered meanwhile at Versailles to dictate peace terms and to reshape European boundaries. Foremost on the agenda was the tearing apart of the ancient Danube Federation, leaving in its place an assortment of miniature "sovereign" units. Each of these rejoiced in new-found independence, without thought of historic perils besetting pigmies in the path of giants. One of the architects of this new Europe was a non-European, Woodrow Wilson, whose own country had not countenanced secession of the "sovereign" Southern States at the

2

end of America's Civil War. By way of a modern analogy the tiny state of Connecticut could conceivably wish to leave the Federation and set itself up as an independent realm, only to find itself uncompromisingly thwarted by the powers in Washington. Nevertheless, with complete scorn of history's grim lessons, Eastern Europe was cut up into a patchwork of impotent small states, an action which opened the floodgates for what is yet to come...

It was Hungary's lot to feel the first travail under the spreading Communist scourge. Reduced to one fifth her size, with provinces lopped off as war booty for Roumania and the newly-formed entities of Czecho-Slovakia and Yugoslavia, the crippled country was left helpless in the path of anarchy. After the King's abdication a prominent liberal, Count Michael Károlyi, maintained himself for a time as Prime Minister, but his party was soon enmeshed in a life and death struggle with radical elements under leadership of a Communist-trained agitator, Béla Kun.

This sinister figure boasted a colorful if sordid background. He was born Aaron Kohn, in 1884, the son of Samuel Kohn who served as an underpaid village notary to the denizens of a God-forsaken place called Szilágycsaks. To reach this mudhole in the southernmost province of Siebenbürgen it was necessary to travel twelve hours by express train from Budapest to Kolosvár (German — Klausenburg; Roumanian — Cluj), thence six hours by local rails to Csucsa, and from here in haywagon or peasant cart for endless kilometers along a quaggy highway named Szilagycsahi, which led by the most primitive of side lanes to the abject and totally forlorn town.

3

Two score low-squatting and dank houses with thatched roofs made up Szilágycsaks village, an impoverished community composed predominantly of peasants and Jewish settlers from such pogrom haunted areas as Poland, Ukrania, and the Banat. Locally the Semitic elements were classed in three categories: the Shop, Sidewalk, and Field Jews. The first of these included hard-working, orthodox and often learned representatives, among them even a few emigrants from distant Spain. Their religious practices were rigorous, as was their adherence to tradition in male hairstyle (curled sideburns) and dress. The Sidewalk or Street Jews ranked beneath the shop-owning aristocracy, both because of their poverty and transient habits. Little more than peddlers, they trundled their possessions in small carts or collapsible trays which could be set up on any convenient corner for hawking purposes. Sidewalk Jews wore no classic *caftan* and *tarboosh*, nor did they bother to oil their *peikes* (curls). They wore such nondescript castoffs as came their way through haggle and barter, while their heads, often as not, were cropped to the scalp both for economy and as a crafty foil in the enduring battle against lice. Lastly, there were the Field Jews, an even more renegade group that truly pained loyal followers of the Talmud, for they had left not only orthodoxy but even the Judaic flair for trade and commerce far behind. Field Jews were aspiring farmers who mingled with rustic harvest hands, adopting their ways and jargon, with only one goal in view: to be mistaken for native peasants.

Old Samuel Kohn was a Field Jew. Unlike his Galician ancestors who were born linguists he stubbornly maintained that he understood only Hungarian. Paintakingly he employed every peasant

4

colloquialism. He wore a cowherd's hat and tight, embroidered Magyar pants. He grew long Mongol moustaches, waxed at the ends into dashing **csikós** spikes. And, to complete the rustic picture, he smoked the native clay pipe with its straight cherry stem and hinged metal cap to screen out the **puszta** winds.

In a further effort to assimilate Hungarian character, Samuel ingratiated himself with his Gentile neighbors by manifold small services, such as sharing his horse and plough or helping with the threshing. He also befriended the village elders and won from them an appointment as public notary.

It was then that, with the birth of his son Aaron, Papa Kohn's cup of happiness overflowed. The infant was incredibly ugly, with big ears, thick features, bowlegs and unappetizingly sallow skin. But parental love being notoriously blind, such aesthetic flaws were brushed aside, as cousins, uncles and aunts assembled to give the young sprout a name.

"Something with a true Magyar sound it should be!" said the doting relatives. "There is Árpád, Miklos, Béla — "

Béla (Adalbert or Ethelbert in Germanic tongues) had four times graced Hungarian kings. Here was indeed the perfect choice. However, when the baptismal ceremony took place an unbending rabbi thwarted the happy plan. In keeping with ancient ritual the baby must bear a Jewish tab, and no bones about it. Aaron, thought the rabbi, had a fine and venerable sound. Any objections?

The Kohns, one and all, had not been long enough emancipated to protest. Meekly they bowed to usage, carrying home a healthily bawling Aaron. But, once tribal canons had been satisfied, there

5

was nothing to prevent the lad's being given Béla for a nickname. Thus
"royally" labeled, he was launched on what would become a strange and
lurid career.

Family ambition centered on the unprepossessing but nimble-
witted child.

"He is to be an attorney-at-law," vowed Papa Kohn, "I shall
send him to the finest university!"

Before such dreams were realized, however, young Béla moved
from coddled babyhood into surprisingly vexatious years at the village
school. He was by nature lazy and reluctant to absorb even the pre-
liminaries of learning, showing instead a preference for buffoonery
and artful pranks. This was undeniably part of an effort to overcome
the disdain shown by other children, particularly the non-Jewish element
in the school.

The passing years brought no improvement in scholarship, so
that old Samuel Kohn's vision of a judgeship or doctorate in the family
gave way to resignation when, on barely absolving the rural examination
requirements, Béla chose journalism for a career. He fixed on the
nearest provincial capital, Kolosvár, for his apprenticeship, though
first undergoing the customary one year of compulsory military service.

While in uniform he indulged an inborn desire to strut and
assert himself, in which, as throughout his school years, he was handi-
capped because of his race. To hurdle this barrier once and for all
he resolved to become Magyarized by applying for an official transla-
tion of his name, from Kohn to to the most Hungarian-sounding approxi-
mation: Kun. In addition, Aaron was dropped altogether while the
erstwhile nickname of Béla became legal.

6

In this new guise the budding journalist won the hand of a Kolosvár merchant's daughter, who had previously rejected his suit. The newlyweds moved to Budapest where Béla became a reporter and later gossip columnist for the _Budapesti Naplo_, a second string daily. The salary was small but sufficient in those days of inexpensive living for support of the Kolosvár bride, Irina, and a soon to be born child, Agnes.

The years passed in uneventful obscurity, with no likelihood that old Samuel's predictions for his son would be realized, until the outbreak of World War I gave Fate a nudge. Soon after the opening of hostilities Béla found himself back in uniform and sent to the eastern front where, after brief action, he fell into Russian captivity and was interned in a prison camp near Tomsk. Here he gave sudden proof of resourcefulness as, in order to obtain preferential treatment, he stitched false markings on his tunic and passed himself off as an officer. This assured him of special privileges, such as contact with camp leaders who were taken in rotation to Moscow for enlightenment and indoctrination in the dawning political philosophy of communism.

The rewards for an apt pupil were far-reaching. Béla saw himself advanced to a camp trusty and, soon thereafter, to commander of an entire prisoner battalion. In 1917 he made several trips to the Kremlin for added instruction in a gospel that held an enormous fascination for his deeply inhibited ego. At last the stigma of his lowly origin and race had fallen from him, his days of crouching and creeping were over. He, squat, bowlegged, grotesquely ugly Aaron Kohn, had stood beside Lenin and received that chieftain's nod as a

7

leading participant in the coming world revolution.

Groomed for his special job (he now spoke fluent Russian)
Béla was sent back to Hungary as head of a communist cell that was
to organize the overthrow of the interim Károlyi government and set
up a "soviet" or "peoples' rule". He lacked neither funds nor well
paid followers, as his Moscow sponsors were flush with confiscated
Tsarist treasure.

The advance of nihilism was aided by the nearsighted im-
placability of western statesmen. So great was the zeal for vengeance
among the victorious Allies that all sight was lost of the ghastly
consequences to be brought upon future generations by destruction
of the mid-European bulwark. Historians long had iterated that, if
the Habsburg Empire did not exist it would have to be invented -- as
the sole rampart against the Asiatic hordes. Well, the barriers were
down and Asia's outriders from Ural to Caucasus were on the way, while
the nations of the West stubbornly hugged their hates.

In desperation Hungarian emissaries appeared at the peace
tables of Versailles to plead for a return of their exiled king who
alone could rally conservative elements against the communist storm.
However, President Woodrow Wilson's beautiful promise of "self-
determination for small nations" had apparently not been intended
for *all* small nations. England, Yugoslavia, even dwarfish Albania
would continue, in a world of toppling thrones, to flourish royal
airs. But Hungary's thousand-year-old crown, older than any dynasty
in Europe, must give way to the Hammer and Sickle.

Béla Kun's road to power was not altogether painless. When
help from outside was denied, war-weary Hungarians formed vigilante

8

detachments to disperse anarchist demonstrators and the looting rabble
that came in their wake. Twice the pompous Béla, swaggering about in
fur hat and Russian greatcoat, was ambushed by Budapest patriots and
given a sound thrashing that reduced him to a gory pulp. But he re-
vived even as the country rejoiced in the rumor of his execution. More
than that, he emerged from the near-lynching to new stature, as a dread
and avenging phoenix. Up to now he had only sought satisfaction for
suppressed vanities and a lifetime of humiliations and snubs. But
the beating had wakened other appetites: thenceforth he would be an
avenger and a scourge. The surly little gnome was now a fearsome and
life-sized monster. His future record would be a reign of terror.

First on the self-made commissar's agenda was the screening
of a tough bodyguard, a special secret police whose sole job it was to
ferret out non-conformist elements and "purge" them from the body of
the new state. Nightly unsuspecting citizens were dragged from their
homes, gagged, knifed, and tossed into the swirling Danube. With such
methods it was no time at all before the Red flag was hoisted above
Budapest's Royal Palace. By February of 1919, at the age of thirty-five,
Béla Kun was master of the country.

Details of the horror that followed did not reach the outside
world except in incoherent snatches spread by grapevine or the dis-
jointed gasps of frantic refugees. Among eyewitnesses was the poet
Ady Endre who as a struggling young schoolmaster had counted the erst-
while Aaron Kohn among his pupils. In retaliation for some disci-
plinary measure the truculent small Aaron had entered the classroom
after school, climbed on Teacher Endre's desk, and used its exact

9

center for a privy. When Vienna journalists questioned the dying Endre regarding Béla Kun, his bitter comment was: "I could have prophesied grow!" that he would up to be a particularly nasty swine. At ten, it was my desktop — now it's the whole country that is being sullied by him!"

1

Chapter 18.

Early in the Béla Kun epoch of dictatorship by executions, terror, hunger and pillage, the Kálmán family found itself in danger due not only to Papa Kálmán's monarchist loyalties but to the widely acclaimed prosperity of his composer son. Confiscatory measures were the order of the day. Aristocratic estates and castles, private homes and farmlands, shops and hotels (the Hungaria and the Ritz on the Danube Quay) were commandeered for use of Party satraps, while individuals who had no visible resources but were suspected of wealthy connections abroad became handy targets for extortion.

In Vienna, news circulated continuously of whole families held for ransom and, in cases where this was refused, being butchered without mercy in the cellars of the police lock-up. For Emmerich Kálmán it was a time of almost unbearable anxiety. In his heart he had remained, despite world-wide success, the emotionally chained Imre of Balaton childhood days. Life had no meaning for him apart from those he loved. Paula Dvořak had entered this magic circle of his loyalties (they continued to share the apartment in the Paulanergasse) but there could be for Imre no peace until his parents and younger sisters, Rozsika, Milike and Ilonka, were safe.

Daily he haunted the offices of the Allied Commission in Vienna, filling out questionnaires, furnishing affidavits, and otherwise pressing the urgency of his request. At last the safe-conduct was granted after specific -- and expensive -- stipulations were met in Budapest. The Kálmán family made its way to freedom, but every possession had to be left behind.

In Vienna a secondary problem now arose. Imre's unconven-

3

underhanded methods to come by these necessities was to speed death
through freezing or starvation.

During this dark period the Vienna Red Cross valiantly kept
up its charitable work. Money from outside came only in trickles as
the world was still too steeped in hate to shift from political to
humanitarian considerations. For a fund-raising device a public lot-
tery was instituted, with tickets peddled in the streets among the
town's own pinched citizens. Dutifully Imre made a purchase and
slipped the number into his pocket. A few days later he found himself
the winner of two hundred thousand Kronen.

In his student days this had been a fortune. But now, with
currency devaluation progressing by the hour, "fortunes" vanished
like wisps of smoke. Quickly Imre divided up the money among his
dependents, even dispatching a portion to uncles and cousins still
in Budapest. There was a small balance left which Imre decided to
spend on himself. He made the rounds of Vienna shops, only to find
the price of clothing and footwear out of reach. At last, in an
apothecary's window, he saw three bottles of hair tonic of a well
known brand, _Dralle's Birkenhaarwasser_, obviously unwanted in these
times of more elemental needs. Triumphantly he made his purchase.
A few hours later Vienna papers carried the news of another Stock
Exchange crisis with a consequent soaring of the inflation curve.
The generous donations barely in the hands of his relatives were
already wiped out. Imre alone still had something of value: his
three bottles of hair tonic.

Obviously these were not days conducive to musical compo-

4

sition. Aside from the daily forage for food, Imre had his two sick
charges to watch, the weakening Paula and his often recklessly dis-
obedient father. The treatment of diabetes included precautions, such
as avoidance of starches, sugar, and excessive use of tobacco. On
his bad days Papa Kálmán submissively followed these rules, but as
soon as he felt better he could be found nibbling at black market
bakery goods or quaffing a potent Turkish cigar. In supervising the
old man Imre smilingly recognized one of life's paradoxes: in childhood
he had trembled before his father's discipline -- while now it was the
elder Kálmán who feared being trapped in mischief flagrante by his son.
Nevertheless, the close association of this Viennese period counted
up to considerable happiness. Never had Papa Kálmán felt closer to
his beloved "Imrike", in whose fame he took enormous pride. He was
not destined to hear all of his son's musical works, but as a true
Magyar the old man had already singled out his favorites: "Csándás
Princess" and "Sári".

As the disastrous year 1919 neared its close Imre's creative
inactivity began to oppress him. Even before the Armistice he had
been at work with the librettists Stein and Jenbach on a comedy to
be entitled "Das Holland Weibchen" ("Little Dutch Girl"). But the
débâcle of the Central Powers had put an abrupt end to inspiration.
During that same period two highly respected Viennese writers, Julius
Brammer and Alfred Grünwald, had approached Imre with the first act
of a script called "Countess Maritza", for which he had neither heart
nor stomach. In a mood of black despair he had gathered up his papers,
the "Maritza" draft included, and locked them away. Would he ever
again write a line of music? He doubted it.

5

On October 17, 1919, the status of Austria was definitely settled by the treaty of St. Germain. Defeated, disrupted, and impoverished, the former Habsburg realm of 261,241 square miles was reduced to the city of Vienna and a surrounding territory of 32,369 square miles. The tearing of so deep a wound in the heartland of Europe could bode only one thing: a century of trouble ahead for the white man's world.

The fate of Hungary was to be similarly sealed a year later by the Treaty of Trianon, on November 13, 1920. Long before that time Béla Kun's political experiment had ended in bankruptcy, and a counter-revolution headed by the Hungarian-born Habsburg, Archduke Josef, drove out the communists and set up a conservative regency. This in turn displeased the peace architects at Versailles who appeared bent on Balkanizing eastern Europe and supporting the dominance of a rising proletariat. Under Allied pressure the Archduke soon laid down his powers while, after much controversy and negotiation, the National Assembly placed Admiral Nicholas Horthy of the former Imperial Fleet at its helm. Horthy was given the title of Regent, betokening a firm belief throughout Hungary that the monarchy was only temporarily suspended. By provision of law the Regent would remain in office indefinitely or, as patriotic Magyars fancied, until the return of the King.

Horthy's job was a thorny one from the start. On June 4, 1920, he sent a delegation headed by Count Béla Apponyi to Paris in the hope of easing the harsh peace terms. But Apponyi returned crestfallen; he had been compelled to sign away more than two thirds of

6

Hungary's former territory so that a new and historically untenable Europe might take shape.

This national tragedy struck individually at every Hungarian heart. Magyars abroad sorrowed with their traduced brethren at home, facing the future in forlorn despair. Emmerich Kálmán was no exception. Like his professional associates in literary and musical circles, as well as the theater, he felt himself drained of all zest and inspiration. Yet life must go on, bills paid, dependents cared for. Imre was realist enough to know that he could not continue drifting. Whether as artist or bricklayer, he must resume some sort of work.

Half-heartedly he brought out his manuscripts and looked them over. With dogged determination he sat down to compose a score for "Das Holland Weibchen", readying the production for a premiere at the Johann Strauss Theater early in 1920. The cast was chosen from that playhouse's regular company; it included such popular names as Steffi Wallidt (in the title role), Fritz Werner, Ida Russka, Karl Bachmann, and Max Brod.

Performances opened at four in the afternoon as, due to the fuel shortage, Vienna was without light. Streetcars stopped their runs after dark, and of course all public buildings were now without heat. However, nothing appeared grim enough to crush the spirit of the Viennese. Wrapped in coats, shawls and blankets, they supported their impoverished opera, the starving symphony orchestra, and the gallant and beloved operetta companies. Stomachs were empty, but a rumor made the rounds concerning a man named Herbert Hoover who had just begun his beneficent work of speeding grains and milk to Europe's destitute masses. Well, until some of this bounty reached

7

Danube territory, music must sustain the stricken Austrian heart.

For the first time Imre grasped the ennobling force of his chosen profession. Whether of solemn or light character, music was the great comforter and healer. Here was the explanation of ancient funeral chants and dances which somehow lifted the mournful above their grief. In joy and despair the true significance of art (and were not sculpture, painting, literature simply melody in other forms?) proved itself an essential human need. Well, then, there must be an end to idleness. Apathy was a crime. He, Imre, must arouse his dormant muse and rededicate himself to her service.

With revived ardor he set to work now on the "Countess Maritza" score. But his resolve broke down after a few false starts. The story setting was so intrinsically Hungarian that, in this hour of national tragedy, he found it impossible to immerse himself in the harmonies of his lost homeland. Regretfully he met with the librettists and demanded a different subject.

"Write me a play that doesn't have a single gypsy violin," he begged. "Pick any kind of topic, a Hindu potentate if you like, with a whole harem!"

Brammer and Grünwald pondered this suggestion and arrived a few days later with a title, though as yet they had no plot. The name of the new production was to be "Bayadère", and its central figure an oriental hero such as Imre had jokingly proposed.

"He'll be handsome, turbaned, though otherwise in European clothes — terrific!" the happy writers promised.

The plot, when they got to it, would revolve about this

8

charming though polygamous potentate's love for a woman from the West.

So inventive were the eager librettists, once they grappled with their exotic theme, that Imre's own flagging energies once more revived. He mapped out the musical line for "Bayadère" throughout the summer and fall of 1920, creating one of its hit tunes in the title song. Then, with the arrival of cold weather, the brisk work schedule again slowed down. Under the combined hardships of an inadequate diet and unheated living quarters Imre's grip on his muse slackened. A quarter of a century ago Giacomo Puccini's "La Bohème" had glorified a mid-winter garret scene in a frolicsome opening act. Reality for Imre was less jolly. Paula's crippled condition was now past all hope, and his father's illness had entered its last stage.

In search of milder climatic conditions Imre transferred his two suffering charges to Bad Ischl, where he himself managed to complete his orchestrations while sitting on a hotel terrace in the sun. At last, by the following October he took the finished work to Erich Müller, director of the Johann Strauss Theater. An unofficial agreement existed between him and Müller that all future Kalman operettas were to be launched in this playhouse.

A difference of opinion now arose. For the comedy parts Imre wished to engage two tried and staunch performers, Luise Kartousch and Ernst Tautenhayn, though he was otherwise in favor of using the regular stock company cast. Müller on the other hand was tied by contract commitments to his ensemble, which made the hiring of outside talent an impossibility. Thus an amicable breach occurred as Imre refused to forego the Kartousch-Tautenhayn combination. The show was

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moved to the Carl Theater where the première took place on December 23, 1921. Here Imre's instinct proved right. Apart from its romantic story the operetta's comic elements met with resounding acclaim, to be credited primarily to the popular acting team. "Bayadère" ran at the Carl Theater through 425 performances before being taken on the road.

For Imre this success had been heightened by a poignant, if risky, circumstance. Papa Kálmán had defied medical veto and attended the opening. A short time later, during the Christmas holidays, death claimed the proud old man. In the midst of funeral preparations Imre received news from Berlin that "Holland Weibchen" was setting a record at the Metropol Theater with the operatic coloratura Claire Dux in the title role. Italy, England, Australia, South Africa and America were well into their second season with translated versions of the same musical play.

He had no time now for rejoicing. His widowed mother, longing for Hungary, insisted on returning to her former home. Two of the girls, Rozsika and Milike, shared the same urge while the youngest sister Ilonka wanted nothing so much as to follow Imre to Vienna as his secretary and assistant.

Nothing indeed would have suited Imre better than to groom Ilonka for this job. Her charm, talent, and deep musical understanding admirably qualified her for far better things, and by rights she ought not to be swallowed up in the hinterlands without chance to develop her gifts. But his domestic impasse was more difficult than ever as the bed-ridden Paula required attention night and day. One last time he urged marriage, for the sake of propriety and so that Ilonka might

10

come to live under his roof. But Paula saw only the promptings of
pity in his offer and her sense of fair play caused her to recoil.
The sad, afflicted woman did not know that by her renunciation she
thrust far heavier chains upon the man who was no lover now, but only
a protector and a slave.

Paula's refusal decided Ilonka's fate. The young girl was
shipped back to Budapest with her mother and sisters on the newly re-
instated Danube night boat.

1

Chapter 19.

For some time now Paula required the ministrations of a
full time nurse. This necessitated a change of residence as the
Paulaner Gasse apartment was exceedingly cramped. New quarters were
found in a spacious house on the Boulevard "Ring des 12. November",
not far from the Opera and the heart of Vienna's theatrical life. Thus
the composer could pursue his professional tasks at close hand without
absenting himself for more than short daily periods from the ailing
woman's side.

The new surroundings were handsome and pleasing, yet for
a time Imre felt rootless, unsettled. Experience had taught him that
the steady push of creation depended upon geographic stability. That
is, no matter how turbulent and kaleidoscopic the sources of inspir-
ation obtained through restless wanderings and change of pace or
scene, once the birth throes had begun it was essential to remain
anchored, or the fruit of gestation would not emerge infrangible, all
of a piece. A simple move from one street to another could break
the flow of composition.

Imre was haunted by such fears, as, for some weeks, he found
himself dislocated amid packing cases, trunks, dismantled furniture,
and crockery. His piano, his books, his desk and favorite chair, all
appeared buried in a conglomeration of household paraphernalia, the
existence of which had -- at least during Paula's better days -- never
been allowed to intrude upon his privacy. An irresistible urge seized
him now to call back the moving van and rush back to the beloved
Paulaner Gasse. But the old flat had been let to new occupants almost

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at the moment of being vacated, and in any case the notion was absurd.

Why did he need a desk? What did he plan to work on at this junction
in world history, when the Witches' Sabbath of Europe's financial col-
lapse rose on the horizon?

The inflation vertigo of 1922 and 1923 was churning to full
speed. Germany, Austria and Hungary were its most agonized victims,
but the canker could not fail to spread across guarded borders of
neighboring lands. Despite appearances and the sad record of human
strife, the earth was still mankind's home, one body, whereon the
festering of a single sore must ultimately affect the entire organism.

In Vienna the price of a small bar of soap was computed in
thousands of Kronen, while a pair of shoes cost upwards of three
million. But this was only a beginning. Soon people learned to
count in billions and trillions merely to live through a twenty-four
hour day. Housewives, bewildered by such arithmetic, tossed worthless
banknotes aside and began bartering their table silver, jewels and
porcelain trinkets for the scant rations that eked out a meal.

In such times only philosophers or the insensible could
ignore the general misery by retiring to the ivory tower of the mind
and the escapist opiates of intellectual pastimes. Imre was neither.
His philosophy never freed him from responsibility toward fellow
beings; his sensibilities involved him inevitably in the sufferings
of all with whom he had contact.

It was almost laughable then, during that lunatic period,
that Brammer and Grünwald reappeared with their projected outline
for "Countess Maritza". Only in a spirit of macabre humor could Imre
bring himself to near their expatiations on its colorful twists of

3

plot. "Give yourself a chance," the venturesome scribes prodded, "you
might end up liking it!"

To his own surprise this was precisely what happened. As if
by some magic formula the fallow and profitless period he had just
passed through proved a prelude to what would become Imre's greatest
success. As he immersed himself in the unwanted libretto a wealth of
melodies began crowding his brain, pressing for release in a cascade
of sound. Straight off he studded Act I with three sure-fire tunes,
"Grüss' Mir Mein Wien" ("Salute To Vienna"), "Komm' Czigány" ("Play,
Gypsy!"), and the "Children's Birthday Song"; the first two circled
the globe almost on publication, while the latter soon took its place
among beloved Austrian folk rhythms.

All was not smooth sailing, however, despite this new burst
of inspiration. The transfer from the Paulaner-gasse had been
followed by a fortnight of unsettled discomfort. Workmen hammered on floors
and walls, tacking down carpets and hanging draperies. Footsteps
echoed through halls, doors slammed and windows rattled, while odors
of fresh paint and furniture polish permeated everthing. To escape
these irritations the composer fled into the street for long walks.
He headed down the Ringstrasse past the Opera, the Hofburg Palace
and the government ministries, to a favorite sidewalk café.

To be sure, this was no way to seek seclusion. He had
become a celebrity over the years, recognized by old and young. People
whose names and faces he did not know paused at his table to tell
him how they liked his operettas. Some lingered to bombard him with
platitudinous questions, the most persistently recurring one being:
"Do you compose with or without a piano?"

4

He always answered patiently, especially regarding the piano.
"I require no tools at all. Composing is a process that goes on up
here," he would point to his brow, "and in the heart."

Once, while crossing the Kärnthner Ring, a whole musical phrase took shape before him and he stopped in the middle of traffic to jot it down on the back of a visiting card. A gawking stranger sidled up just then with the usual inquiry.

"Maestro Kálmán! Permit me to pay my respects and to ask --
er -- do you compose at or away from the piano?"

Silently Imre handed him the scribbled card which contained
the opening chorus measures of "Varasdin", perhaps the top number of
the "Countess Maritza" score. It was not yet worked out, but the jot-
tings had fixed the melody line in his mind. As the stranger ambled
off with his autographed treasure Imre began humming the new-born
tune. Now he had only to go home and write it.

"Countess Maritza" opened at the Theater An Der Wien on
February 28,1924. Again it was Leap Year, by now an omen of good
fortune. His career had been marked by important February dates. His
debut as a fledgling composer had taken place on the 29th of that
month, in 1904, at the Budapest Opera House with his symphonic scherzo
"Saturnalia". Other Leap Year successes followed: "Herbstmanöver" in
1908, "Zigeuner Primas" in 1912, the American premières of "Miss
Springtime" (1916), "Csárdás Princess" (1916) and "Little Dutch Girl"
(1920). Having lived among theater people throughout this time Imre
could not help but acquire a weakness for signs and portents. Soon he
timed his productions to fit Leap Year schedules so as to comply with
what had become a favorite superstition.

5

Despite immediate popular acclaim "Maritza" did not win unanimous critical praises. Much of the score was authentically Magyar in flavor, with fiery gypsy tempi and rhythm. But a new and distinctly "modern" Emmerich Kálmán was emerging with the "Varasdin" number, which showed unmistakable American foxtrot leanings. In the United States the era of ragtime had ended and postwar jazz was starting its long reign. Echoes of its irresistible primitive beat reached Europe and were inevitably incorporated into Continental dance music. As a contemporary composer Imre could not disdain the new idiom, nor did he want to. He was loyally and passionately Hungarian, but it had never been his purpose to write for Hungary alone. His muse belonged to the whole young world. To this end melodic gypsy accents must blend with voices from other lands, no matter how alien and strange...

There were other ways in which he kept abreast of the times. Progressively his operettas became emancipated from stereotyped and rigid tradition, to take on the larger and more loosely joined form of the modern revue and musical comedy. That is, Imre adopted the techniques of ballet and spectacle ensembles which, though they temporarily halted dramatic action, were dazzling shows in themselves. In short, combining theatrical knowledge with the sound symphonic education of his earlier years, the new Kálmán extracted the utmost, both visually and audibly, from every planned scene.

Tradition-bound critics howled. If this Emmerich Kálmán called himself a composer of operettas let him fit his pieces to the tried and accepted "Merry Widow" mold. His flaunting of venerable custom, even in the realm of light opera, could not be tolerated.

6

Thus the academic minority. But audiences both at home and abroad were to think otherwise. "Countess Maritza" played at the Theater An Der Wien for a whole year, then was followed by 400 performances at the Volksoper (People's Opera House), 300 sell-out nights at the Bürgertheater, and a return engagement of 1000 performances on its original stage. A separate German company played more than a thousand times in Berlin, followed by half that number in Hamburg and a somewhat smaller record in Dresden and Budapest. Transferred to New York, the show remained before American audiences for over a year -- in those days an unheard of feat for musical plays.

Not all the credit accrued to Emmerich Kálmán alone. He had availed himself of exceptionally gifted librettists and of a product-ion director of highest caliber, not to say genius. This latter was Hubert Marischka, successor to the beloved late Vilmos Karczag. A brilliant young actor himself, Hubert Marischka had brought to his new post as manager of the Theater An Der Wien a flair for dramatic values and proper staging. He knew how to humanize characterizations, transforming them from hackneyed operetta types into figures of originality and verve. Under his touch the expected cliché became a fresh nuance, a startling climax, a burst of beauty and wit.

old)
Imre recognized the merits of this new associate and friend, who capped all other talents by possession of an acceptable singing voice. Combining two jobs, Hubert Marischka consented for a time to play the romantic Tassilo in "Countess Maritza", as he had -- before his days as a director -- starred in earlier Kálmán shows, notably the wartime operetta "Gold I Gave For Iron". Unquestionably Imre's arrival at the pinnacle of his career owed much to this wise inter-

7

preter and master of theater craft.

His alliance with Hubert became fortified by each successive undertaking. Together the partners brought another Kálmán production before the public, dealing with a tanbark setting. The libretto, again by Brammer and Grünwald, bore the title "Circus Princess". Opening on March 26, 1926, this spectacle was another departure from conventional operetta design. But, though well received by critics and audiences alike, it met with competition from the still triumphant "Countess Maritza". Another handicap was the choice of title: there had been the earlier "Csárdás Princess", cherished and remembered the world over. The new work was radically different in locale and plot, but its advance publicity conveyed a repetitive note which proved damaging.

A similarly ill-advised, because trite, caption was chosen for another offering two years later under the Kálmán-Brammer-Grünwald-Marischka aegis. This was the farcical "Duchess Of Chicago", which starred Hans Moser and the beautiful Rita Georg for a full year's run in Vienna, and thence toured the world in more than two thousand performances. Both these last-mentioned new works must be regarded as successes, by then prevailing standards. But each failed actually in living up to its true potential. This was evident in America particularly, where a healthy reaction was setting in against artificial Graustarkian themes. Neither "Circus Princess" nor "Duchess Of Chicago" belonged in this category. Kálmán was far too modern an artist to cling to the dry husks of long dead musical comedy fare: he had never made use of standard material in the first place. Nevertheless, there remained a misleading implication in titles that evoked tiresome and threadbare props, such as the frolicking peasants on the village

8

green, the maid of lowly birth risen to high estate, the incognito student prince, or the noble fortune hunter after American coin. Audiences rightly wearied of such garbage. The time had indeed arrived for a rebirth of the lyric theater along lines of naturalism and honest folklore in place of stale and mannered pretensions.

Imre himself sensed this only too well. A changing viewpoint manifested itself not alone among theater audiences. The war had swept away the last plush trappings of a *fin-de-siècle* Europe that would not rise again. On the Continent royal thrones were toppling in increasing numbers while a privileged aristocracy was finding itself reduced to quite ordinary human estate. A rash of books and plays would deal for a time with cooks, chauffeurs, and hotel doormen who were refugee Romanoffs, Habsburgs, Spanish Bourbons and lesser nobility in disguise (Hohenzollern stock had fallen below consideration) but this spate was purely topical and bound to be short-lived.

The trend was pointed out to Imre by a visiting pioneer of the American theater, Arthur Hammerstein, who had come to Vienna on a special errand. Would Emmerich Kalman consider writing a musical show in the New York pattern, namely, in partnership with another composer?

The idea seemed revolutionary and, to a Viennese artist, unworkable. But, as Hammerstein pointed out, librettists had col-laborated in pairs for years. Why not musicians?

Imre wrestled with his inner voices. He was no Richard Wagner, after all, who had penned his own scripts, besides composing, staging, directing, and conducting (what, not acting and singing?)

9

his masterpieces. Unlike opera, the *genre* of musical comedy called for many heads and hands. There was no loss of face in sharing honors with a fellow composer. Imre agreed to make the experiment.

It would prove his most novel departure yet, and one upon which he launched with some trepidation. Being open-minded, however, he conceded that Hammerstein's proposal might offer opportunities to learn fresh techniques and a new style. In art there was no standing still.

1

Chapter 20.

The Hammerstein-sponsored work became an eight-handed
enterprise, with two librettists and two composers engaged in its
creation.

For the musical collaboration the American producer had
chosen Herbert Stothart, a successful orchestral composer with some
experience in the operetta field. In anticipation of a favorable
answer from Kalman, Hammerstein had brought Stothart to Europe with
him. Action could begin at once, as there was already available the
gist of a story put on paper by a nephew, Oscar Hammerstein II, and
the latter's co-writer, Harbach. The projected play was to be called
"Golden Dawn", and its New York opening was to be part of the dedication ceremonies of the new Hammerstein Theater.

The work progressed agreeably at Imre's Vienna studio, where
Stothart appeared each morning with his transcribed portion of the
daily stint. A method was soon hit upon whereby the chorus of each
song fell to Imre's pen while the American wrote the introduction and
verse. In New York meanwhile the libretto was expanded and rushed back
and forth across the Atlantic for necessary adjustments to the musical
score. All this appeared at first fraught with handicaps and delays,
yet the feat was miraculously accomplished within two months.

Try-outs of "Golden Dawn" were held at Wilmington, Delaware,
during early autumn of 1927, followed by a brilliant New York premiere.
With this Hammerstein production Emmerich Kalman was introduced for
the first time as a partner in an all-American undertaking. It also
marked his cinematic debut, as "Golden Dawn" made its way to Hollywood's
film stages.

2

Plans had been laid for Imre's presence at the New York ceremonies, which were to honor both him and the newly inaugurated theater. But his shyness forebade acceptance of a distinction which, after all, was only partially earned. "Golden Dawn" had been in a sense a construction job on which a quartet of architects had taken equal part. He did not feel that his name deserved being singled out above the rest.

There was another and even more potent obstacle to the overseas journey. Paula, the devoted companion of seventeen productive Vienna years, had reached the end of her martyrdom. As her strength waned and she could no longer be propped up in bed by the window, where the life of the city drifted past, Imre spent day and night at her side. He gave up his habitual haunts, the coffee houses of the Franzens Ring, the Kärnthner Strasse, and the Albrechts Platz, as well as all contact with colleagues and friends. She, the closest and dearest of these, had claim upon him now.

As she lay dying, cut off from her own kin by the choice she had made in the wild summer of life, her world centered upon one single being, the man by her side. To him she had been inspiration, rapture, sorrow, despair — each in succession. But above all else, even through the long years of her illness, her presence and the obligations incurred by it had provided him with a necessary anchor. In returning daily to this pole around which his life revolved he had found peace and a well ordered routine, indispensable to a creative mind. At the same time, however, his personal and human destiny had suffered in exchange for professional gain. The quiet devotion that chained him to Paula furnished an untold succession of peaceable

4

departed radically from all he had previously done. The sadness of
his loss had left him in a Verdi and Puccini mood: he was Alfredo
weeping in La Traviata's chamber, and Rodolfo torn with grief at the
passing of Mimi.

Subconsciously a bond of sympathy began to draw him toward
the Paris setting of these two sentimental histories, and, more spe-
cifically, to the Bohème atmosphere of Montmartre. No highborn ladies
or hussars in gold braid interested him now. His imagination hungered
for absorption in some simple story about simple people in a shabby
sector of the gay City of Light. He had tired of pretentious stage
spectacles that were weighted down with pomp and glitter. His new work
must deal with elemental human experience — poverty, loneliness,
uneasy love...

A special circumstance came to his aid. At one of the side-
walk tables of his favorite café there appeared almost daily a frail
young girl of shy, almost frightened demeanor. She was fair-skinned
and of delicate features, but cheaply dressed and obviously short of
funds. Waiters did not rush eagerly to serve her table since the
cup of chicory coffee and single brioche she ordered left no prospect
of a tip.

"She's some film extra," the café proprietor informed Imre
one day when the girl apparently was unable to meet her bill. "Name
of Vera Makinskaja, a White Russian refugee, she says, sixteen years
old and half starved — just look at her!"

Imre looked. He saw a half-grown child with serious brown
eyes, high Slavic cheek bones, and a face of startling pallor under
a halo of tumbling blonde hair.

5

"You say she's an actress?"

The proprietor shrugged. "Actress, bah! A super-numerary at Sascha Film Studios, and the pay isn't enough to cover the sugar she shovels into her coffee..." He pointed to his account book. "It's almost four weeks now that she's behind with her bill, and that's not the worst of it -- "

"Oh?"

"Sometimes she brings her mother, and together, Herr Kalman, they raid the breadbasket. As you know, for the bread I am not allowed to charge --" He rolled his eyes mournfully, then thought of a mitigating angle. "Fortunately, since the war I do not have to furnish butter, otherwise spindle-shanks here and her old lady would put me out of business!"

Imre was deeply touched. To think of an adolescent starveling faced with a battle for survival in a city rampant with rapacity and evil! This was no longer the gracile and amiable Vienna of imperial days, famed for its charitableness and warm expansive heart. Men and women -- yes, and children too -- elbowed one another fiercely for scraps of food tossed out in garbage pails, for cast-off clothing piled on trash heaps, and even for some dry corner in an unheated hall where the homeless found temporary shelter on inclement nights...This was debased and ruined Austria, as late as 1928! He thought of his own sisters and what their lot might be, had not a kinder destiny enabled him to share his relative bounty.

"Let me have that bill," Imre commanded suddenly.

The proprietor's widened in happy disbelief as he quickly obeyed. "Servus, Herr Baron," he promptly elevated his customer to

6

titular eminence. "My wife will add it up for you at once."

Having disposed of the pitifully modest debt, Imre haltingly weighed the wisdom of introducing himself to Fräulein Makinskaja with a view to finding her a better job. Still, such a course might lead to a wrong interpretation of what had been a simple and compassionate impulse. Perhaps he had better wait until Mama Makinskaja was along.

For the rest of that week Imre was kept inordinately busy with his friends Brammer and Grünwald, who prodded him for ideas on some projected new work. "I have something for you," he admitted, "with a humble setting the world won't recognize -- our postwar Vienna." He was thinking of the pinched face and wan look on the young girl at the sidewalk café, and of the story she must be able to tell. But his speculations in this regard soon came to naught. From the day he had covered their debts neither Vera Makinskaja nor her mother put in an appearance.

"Stupid little goose," the proprietor and his wife scoffed, "doesn't know a good thing when she sees it! Several of our regular customers, all fine gentlemen to be sure, showed an interest -- but no, she, and the old one too, must turn up their noses. Pride, pride, can one eat and drink and keep warm with pride?"

If Imre's interest up to now had been that of a casual samaritan, the behavior of the unknown girl and her mother began to prey on his mind. People who shrank from charity were rare as pearls in the Europe of that day; none was harder to avoid than the cadging parasite whose needs were surpassed only by his brass in voicing them. Who then were these two lofty ones, plainly in want, yet too genteel for their own good? It was an issue with him now to find them.