I was hidden, standing to the left and behind the throne, from where I could see nothing at all of the procession down the aisle. All I knew was that I could hear the roar of cheers from the crowd in Trinity Square outside the church and the bustle and stir as the royal couple approached their places. The congregation in the church, all now on their feet, so closed my view of what was going on that all I could see was the edge of the queen’s throne and the outline of the steps below it.

Suddenly there was silence. Then the powerful fanfare of the organ announced that the king had arrived. In front of me the Chamberlain – it was my father – moved forward on the lowest step before the throne, staff of office in hand. Across from him, on the other side of the throne, the apostolic cross rose high on its long black shaft – the royal procession must be near at hand. I peered round, but the throne in front of me was still unoccupied. A few moments went by. Then the white figure of a woman appeared briefly in front of me, clad in lace and satin and wearing a crown of diamonds3. For a moment she was motionless; then she sank to her knees in a graceful movement that was both womanly and regal. It was a moment that touched the heart to see the queenly movement of this radiant woman as, her coronation mantel streaming out behind her, she bent over the purple prayer stool that had been embroidered with silver lilies and crosses. A long veil of white lace trailed diagonally from her head…

There was another peal from the organ, this time accompanied by strings and the voices of the choir.

The coronation ceremony began.

First there was the mass, the thousand-year-old Latin text interspersed with music and song, and sometimes merely by soft chromatic scales and melodies from the organ.

The king went up to the altar. Then he returned. Once again he moved up to the altar, but this time his shoulders had been draped in St Stephen’s robe. Now the crown was placed on his head.

At that very moment a shaft of light shone through the window above the altar, a pale wintry ray, but sunlight nonetheless, transforming the scene into a magic shining picture. Facing me, seated under the high windows, were all the chief dignitaries of the Catholic Church, and the combination of the sunlight from the outside and the electric glow from the chandeliers banished all shadows, metamorphosing the multiplicity of ritual hieratic garments, the brocades of the all-white piuviales; the white, gold-embroidered mitres, the infulaes, all into one translucent crystalline, unreal, angelic fog. It was an unforgettable sight, even though it lasted but for one brief moment only, the moment when the crown was placed on the young king’s head.

When Tisza stepped up to the altar, his tall slim figure standing high and straight, dressed in dark velvet; when he raised his right arm and waved his black hat three times in the air calling out with his manly deep voice: ‘Long live the king!’ the sun had already disappeared from the window above, never to be seen again.

The ceremony lasted for a long time, but for how long I could not possibly have said. In the resplendent, unreal, fairyland environment no one noticed the passage of time. There was music and song; incense rose in clouds and dissolved among the high vaulting of the church. The organ rumbled and sang and from outside could sometimes be heard the distant sound of a saluting cannon. Inside the church the constantly moving but silent groups of clergy moved solemnly in ritual observance, bishops sparkling in their formal robes stood hieratic and immobile as the ancient ritual moved to its inevitable conclusion, and one felt oneself living in a constantly changing but changeless, timeless dream. And when it ended, so it was like awakening from an enchanted sleep.

***

The king and queen retired to the sacristy, and the great congregation started to leave the church and take up their places in the square outside.

As the crowd inside began to disappear the ladies of the court and the ladies-in-waiting started to descend slowly from their places in the gallery on the left of the church. Now I could see them better. They came down, one by one or in pairs, down the steps from the gallery and into the centre aisle, all in dresses of gold and white and silver, studded with jewels and glittering like figures from ancient times suddenly come alive again, creating reality from imagination. Great family jewels, diamonds, pearls, emeralds and rubies adorned their heads in clusters of shining white and multicoloured precious stones, and from their shoulders long outer robes of velvet and brocade and ermine fell in soft folds to the ground behind them. As they moved slowly out of the church in procession they were accompanied by the softest of organ music as if the disappearance of all this beauty imposed silence in the now emptying basilica.

All at once, apart from those silent motionless officials who had not left their appointed places, the great church was empty. As when I had first come in early that morning all that was to be seen was the carmine of the carpeting and the red glow of the drapes which, after the pageantry of the last hours, now seemed almost severe.

From a door at the side, until now hidden by purple drapes, appeared the equites aurati – the knights of the Golden Spur – to receive the accolade from their sovereign.

There must have been about fifty of them, all officers coming from service in the front lines. Most of them were in iron-grey uniforms, faded, mended, with worn leather belts and blackened straps. One could see at once how old their boots were despite the fact that they had been vigorously brushed and polished to obtain an elusive and transitory shine. In the forefront were men with wooden legs, leaning on crutches, limping, knocking against each other, coughing and breathing heavily with the effort of movement.