Through that side door and out into the glow before the altar there poured out all the sad grey tragedy of war to flood the space where a few moments before all had been shine and glitter.

Some of them, those who had been most cruelly wounded, sank down onto seats provided for them. The others, whom fate had left physically intact, lined up at attention in stiff military garde-à-vous. Their shirtfronts and tunics were stiff with medals and ribbons and orders, the outward symbol of their gallantry. No one spoke. They were all utterly silent, not a word passing between them. All of them just stood there, looking straight ahead with a stare that was both eloquent and at the same time passive. Their eyes were the eyes of men who, day after day, looked death in the face.

This indeed was an echo of the Divina Commedia, but in reverse order, the Paradiso then finally the Inferno.

In their lines they waited, standing or sitting, looking neither to the right nor to the left, like soldiers before a battle waiting for the word of command…

The king, crowned with St Stephen’s crown and wearing St Stephen’s mantel, came back into the church and ascended the throne. The first name was called out.

A grey broken ruin of a man pulled himself up on two crutches. An orderly rushed to his side to prevent him from falling and guided him forward. At the steps of the throne he faltered just as St Stephen’s Sword touched his shoulder the ritual three times. Then somehow he was lifted to his feet and supported by his orderly as he tottered out of the church.

I could not stay to see the whole of the ceremony of investiture as I had work to do outside and was also only too thankful to be able to escape witnessing any more of the nightmarish scene. I went swiftly into the square.

Outside the square was by no means full and in many places there were spaces where the public might have gathered. Now the great hangings of coats of arms were no longer hidden by eager spectators. Somehow I felt it was rather like a large outdoor ballroom in which the ball itself was something of a failure. The overwhelming effect brought by the presence of the great crowds was missing. How much more beautiful, and impressive, I reflected once again, it would have been on the Fishermen’s Bastion. There, on the wide steps with the great curve of Albrecht Street and Park below, the whole city could have found a place and filled every nook and cranny with loyal crowds – and beyond, on the quay the Pest, hundreds of thousands of people could have witnessed the public swearing of the Oath which was, after all, the most sublime and important moment of the Hungarian coronation.

This oath was part of the very oldest of royal traditions. It must have originated in those nomadic days when the king was elected in an open space at the heart of the villages in which the people lived. The law was that the new king, holy crown on his head and regal cape on his shoulders, under God’s free sky and in the sight of the entire population of the land, swears to keep and uphold and enforce the law. To maintain the law was the first and unalterable duty of the sovereign, who thereby protected his people, and it was to preserve this inalienable freedom that so many battles had been fought and so many hardships endured by the Hungarian folk over more than a thousand years…

In front of the church the procession formed up under the state canopy: firstly, the standard-bearers, then the great gold Hungarian coat of arms, the Lord Chamberlain and his suit, then the barones regni with their official emblems; and finally the young king.

They moved slowly over a three-coloured carpet to the centre of the square and then in stately procession mounted the steps behind the stone balustrade.

Even today I can still see them as they appeared on the highest part of the eastern balcony. There were five, and none of them is still living today: Tisza with the text of the oath, Prince Esterházy with the sword, and, between the Prince-Cardinal and the Archbishop of Kalocsa, the crowned king.

The cheering stopped, and the oath was read slowly, sentence-by-sentence. As each sentence was read out the king repeated the words loudly and in a clear voice. In his left hand he held the apostolic ‘Pax’ cross, and his right was held high to witness his oath before the people. He held his head high, and a youthful smile, unchanging and full of hope, was on his lips.

When the king and his immediate entourage had returned to the church all the members of parliament and the delegates from the provincial cities, counties and districts moved off towards St George’s Square. Now the horses, all gaily caparisoned in multicoloured shabracks – those long heraldic saddlecloths we see in pictures of medieval tournaments – were led forward.

The first to mount were the archdukes. Then came the turn of the high court officials, or the deputies they had appointed to replace them, for only Endre Csekonics, the Master of the Table, my father, and the Ban of Croatia were prepared to do this in propria persona. There was not really enough space and this operation resulted in not a little confusion, partly due to the fact that the Ban, instead of carrying before him the golden sphere attached to its cushion as he should have done, handed it to his écuyer, who did not seem at all impressed at the honour of having to carry the symbolic golden apple – the orszag almajat – and simply held it in his hand as if it had been a football out of play. Many people were shocked at the sight. I suppose the man must have returned it later, but I did not see what happened, as I also had to hurry off to St George’s Square. There too the place was not full, although admittedly the grandstands round the square and the artificial hillock at its centre took up much of the space.

Most of those present were gathered at the corner nearest to the royal palace, attracted no doubt by a most charming sight.

From a window on the first floor of the palace Queen Zita looked down on the square.