She had stood the little crown prince, the Archduke Otto, in the windowsill and held him enlaced with one of her beautiful hands. They were alone, framed in the window, just the mother and her beautiful child. There was the dark-eyed queen with the diamond crown and, held in her arms, the golden-blond boy in his traditional Hungarian costume. It had not been planned, but nothing could have been more beautiful or more touching. In the square the cheering grew louder and louder as more and more people crowded in. The stands were full and men and women in gala dress swarmed all over the square. The multitude roared and, from her window, the queen nodded and smiled her acknowledgement of the applause. It was a scene of surging life when the blood is at its hottest – vitam et sanguinem – when all Hungarians present forgot themselves utterly in an expression of ardent patriotism.

There was so much noise in the square that we hardly noticed that the cheering was growing ever louder outside and that therefore the king must already be on his way from the parade square where the oath had been taken.

Everyone lined up so as to make way for the mounted procession. I was in the front row by the road, and there was so little space that the horses brushed against us all as they passed.

First of all came the high court officials riding side by side. Behind them Tisza rode alone, his dark-clad figure so sombre that it seemed black after the multicoloured parade of those who preceded him. I looked hard at his face, but the expression of his eyes could not be seen behind his thick glasses. However, the corners of his mouth were drawn into deep ridges as if he were subject to some unutterably bitter sorrow. His lips were pressed hard together tightly closed lest they should reveal some burning secret. I thought that he was like a man weighted down by the hopelessness of his task, by the pain and endless worry of a duty that could never ever succeed … I do not think that I have ever seen a more tragic face than that of Tisza as he rode through that cheering happy throng.

I stayed at the corner of the palace of Archduke Joseph and so was only able to see the sword ceremony from a distance. The mounted figure of the king suddenly emerged from the forest of banners in the square. Up the little balustrade hillock he rode. Then with the sword he slashed the air around him while a palace outrider in a green tail suit turned the horse to the north and east and south and west, to the four corners of the world. A few moments later the steed was once more led down into the crowd and the figure of the king lost to sight among the ceremonial banners.

Not long afterwards the king became visible once again when, with the joy of a task well accomplished, he emerged from the crowd that surrounded him, waved a greeting to the figure of his wife at the window overhead and then quickly galloped away in the direction of the palace gates.

Everyone felt immensely relieved when his crowned head vanished through the great doorway, not the least because it was foolhardy to break into a gallop on that sloping slippery pavement, and the crowd, horsemen to a man, wondered what would happen if the charger were to stumble…

We next gathered in the largest reception hall of the palace. This was crowded not only with all those who had official commands to be present in the church and at the other two ceremonies but also with several hundred ladies who were expected to assemble here before being presented to the king and queen after their symbolic feast.

It was much more difficult to keep order here. All those who were waiting formed themselves into groups, some trying everything they knew to remain in the front rows, others refusing to move from the passages, and still more taking up their positions on the sofas that lined the walls. And, having selected their places, no one was prepared to move.

By now, most of those present were getting tired and obstinate and there were those who, spreading their legs wide, refused to move even from the established places of the officials of the court. My ushers were hard put to keep order, but somehow they achieved it and by the time the royal procession entered the hall most people were in their right places.

The royal couple, the two archbishops, the Palatine and the Prince-Cardinal took their seats along one side of a table that had been placed on a dais a few steps above the level of the floor.

Each dish was presented by the appropriate court official, by the chamberlains, members of parliament and certain magnates who approached the table in a long line. Only the gigantic roast, which had been cut from an ox roasted on the Vermezo, was brought up by the Chamberlain of the Table himself. At the lowest step of the dais he was handed the yard-long golden dish by the two lackeys who had carried it into the hall. It was very heavy, but somehow, given strength by his sense of duty and personal honour, he just managed the three steps, although it looked to all of us as if his legs would give way under him. Somehow, too, he managed to present the dish to the king, bowing as he did so.

The Chamberlain of the Wine filled the golden goblets.

The king toasted the nation, and everyone present responded with loud cheering.

This was the last official ceremony of the occasion, and immediately after it was over the court officials-in-waiting retired with the king and the members of parliament hurried down to the House so as to pass the necessary legislation confirming the act of enthronement and the consecration of a new monarch.

All the ladies and some of the men remained in the palace. At about half-past three Jekelfalussy and I were sent for and received in audience by the king. His Majesty thanked me most gracefully and warmly for my work. He did not seem in the least fatigued. When he dismissed us I went back to the drawing-room near the main staircase, knowing that those ladies who were to be presented would retire there after leaving the throne room and I wanted just once more to rejoice in the sight of such a pageant of beautiful women all dressed up in the panoply of jewels and trains.

A long table had been laid with a buffet meal in the drawing-room and, although I had eaten nothing for more than twelve hours, any fatigue was soon dispelled by a cup of tea and some slices of ham.

In the throne room, the Defilier Cour, as they called the ceremony of presentation, had already started.