Veszter Gábor: Villas in Budapest. From the compromise of 1867 to the beginning of World War II - Our Budapest (Budapest, 1997)

masterpieces of miniaturised architecture are best characterised by following letter; addressed to a lady who has been so kind as to place it at my disposal:

“My dear Josephine! It has been a week now since we moved into our summer residence by the Avenue, and I can assure you that life here is perfectly delightful. Everything is arranged in such a comfortable and poetical manner that one would wish to breathe in rhymes. We are living in such an intimate closeness to each other that it is impossible not to feel at home. Every morning I open the little window of my little room and let in the fresh air across the two delicate little branches of the tender acacia constituting this side of our park. I then step out onto my balcony protected by a canvas shade of the size of a little girl’s pinafore. I must however first place the cage of my canary, which usually stands on the balcony, on the windowsill, for there is not space enough for both of us on the balcony. I then go down to the dining room, a pretty little room on the ground floor in which breakfast is also served when the number of people present is higher than three but does not exceed five. We have purchased a smaller samovar, for our town samovar would take up far too much space in here, and its top would probably collide with the chandelier.

After breakfast, father lights his morning chibouk, but only once I have opened the dining room door, for its stem is so long that it reaches the far end of the antechamber. I then retire with the newspapers to the west-facing veranda, a quiet and breezy little place. I read »Fővárosi Lapok« for the broadsheet format of »Pesti Napló« or of »Hon« would not allow me to open them on the veranda. When the sun catches up on me, I escape to the north balcony which stands on two columns, where I give a bead-work lesson to my little sister Matilda sitting in my lap, as there is no space for two chairs side-by-side. We usually have lunch in the northeast corner formed by eight columns and shaded by an Italian-type trellis, under which a table with four chairs is dressed. Sitting there comfortably implies some practice, for space is somewhat scarce. True enough, the footman carries the dishes outside the columns, reaching in between them, for he couldn’t possibly walk around the table within. It is also true that omelette soufflée has been crossed off the menu, for the

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