A voice from the porch fell into the listening ears. I stood far away, on the other side of the road, so only incoherent words reached me:
“... an independent Hungary ... democracy ... social reforms.... International platform.... In the interest of foreigners.... The gentle-folk have driven us to the slaughter-house!”
“Well, that’s just the place for that fat one,” said the soldier with disgust. Those near him began to laugh, and a man who appeared to be an artisan screwed up his lips and gave a shrill whistle.
“That’ll do. Say something new! Shut up!” some shouted towards the porch.
Then something unexpected happened. A young Jew threw the name of Tisza into the crowd. He threw it there, just as if by accident.
“He caused the war! Long live Károlyi! To death with Tisza!” The same thing was shouted from the other corner, and a hoarse voice exclaimed:
“Long live the revolution!”
I shuddered. It was for the first time that I heard it thus, openly, in the street. Rigid white faces appeared under the entrances. But the cry died away. It found no echo.
“Down with the King!” This appealed to the mob. It was new, hitherto none had dared to touch this. The rabble snatched at what it heard and vomited it back with a vengeance. And the repulsive chorus was led by the young man who had previously mentioned the name of Tisza.