Up, to power.... But they will not get it! A few resolute officers with a handful of soldiers can restore order. The National Council is nothing but an isolated “group of five.” There are no others. If its members are arrested, the mud they have stirred up will settle down; they are not united by any common honour, by any common crime.
Napoleon once said that with a few guns he could have stopped the great French Revolution. For these, a volley of rifle fire would do. But where is he who can command it to-day?
I came to the bridge over the Devil’s Ditch. In the mist the bridge looked as if it did not rest on the banks. Above the depth of the fog it floated mysteriously in space. Behind a drab amorphous veil the forest on the slope of the hills seemed a dreamy enigma; the trees by the road: lacelike blossoms of mist on the background of the falling night.
No sound reached me. Only some pebbles, displaced by my steps, clattered behind me. A branch cracked in the forest; it made me think of a skeleton wringing its hands in impotent despair.... And if they don’t arrest Károlyi and his accomplices to-night? Dostoevski’s novel came again to my mind and from among my thoughts there emerged the shout of a wicked, shrill voice: “To death with Tisza!” The penetrating mist now chilled me to the marrow. I felt cold all through.... “Death to Tisza!” It rang in my ears all the time. Good God, for how many years has this savage cry been prepared by blinded politicians, by frivolous political salons, by nearly all the press, in barracks, in factories, in the aula of the University, in the market place, between cellar and attic, in every human den! For how many years! The work was done by ruthless agitators, and now it is crowned with an awful success. In the eyes of the crowd he would not be a criminal who attempted the life of Tisza. His life is outlawed. The crowd is already prepared for the event. The mob in the street may clamour without risk or protest for the life of this man: “To death with Tisza!” I could not stop the fearful cry from ringing in my ears.
For days I had spoken to nobody who belonged to Tisza’s circle. Was he in town? Had he gone? If only he had gone away!... And I walked along the mountain path while the hoarse cry followed me, like a vagabond with evil intent. Try as I would I was unable to shake it off.
Night had fallen and the mist had become dense round our house. The fort opposite had disappeared and the edge of the mountain had become invisible. From far away, in the direction where the town lay, the report of firearms was audible.
In the cold darkness the house appeared so lonely, as if it had been expelled from communion with the rest of the world. The bonds that had tied human fates together have been severed, and we know of nought but what is going on in ourselves. The house was enclosed in a huge, grey wall of mist.
In the hall I tried to telephone, but could get no answer from the exchange. The receiver buzzed meaninglessly.
All at once rifle shots sounded from the hills, then came nearer. Suddenly a shot rang out at the bottom of our garden. Another. That one was nearer. Then a bullet struck the chestnut tree under my window. It had a curious effect upon me, for an instant later it seemed as if the whole thing had happened to someone else—as if I did not really live it, but just read about it in a book.
I extinguished the lamp, so that my lighted window should not serve as a target, and then groped my way in the dark to the ground floor, to my mother’s room. A narrow band of light showed on the floor under the door. As she was awake I went in. She was sitting quietly in one of the uncomfortable, high-backed, old-fashioned chairs. At the sound of the opening door she turned and our eyes met. For a time we remained silent. The firing outside had stopped too.