March 6th.
An old woman stood on the edge of the curb and made queer, whining sounds. People looked at her and went on. A few street urchins jumped about her and laughed at her. When I came near I noticed that she was blind. She was making heartrending appeals out of her eternal darkness to the passers-by, and wanted to cross the busy street, but there was none to give her a helping hand. For a moment or two I looked at the people: they were mostly poor: labourers, labourers’ wives. They passed unmoved, caring for none but themselves.
The community of Marxian proletarians came to my mind. Those teachings which kill human community kill class community too. The times which tear the Saviour from the cross crucify humanity in His place.
I took the old woman’s arm and led her through the medley of trams and carriages.
“I am sure it is one of the gentlefolk who leads me,” the woman said; “our own people have become so cruel, even to their own kind....”
March 7th-8th.
I live from day to day. I have not yet been called before a tribunal. I am not arrested, but their accusations against me remain, nobody has torn up the warrant for my arrest. Why they hesitate about executing it I don’t know, for I shouldn’t trouble to ask them why they arrested me, and certainly wouldn’t accept any intervention on my behalf. I wouldn’t ask them for anything.
I am free, and yet I am not. I had intended to visit two provincial towns in the interest of the Women’s Association, but I was warned that if I were to leave Budapest it would be considered flight, and I should be arrested. What am I to do?