He, too, gloats over the destruction of a thousand years. What is the matter with this town?
Some straggling cheers resounded and a few caps were raised. Then the square became mute, for the hat of the Minister of War began to wave again in the air. His face became purple with the effort, and his voice sounded shrill. Words came, and he said:
“I never want to see a soldier again!”
For a moment these words passed above my comprehension. Then they came back and drummed in my brain. I could not believe my ears. I must have misunderstood him. It seemed impossible that a sane person should have said such a thing. The Minister of War of the government which had broken up the front under the pretence that Hungary was in need of Hungarian troops for the defence of Hungarian frontiers! No, it was more than ever impossible now when the Serbians were marching towards us and Wilson’s message had delivered us up to the rapacity of Czech, Roumanian and Yugoslav ambitions. Only the voice of dementia or sublime criminality could speak such words. What made him say it? But he is drunk. Is it not visible on his face? Do not people see how he sways and grins? His tongue has slipped, he is going to withdraw his words. No harm has been done as yet. The people have not grasped his horrible meaning, his venomous words can be snatched back from the air.
Near Linder a long sallow face began to nod. Károlyi stood on the steps. At his shoulder appeared a puffy, olive coloured face: Oscar Jászi, Károlyi’s prompter. So there they are too, listening to all this, and Károlyi nods and Jászi smiles, confirming, ratifying the awful words.
But the officers of the garrison are there! There may be about four hundred, perhaps more, all soldiers, all armed, all men. They will not stand it, they will rush at the Minister of War, catch hold of him by his red tie and string him up to the nearest lamp post like a depraved beast. My heart was hammering, and for a moment I had to turn away. It would not be a pleasant sight, and after this who will keep the army in hand? Who will take up the arms that are to be thrown away? He proclaims anarchy! He does not want to see any soldiers.... And within the cordon cheers are raised!
“Take the oath!” shouted Linder. Even then I had hope. Surely something must happen. The men will suddenly regain consciousness. In 1848 the Imperial High Commissioner Lambert was stabbed to death by the crowd on the floating bridge, though what was that foreigner’s guilt compared with the guilt of these Hungarians? Surely they cannot remain quiet like this? They are going to tear him to pieces. A hundred naked fists—why perhaps a single one could do it.... Oh for that one, gracious God!
“KÁROLYI STOOD ON THE STEPS.”