I walked for a long time in my lonely sorrow, and presently I reached the banks of the Danube. In front of me the Elizabeth Bridge, like a crested monster, strode across the river with a single stride, its back shining with sundry lamps. Above it stood the solid mass of St. Gellert’s Hill, and under it glided the river’s cool stream, carrying with it dark, silent ships. Here and there a solitary murky pier clung to the shore, and the reflection of low-burning street-lamps slipped shuddering into the deep.
A breeze came from the hills. It will bring frost to-night. And at night the houses on the shore close their eyes so that they may see no more. For every now and then little, preying boats glide over the cold water. A shot is fired. There is a mysterious splash.... Everybody knows about it; nobody interferes. In 1918, between Buda and Pest, as in the lawless days of old, armed pirates stop ships. National sailor-guards play highwayman on the Danube!
I looked behind me. Among the badly-lit streets and dark houses who can tell where is the lair of robbers and murderers? The clamour of the busy streets, the silence of the alleys, hide crime. The town is blood-guilty: the murderers of Stephen Tisza walk freely among us.
A stranger turned the corner. I could not help thinking: was it he?—Or that other one who sat in a motor-car and smoked a cigar? Everything is possible here. Steps followed me, voices. Is he among those who are walking there?—One of those whose voices are raised in threats over there? The authorities are no longer pursuing their enquiries. The police searched only to make sure that it could not find. But Tisza’s blood cannot be washed away. It is there and it cries to Heaven.
I reached home tired out. Why had I gone out at all? What did I want? Was I looking for anybody? At least I might have seen a familiar face coming towards me, greet me, stop and tell me something that would have raised hope. I might have heard that General Kövess was marching on Pest with his returning army, or that Mackensen had gathered the Széklers round him in Transylvania. So this was what I had been seeking! I wanted to hear the sound of a name, the name of a man who was brave and strong, who knew how to organise and how to give orders, who could lay his hand on destiny at the brink of the abyss.
I found my room warm and cosy, for my mother had lit a fire while I was out. Through the open door of the stove the light of the flames danced into the room and was reflected from the parquet flooring. Stray rays flickered to the book-case and passed over the gilding of old volumes.
Tea was brought in and my mother came with it. She was wearing a black silk dress with a white lace collar, and the scent she always used brought a faint delicate fragrance into the room. After the disorder of the muddy streets the purity of this quietude was striking, and already I felt refreshed.
Later on I had a visitor, Countess Armin Mikes, and her news dispelled my temporary peace of mind. She was tired, her face was drawn as though she had been ill, and her eyes were filled with tears. I knew what was passing within her: the death of Transylvania.
“Have you heard,” I asked her hesitatingly, “that the United States have recognised Roumanians right over Transylvania? Her right.... And our traitors are going to hand it over.”