Who says that? Who proclaims himself the saviour of Hungary in the hour of her greatest peril? Count Michael Károlyi and Rosa Schwimmer? Martin Lovászy, Baron Louis Hatvany-Deutsch, John Hock, Sigmund Kunfi-Kunstätter, Ladislaus Fényes, William Böhm, Count Theodor Batthyány and Louis Bíró-Blau? Dezsö Abraham, Alexander Garbai and Ernest Garami-Grünfeld? Oscar Jászi-Jakobovics, Paul Szende-Schwarz and Mrs. Ernest Müller? Zoltán Jánosi, Louis Purjesz and Jacob Weltner?
Eleven Jews and eight bad Hungarians!
My soul is racked with indescribable pain. Good God, where is the King? Where is Count Hadik and his government, the officers, the still faithful troops? Are there no longer any fists? Is there nobody to strike at all?
After Gödöllö the King now gropes in Vienna. Hadik remains inactive while the fateful hours fly by. The officials do not lay down their pens, but incline their heads meekly under the new yoke. And, worst of all, the military command surrenders its sword without an attempt to draw it. There is no resistance anywhere: dark, underhand forces by careful labour have prepared the ground long ago. They have demolished everything that is Hungarian. And now, one stitch after the other, with deadly rapidity, the fabric that has endured a thousand years is coming undone.
My brain worked feverishly, thoughts galloping madly and seeking desperately for somebody—something. Somebody who could still stem the general ruin. Stephen Tisza!... And silently I asked his pardon for having condemned and misunderstood him. How he must suffer now! What must his thoughts be?
Near the church of the Franciscans a thronging crowd pushed me to the wall, so that I could not move. In front of me small urchins wormed themselves like moles through the crowd—Galician boys, with payes—locks hanging down in front of their ears—who were present and yet invisible, whose passage was only signalled by the shrinking of people’s shoulders, just as the underground road of the mole is marked by the mole-hills above. The boys were distributing poetry printed by the Népszava, offering it with humble impudence and thrusting it into the pockets of those who refused to take it.
The air was full of disturbing noises, and cheering was audible from the end of the road. A motor lorry clattered towards the Town Hall, reeling sailors, armed to the teeth, standing upon it with wide-spread legs. Red ribbons floated from their overcoats, and they bellowed songs. A schoolboy was running after the lorry dragging a big rifle behind him on the pavement. Soldiers, students, ragged women, streamed along. In the uproar two gentlemen were pushed to my side near the church wall. One was extremely excited: “I know it from a quite reliable source,” he said. “They are looting in the suburbs. The stores too.... Yesterday Károlyi’s agents armed the workmen of the arsenal. Thirty thousand armed workmen! At the railway station the mob has disarmed the soldiers.”
“There is not a word of truth in all that,” answered the other. “There is order everywhere. Post Office, telephone exchanges.... The railway-men have declared for the National Council. The whole press is with it, and so is public opinion.... The situation has been quietly cleared. As soon as Károlyi’s government is formed there will be order ... Lovászy, Kunfi, Jászi, Garami.... We must resign ourselves. None but Károlyi can get us a speedy good peace.”
“How do you know?”