Then a voice from the gallery cried: "Long live Táncsis!"[52]
[52] Michal Táncsis, a prisoner who had been released from the citadel of Buda the same morning by the mob.
And with that the whole populace suddenly roared with one voice: "Let us see Táncsis!"
A frightful tumult arose. Táncsis was not at hand. He lived some way out in the suburb of Ferenczváros. But even had he been near, it would have been a cruel thing to have dragged on the stage a worn-out invalid, that he might merely bow to the public like a celebrated musician.
But what was to be done?
"Well, my sons," said Nyáry, with whom I was standing in the same box, "you have awakened this great monster, now see if you can put him to sleep again!"
My young friends attempted to address the people one after the other, Petöfi from the Academy box, Irinyi from the balcony of the Casino club, but their voices were drowned in the howling of the mob. The curtain was let down, but then the tumult was worse than ever; the gallery stamped like mad; it was a perfect pandemonium.
Then a thought occurred to me. I could get on to the stage from Nyáry's box; I rushed in through the side wings.
I cut a pretty figure I must say. I was splashed up to the knees with mud from scouring the streets all day. I wore huge, dirty overshoes, my tall hat was drenched, so that I could easily have made a crush-hat of it and carried it under my arm.
I looked around me and perceived Egressy. I told him to draw up the curtain, I wanted to harangue the people from the stage.