An outlaw's diary

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

Crown 8vo. 6s. net. each

THE OLD HOUSE : A Novel
STONECROP: A Novel

Published by
FHiLIP ALLAN & CO.

2
-
H

W

H

AN OUTLAW'S
DIARY :

REVOLUTION

By

CECILE TORMAY

WITH A FOREWORD BY

THE DUKE OF NORTHUMBERLAND

33. 3 23

LONDON :
PHILIP ALLAN & CO,

QUALITY COURT

First published in 1923

PHINTKD IN GREAT BRITAIN BY W. JOLLY AND SONS, LTD., ABERDEEN.

TO

A GENTLE VICTIM

OF THE REVOLUTION

MY UNFORGETTABLE MOTHER

I DEDICATE THIS

BOOK

PREFACE

It was fate that dubbed this book An Out-
law's Diary , for it was itself outlawed at a time
when threat of death was hanging over every
voice that gave expression to the sufferings of
Hungary. It was in hiding constantly, fleeing
from its parental roof to lonely castles, to pro-
vincial villas, to rustic hovels. It was in hiding
in fragments, between the pages of books, under
the eaves of strange houses, up chimneys, in the
recesses of cellars, behind furniture, buried in
the ground. The hands of searching detectives,
the boots of Red soldiers, have passed over it.
It has escaped miraculously, to stand as a
memento when the graves of the victims it
describes have fallen in, when grass has grown
over the pits of its gallows, when the writings
in blood and bullets have disappeared from the
walls of its torture chambers.

And now that I am able to send the book
forth in print, I am constrained to omit many
facts and many details which as yet cannot
stand the light of day, because they are the
secrets of living men. The time will come
when that which is dumb to-day will be at
liberty to raise its voice. And as some time
has now passed since I recorded, from day to
day, these events, much that was obscure and
incomprehensible has been cleared up. Yet I
will leave the pages unrevised, I will leave the
pulsations of those hours untouched. If I have
been in the wrong, I pray the reader's indulg-
ence. My very errors will mirror the errors of
those days.

vii

viii PEEFACE

Here is no attempt to write the history of a
revolution, nor is this the diary of a witness of
political events. My desire is only that my
book may give voice to those human phases
which historians of the future will be unable
to describe — simply because they are known
only to those who have lived through them. It
shall speak of those things which were unknown
to the foreign inspirers of the revolution, because
to them everything that was truly Hungarian
was incomprehensible.

May there survive in my book that which
perishes with us : the honour of a most un-
fortunate generation of a people that has been
sentenced to death. May those who come
after us see what tortures our oppressed and
humiliated race suffered silently during the year
of its trial. May An Outlaw's Diary be the
diary of our sufferings. When I wrote it my
desire was to meet in its pages those who were
my brethren in common pain; and through it
1 would remain in communion with them even
to the time which neither they nor I will ever
see — the coming of the new Hungarian spring.

CECILE TORMAY.

BUDAPEST,

Christmas, 1920.

FOREWORD

The writer of this book tells us that " here is no
attempt to write the history of a revolution, nor
is this the diary of a witness of political events."
Nevertheless the fact remains that it contains
much more than the personal experiences of an
actor in one of the greatest tragedies that has
occurred in recent history. If it were only that,
its value would still be very great, for it is so
vivid and dramatic a human document, and yet
its style is so simple and so completely devoid
of all " frills " or straining after effect, that it will
appeal as much to those who like good literature
and a moving tale for their own sakes, as to
those who desire to understand a chapter of
history about which little is known, but which
yet throws a flood of light upon the great world
movements of to-day.

To those who are interested in that inter-
national revolutionary movement which, in one
form or another, is threatening every civilized
state to-day, this book will be invaluable. The
course of events which led up to the revolution
in Hungary was precisely similar to the course
of events in Russia. In both cases there was a
more or less open radical, socialistic, and pacifist
movement working in conjunction with a hidden
subversive movement. In Hungary the latter
movement is described as "a pseudo-scientific
organization of the Freemasons, the Internation-
al Freethinkers' Branch of Hungarian Higher
Schools, and the Circle of Galilee with its
almost exclusively Jewish membership."

ix

x FOREWORD

In both cases the way for revolution was pre-
pared by an insidious propaganda in the work-
shops and in the Army and Navy. In both
cases the revolution was not the result of a
spontaneous outburst of popular feeling but of a
sinister conspiracy using the confusion and dis-
couragement of a military disaster for its own
ends. In both cases the first step towards the
complete overthrow of Church and State was
the erection of a bourgeois radical and socialist
republic whose aim was to disintegrate and de-
moralise as a preliminary to the coup d'etat
which ushered in " the dictatorship of the
Proletariat." Russia had her Kerensky, Hun-
gary her Karolyi.

i This book deals with Hungary's agony from
the standpoint of one who experienced every
one of its phases ; it does not deal with
Hungary's resurrection from the grave of Bol-
shevism, and it is here that the parallel with
Russia ceases. The heart of Hungary was
sound ; the corruption, demoralisation and inertia
which have made Russia the plague-spot of
humanity had not so deeply permeated the
national life of Hungary. The race had too
much vigour, too great a regard for its religion,
its history, its traditions and its liberty to sub-
mit for long to that soul-destroying tyranny.
And yet — and here is a lesson for the countries
of Western Europe — this nation, which, owing
to its traditions and the character and pursuits
of its people would have seemed less disposed
than any other to submit to Communism, did
for a time succumb to the despotism of a few
criminal fanatics, a gang of mental and moral
perverts. And the disaster was due not so
much to the strength of the subversive influences
as to the weakness and cowardice of the author-
ities in Church and State and in Society at large.

FOREWORD xi

In a great industrial country like Great
Britain there is far more favourable ground than
there was in Hungary for the production of anti-
social philosophies and the manufacture of revolu-
tionaries ; the danger from insidious propaganda,
from the failure of Government to govern, is no
less but rather more than it was in Hungary.
This book shows how appalling are the con-
sequences of even a temporary overthrow of
those bulwarks of civilisation, law, order and
religion, and that mankind in the 20th Century
is capable of reverting in a moment to the
barbarism and anarchy of the Dark Ages.
Russia, Italy, Hungary and Ireland have all
in the past few years told the same tale. One
of the greatest empires of the world now
presents the picture of a society enduring a
living death ; Hungary and Italy have saved
themselves by their exertions and perhaps
Europe by their example. Ireland's fate is
trembling in the balance, but the corruption of
a whole population, the systematic training of
the youth of a country to exalt rebellion into
a science and murder into a religion, can only
have one result. If the cancer has been checked
in some quarters, if the gangrene has been
amputated here and there, the poison is still
working through all the European body politic,
not only in those outrageous forms which
naturally arouse opposition in all decent and
educated minds, but in those subtle forms
which disguise themselves under the cloak of
a spurious Christianity, a zeal for humanity,
the brotherhood of man, and the inter-
nationalism of Labour. The open and the
hidden agitations subsist side by side and
each plays into the other's hands. The
"Red" International of Moscow, the "Yellow"
International of Amsterdam, the various shades

xii FOREWORD

of Socialism and Syndicalism, are all parts of
one great subversive Movement though their
adherents are not all aware of it, and the
strings are pulled by the Secret Societies
which during the past century have been
behind every revolution in Europe.

And, as this book reminds us, the only means
of counteracting the danger is not by surrender
or compromise, not by seeking new creeds and
theories but in adherence to old ones, not by
nursing illusions but by facing facts, by
courage, by a steadfast regard for principles,
by the faith of authority in its mission, by
" strengthening the things which remain and are
ready to die."

NORTHUMBERLAND.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

The Author in her Study .

Revolutionary Soldiers

Paul Keri and Victor Heltai

Eugene Landler ....

Count Stephen Tisza

Count Michael KArolyi

King Charles ....

Count KArolyi and his Entourage

The House of Parliament

" Karolyi Stood on the Steps " .

Soldiers Swearing Allegiance to the Na

tional Council
Joseph PogXny
Countess Karolyi .
Fiume

"The Tragedy of Every Ruined Home"
" On the Roofs of the Incoming Trains
Heltai's Sailors .
The Crown Prince ....

"On all the Roads . . .

are in Flight"
Queen Zita

"A Tiny Szekler Village'
John Hock
Sigmund Kunfi
Bela Kun
The Hungarian Crown

Homeless People

frontispiece

page

8

>>

IO

>>

12

>>

20

j»

26

>>

36

>>

50

>>

58

n

60

>>

62

!5

70

>)

72

>>

78

J>

86

J>

96

II

120

>>

122

J>

124

it

128

>>

132

>>

138

>>

140

»>

160

162

XIV

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

A Communist Orator page 176

The Valley of the Garam . . . „ 186

William Bohm ,,196

Bela Kun Addressing the Crowd . . ,,214

"There were Processions Everywhere" . „ 258

The Royal Castle, Buda ,, 260

Count KXrolyi Distributing his Lands . „ 270

CONTENTS

I.

II.

in.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

I

19

34

55
69

85
101
119

i35
153
171
189
208
225

239
256
274

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

CHAPTER I

October 31st, 1918.

The town was preparing for the Day of the Dead,
and white chrysanthemums were being sold at the
street corners. A mad, black crowd carried the
flowers with it. This year there will not be any for
the cemeteries : the quick adorn themselves with
that which belongs to the dead.

Flowers of the graveyard, symbols of decay, white
chrysanthemums. A town beflowered like a grave,
under a hopeless sky. Such is Budapest on the 31st
of October, 1918.

Between the rows of houses shabby, drenched flags
wave on their staffs, and the pavement is covered
with dirt. Torn bits of paper, pieces of posters,
crushed white flowers mixed in the mud. The town
is as filthy and gloomy as a foul tavern after a night's
debauch.

This night Count Michael Karolyi's National
Council has grasped the reins of power.

So low have we fallen ! Anger and inexpressible
bitterness assailed me. Against my will, with an
irresistible obsession, my eyes were reading over
and over again the inscriptions on strips of red, white,
and green paper which were pasted on the shop
windows in unceasing repetition : " Long live the
Hungarian National Council" . . . Who has wanted
this council ? Who has asked for it ? Why do they
stand it?

Count Julius Andrassy, the Monarchy's Minister
for Foreign Affairs in Vienna, was clamouring desper-
ately for a separate peace. The thought of it raised

2 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

in my mind the picture of some distant little wooden
crosses ... As if they came down from among the
clouds . . . Graves at the foot of the Carpathians,
on the Transylvanian frontier, along the Danube.
Fallen in the defence of Hungarian soil . . .

And now we forsake the mothers, wives and children
of those who are buried there. The blood rushed to
my face. Everything totters, even the country's
honour. The very war-news fluctuates wildly. Our
heroes gain tragic, profitless victories on Mount
Assolo, whilst on the plains of Venezia the army is
already in retreat — along the Drina, the Szava and
the Danube too. And here in the capital the soldiers
are swearing allegiance to Karolyi's National Council.
What a mean tragedy ! And over the empty royal
castle, over the bridges, on the steamers on the
Danube, flags are flying as if for a holiday.

I reached the Elisabeth Bridge. In irregular ranks
disarmed Bosnian soldiers marched past me, most
of them carrying small military trunks on their
shoulders. The little wooden boxes moved irregu-
larly up and down in rhythm with their steps, which
had lost their discipline. The soldiers cheer and
cannot understand what it all means. But for all
that: "Zivio!" They are allowed to go home,
so they are going towards the railway station.

A motor lorry came up the bridge towards me.
The electric trams have stopped, and the whole road
belonged to the lorry. It raced along furiously,
noisily, like a crazy wild animal that has escaped
captivity. Armed young ruffians and soldiers stood
on it, shouting; and a boy, looking like an
apprentice, lifted his rifle with an effort and fired it
into the air. The boy was small, the rifle nearly as
long as himself. Everything seemed so incredible,
so unnatural. One of the Bosnians appeared to
think so too, for he turned back as he went along.
I can see him now, with his prematurely aged face
under the grey cap. He shook his head and muttered
something.

Then the Bosnians disappeared. The damp wind
blew cold from the Danube between the houses of
Pest, and the rain started again.

At the corner, three men were gathered under a
single umbrella, their big boots looking as if they

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 8

stood empty in the water on the road. Their coats
too looked as if they were empty, and the water
drizzled from their worn-out hats on to the collars of
their coats. Clearly they were petty officials. For
thirty years and more they have been accustomed to
go at this time of the day to their office. Now they
have found suddenly that the path has slipped away
from under their feet, and they don't know what to
do : this was an unlawful business . . . the official
oath . . . their conscience ... If it were not for
the question how to live ! What about the others ?
Perhaps they have gone already. One ought to take
counsel with the head of the department . . .

They discussed the matter, started to go, stopped,
then started again. Finally, when I looked after
them they were walking on steadily, as if they had
found the accustomed groove from which it was
impossible for them to swerve.

Posters, fastened to poles, were floating in the air.
Underneath, in a steady throng, people passed in-
cessantly, walking as if under compulsion, as
if they could not stop, as if they had lost the power
of altering their direction. It was as though some
huge dark animal crawled along the pavement, a
yoke on its neck, and as it crawled slowly it cheered.

I felt an inarticulate cry rising in my throat, and
I wanted to shout to them to stop and to turn back.
But in the flowing crowd there was already some-
thing like predestination, something which cannot be
stopped. And yet occasionally its course was
deviated. The throng parted now and then, and in
between motor cars passed in regular, short jerks.
And in the cars, decorated with national coloured
ribbons and white chrysanthemums, were typically
Semitic faces. Behind them, in the middle of the
road, the human waves closed up again.

I turned off into a by-street. A peasant's little
wooden cart came towards me. Swabian peasant
women from Hidegkut were being shaken about in
it> gay and broad among the milk cans. Suddenly —
I did not notice whence they came — three sailors
stepped into the cart's path. One caught hold of
the horse's bridle while the two others jumped on to
the cart. Everything happened in a flash . . .
At first the women thought it was a joke, and turned

4 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

their stupid young faces to each other with a grin.
But the sailors meant no joke. With curses they
pushed the women off the cart and, as if they were
doing the most natural thing in the world, in broad
daylight, in the middle of the city, and in sight of
a crowd of people, they calmly drove off with some-
body else's property. The whip cracked and the
little cart went off in rapid jerks. Only then did the
women realize what had happened. With loud
shrieks they called for help and pointed where the
cart had gone to. But the street was lazy and
cowardly and did not come to the rescue. Men
passed by, shrinking from contact with other people's
troubles, as if these were infectious.

It was all so helpless and ugly. It seemed to me
that all of us who passed there had lost something.
I dared not follow up the trend of my thoughts . . .

Under the porch of the next house two ruffians
attacked a young officer. One of them had a big
carving knife in his hand. They howled threats. A
stick rose and the lieutenant's cap was knocked off his
head. Dirty hands snatched him by the throat.
The knife moved near his collar . . . the stars were
cut off it. The cross of his order and the gold medal
on his chest jangled together. The mob roared.
The little lieutenant stood bareheaded in the middle
of the circle, his face as white as snow. He said
nothing, did not even defend himself, only his
shoulders shook convulsively. With a clumsy move-
ment, like a child who starts weeping, he passed the
back of his left hand across his eyes. Poor little
lieutenant ! I noticed now that his right sleeve was
empty to the shoulder.

Even then nothing happened. The people again
pretended not to see, as if they were glad that it had
not been their turn . . . Everything seemed con-
fused and vague, like a half-waking fever-dream in
the reality of which the dreamer does not believe,
though he cannot help moaning under its influence.

What was happening there ? . . . In front of the
Garrison Commander's building, under some bare
trees, some soldiers were holding open a large red,
white and green flag. At first I thought they were
at play. Then I saw that an unkempt, bandy-
legged little man was cutting out the crown from

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 5

above the coat-of-arms with his pocket-knife. And
they held it out for him ! . . . I felt as if I had been
burnt, and turned my head away so that nobody
might see my face. A little further on the declara-
tion of the Social Democratic Party stared at me
from a wall :

" Fellow workers. Comrades ! The egotism
of class rule has driven the country with inevit-
able fatality into revolution. The troops who
have joined the National Council have occupied
without bloodshed the principal places of the
capital, the Post Office, the Telephone Exchanges
and the Town Hall, on Wednesday night, and
have sworn allegiance to the National Council.
Workers ! Comrades ! Now it is your turn !
The counter revolution will undoubtedly attempt
to regain power. You must demonstrate that
you are on the side of your soldier brethren.
Out into the streets ! Stop all work !

The Hungarian Social Democratic Party."

This poster made a curious impression on me : it
was as if a monstrous lie had proclaimed the truth
about itself. The party which was striving for the
rule of the working-class orders in its first declaration :
"Stop all work I" After such a beginning, what will
it order to-morrow — and after?

People came towards me : workmen who were not
workmen, who no longer do any work; soldiers who
were not soldiers, who no longer obey. In this foul
atmosphere nothing is any longer what it seems.
The many red, white and green flags on the houses
are no longer our flags ; no longer are they the
nation's colours. Only the chrysanthemums remain
true flowers of the graveyard.

I went on slowly, but suddenly I stopped again : on
the glass window of an obscure little tobacconist's
shop, among the newspapers exposed for sale,
appeared a sickly, crushed-strawberry coloured
poster, which proclaimed in red " Long live the
National Council." And then, as if some loathsome
skin-disease had infected the houses, appeared more
and more red posters, and their colour became bolder
and bolder. I was informed later that panic-stricken
tradespeople had paid two hundred crowns, some

6 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

even a thousand, into the funds of the National
Council for this shop-window insurance.

In the windows of some shops the big poster of
the Nepszava* was displayed. In one night the
organ of the Social Democrats had penetrated from
its slum into the city, and its poster proclaimed from
the windows of meek bourgeois shops " Behold the
writing!" . . . On the poster was printed in red
a naked man lifting his red hammer at the crowd
beyond the window. A horror made of blood . . .
The thronging crowd never thought that the hammer
was lifted to break its head. And the tradesmen
never thought that the hairy red hand was on the
point of emptying their tills. I noticed that on the
poster of evil omen, besides the bloody monster, a
red working-man was struggling with a policeman
who held him in chains.

A curious picture ... I now thought of the
police of the capital. The day before yesterday it
had adhered to Karolyi's National Council. The
famous police force of Budapest had forsaken its
high ideals of duty and had gone over to the wreckers.
Never before did I realize the importance of this
betrayal. I shivered. The fog drifted as if the very
atmosphere had become unstable. The walls of the
houses near me seemed to waver too; and I seemed
to hear the cracking of the plaster, as if they also
were preparing to collapse. The noise came from the
very foundation of things. Something invisible was
collapsing in this city already undermined.

" Hungarians "... then silence. A little further
it went on : " National "... then it started again
all along the street. My unwilling eyes were reading
the posters over and over again.

"National Council" . . . What is this obscure
assembly after all ? How dare it call itself the
council of the nation? Who are those who incite
against the state and collect oaths of allegiance for
themselves ? Who are those who from the room of
an hotel appeal to the nation and promise " an
immediate Hungarian peace, the equal right of all
nations, the League of Nations, the freeing of the
world, a social policy which will strengthen the

* The People's Voice, a Social Democratic newspaper.

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 7

power of the workers " ? . . . They have not got
a word for our frontiers established a thousand
years ! What happens in the background whither
our eyes cannot penetrate ? Do the secret allies of
the Entente work among us, or only our own
enemies who, by means of their proclamations,
shout in their Ghetto-lingo that " this programme,
which is to save Hungary and free the people, has
the whole-hearted support of the Hungarian army ?"

Who says that ? Who proclaims himself the
saviour of Hungary in the hour of her greatest peril ?
Count Michael Karolyi and Rosa Schwimmer ?
Martin Lovaszy, Baron Louis Hatvany-Deutsch,
John Hock, Sigmund Kunfi-Kunstatter, Ladislaus
Fenyes, William Bohm, Count Theodor Batthyany
and Louis Biro-Blau ? Dezso Abraham, Alexander
Garbai and Ernest Garami-Grunfeld ? Oscar Jaszi-
Jakobovics, Paul Szende-Schwarz and Mrs. Ernest
Muller? Zoltan Janosi, 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 Godollo 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 — some-
thing. 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?

8 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

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 them-
selves 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
Nepszava, 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 pave-
ment. 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 Karolyi's agents armed
the workmen of the arsenal. Thirty thousand armed
workmen ! At the railway station the mob has dis-
armed 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
Karolyi's government is formed there will be
order . . . Lovaszy, Kunfi, Jaszi, Garami . . .
We must resign ourselves. None but Karolyi can
get us a speedy good peace."

"How do you know?"

" Well, the newspapers . . . Then Karolyi has
made a statement. He has great connections with
the Entente."

I lost all patience and could listen no more, so
sought a passage in the crowd. The throng became

H
P

O
>

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 9

thinner, and a drunken soldier staggered past me. An
officers' patrol came out from a street and stood in
the soldier's way. Every man of it was a Jew. One
of them shouted harshly : "In the name of the
Soldiers' Council!" and the drunkard submitted
reluctantly.

Now I remembered : some days ago I had heard
that Karolyi's men were organizing soldiers' and
workmens' councils. These councils meet in conclave
at night in schoolrooms, lecture halls. And this in
Hungary ! Here, in our midst ... I shuddered
from head to foot. " In the name of the Soldiers'
Council!" It seemed as if Trotski's Russia had
shouted into the streets of Pest.

Near my head a half-torn poster rustled in the
wind. "To the Nation." . . . Tattered, Archduke
Joseph's cry of alarm died on the grimy wall. I
looked quickly behind me. Does anybody besides
me read it ? No, nobody stops. And yet, how many
people were about ? And the crowd increased. It was
as though the city had for years devoured countless
Galician immigrants and now vomited them forth in
sickness. How sick it was ! Syrian faces and bodies,
red posters and red hammers whirled round in it.
And freemasons, feminists, editorial offices, Galileans,
night cafes came to the surface — and the ghetto
sported cockades of national colours and chrysan-
themums.

As though it were beneath some wicked enchant-
ment, the invisible part of the town has now become
visible. It has come forth from the darkness to take
what it has long claimed as its own. The gratings
of the gutters have been removed. The drains vomit
their contents and the streets are invaded by their
stench. The filthy odour of unaired dwellings
spreads. Doors are thrown open that till now have
been kept closed.

Russia ! Great, accursed mystery . . . Did it
begin there in the same way ? . . . I breathed with
repugnance and drew myself together so that none
might touch me in passing.

Presently I met an armed patrol. Though the
soldiers wore ribbons of the national colours I still
felt a stranger to them, for they have already sworn
allegiance to the National Council . . . They looked

10 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

shabby and bore chrysanthemums in the muzzles
of their rifles. From a window a woman of Oriental
corpulence threw white flowers to them.

A young girl came along, a Hungarian. She dis-
tributed chrysanthemums and smiled, and her shaded
eyes shone like a child's : " Long live independent
Hungary!" I stared at her. There are some like
this too. Many, perhaps very many. They live the
glorious revolution of 1848 in this infamous parody,
and dream of the realization of Kossuth's dreams.
Poor wretches ! They are even more unfortunate
than I am.

The girl offered me a flower and talked some
nonsense about Petofi. I wanted to tell her to give
it up and go home, that she had been deceived and
it was all lies; but my efforts were in vain, I could
not pronounce a single word. I stumbled over the
edge of the pavement, my feet seemed leaden . . .
A bucket stood in front of me with a big brush in it.
I looked up. A weedy youth was spreading paste
over the wall, and a new poster glared at me. The
people stood around and craned their necks.

" Soldiers ! You have proved yourselves the
greatest heroes within the last twenty-four hours,
don't soil the honours you have gained . . .
Abstain from intoxicating liquors . . . Obey
your comrades who have volunteered to maintain
order. With patriotic, cordial greetings,

Heltai,
Toivon Commandant."

"And who is that, now?" people asked each
other.

" The Commander of the troops ?"

" Is he the Heltai who is the son of Adolph Hoffer ?"

" To be sure !" I heard behind my back.

The unkempt crowd laughed.

" Paul Keri and Gondor got him nominated by
the National Council."

Paul Keri, whose name used to be Krammer, and
Francis Gondor, whose real name was Nathan Krausz,
two radical newspaper scribes, decide who is to
command the troops of the Hungarian capital ! And
it is on Heltai, the son of Adolph Hoffer, that their
choice falls.

HH $

H
ffl

M
O
H

> I

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 11

Wild fury, hopeless despair, came over me. I
wanted to shout for help, like the Swabian women
whom I had seen robbed. But who would have
listened to me and my misery? They might have
laughed, or they might have arrested me. The
street moved, lived, hummed, but it was not con-
scious. For a time I stared at the people, then I set
my teeth. Was it I who was mad, or they ? And I
went on.

In front of the Astoria Hotel the crowd stopped.
After its secret sittings in Count Theodor Batthyany's
palace Karolyi's National Council pitched its tent
here, till it might take possession of the conquered
Town Hall. Near the hotel innumerable carriages
and motors were waiting. Flags flew from the
building and through its revolving door, which re-
minded one of a bank, men of the stock-exchange
type went in and out. There was no policeman any-
where, though the crowd was increasing dangerously.
The monster which had crawled in from the suburbs
was reclining against the wall of the building, leaving
a muddy, smirched trail behind it. Its head rose
under the porch : a man stood on the others'
shoulders. His face was red and he waved his hat
violently as he shouted :

" Hadik has got the sack . . . Karolyi is Prime-
Minister !"

u Somebody is going to make a speech," a little
Jew girl said and tried to press forward. Over the
porch an ugly fat man appeared between the flags.
"Eugene Landler!" shouted the girl in rapture. A
soldier thrust her aside. " What's he got to do with
it ? In the barracks, last night, those who spoke
were at any rate Hungarians — a chap called Martin
Lovaszy and one called Pogany. They had darned
big mouthpieces, but they had the gift of the gab !"

The crowd hummed like a boiling kettle. " Speak
up, hear! hear!" All looked upward.

A voice from the porch fell into the listening ears.
I stood far away, on the other side of the road,
so only incoherent words reached me :

". . . an independent Hungary . . . democracy
. . . social reforms . . . International platform . . .
In the interest of foreigners 1 . . The gentle-folk
have driven us to the slaughter-house !"

12 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

" Well, that's just the place for that fat one,"
said the soldier with disgust. Those near him began
to laugh, and a man who appeared to be an artisan
screwed up his lips and gave a shrill whistle.

" That'll do. Say something new! Shut up!"
some shouted towards the porch.

Then something unexpected happened. A young
Jew threw the name of Tisza into the crowd. He
threw it there, just as if by accident.

" He caused the war ! Long live Kdrolyi ! To
death with Tisza !" The same thing was shouted from
the other corner, and a hoarse voice exclaimed :
** Long live the revolution !"

I shuddered. It was for the first time that I
heard it thus, openly, in the street. Rigid white
faces appeared under the entrances. But the cry
died away. It found no echo.

"Down with the King!" This appealed to the
mob. It was new, hitherto none had dared to touch
this. The rabble snatched at what it heard and
vomited it back with a vengeance. And the repulsive
chorus was led by the young man who had previously
mentioned the name of Tisza.

The news-boys of a mid-day paper came shouting
down the street : " The National Council has pro-
claimed the Republic!"

" Long live the Republic ..." This was only an
attempt, but it failed. Nobody became enthusiastic.
Someone shouted : "To Godollo !"

A Versailles, a Versailles ! The starving mob of
Paris shouted this a hundred and thirty years ago,
and now in Budapest fat bank clerks exclaim : "Let
us go to Godollo!" Nobody moved. It is said that
ten thousand armed workmen are marching on it . . .
I burned with shame. This news was not invented
by Hungarian minds. Armed men, against children !
It is not true ... At any rate, the King's
children have made good their escape ... I only
heard half of what was said. Poor little chil-
dren ! . . .

As if I had been chased I turned to go down the
boulevard towards the bridge. By now armed
sailors were already stopping motor-cars in the
streets, thrusting the occupants out and driving off
in the cars. It was done quickly. Big lorries

EUGENE LANDLER,

HOME SECRETARY. LATER A COMMANDER
IN THE RED ARMY.

(To face p. 12.)

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 18

filled with armed soldiers raced across the bridge.
Some were even hanging on to the steps. Shots
were fired, and a drunkard sang in a husky voice :
"Long live the Revolution, long live drink ..."

The whole thing was humiliating and disgusting.
If only I could escape from it, so that I might see
nothing, hear nothing! I longed for home — home,
out there in the woods, among the hills.

At the entrance of the tunnel that passes under
the castle hill a soldier was offering his government
rifle for sale and asking five crowns for it. Another
offered his bayonet.

On the other side of the tunnel I felt as if I had
emerged at the antipodes. There the town was
quiet, so quiet that I could hear the echo of my steps
in the streets of Buda. The single-storeyed houses
cuddled peacefully on the side of the hill. There
people will not know what has happened till to-
morrow, when they will read it over their breakfast.

In one of the low windows some flower-pots stood
between the curtains. A clock struck in the room,
and a young girl started watering the flowers with a
little red watering-can. Doubtless she watered them
yesterday at the same hour and life will be the same
for her to-morrow. Meanwhile, on the other bank
of the Danube they shout : Long live the revolution !
Revolution . . . Madness! What good can a
revolution do now? Nobody takes it seriously, not
even those who made it. Madness ! It did me good
to repeat the word, and I began to take heart.
Nothing will come of it. The Hungarian is not a
revolutionary — he fights for freedom. Every com-
motion in our history of a thousand years has been
a war of liberation. And freedom has come : inde-
pendence has fallen from its own accord into the
nation's lap . . .

A light already shone in one of the little houses.
Under the hanging lamp, round a circular table,
people sat peacefully. They knew of nothing
... In one of the yards someone played an
accordion. The homely, suburban music, the fatigue
of my long silent walk, weakened the awful
impressions of the other shore. All that had tortured
me was disappearing, and my thoughts were only of
hanging lamps and accordions.

14 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

The density of the mist increased with the evening,
and when I reached the old military cemetery it had
nearly absorbed the outlines of all objects. Over
the collapsing graves, between the many little
rotting wooden crosses, the tombstones dissolved
like ghosts in the fog. In Pest by now the mist
would be a yellow reeking fog, while here it became
a thing of beauty. Nowadays everything that is
beautiful in the country turns to filth in Pest.

Again I forgot to pay attention to the road, and
my thoughts harped on what I had lately seen.

It was impossible that a few slums of a single
town should make a revolution when the whole
country was against it . . . Then, I don't know
how, I came to think of The Possessed — Dostoevski's
wonderful novel. I remembered a reception which I
had attended last winter. We talked of Russia,
Lenin and Bolshevism, and I asked one of Michael
Karolyi's relations if Karolyi had ever read that
book.

" Of course, and he loves it, too. He lent it to
me to read."^

There had %en curious rumours about Karolyi for
some time. '1

"Is he learning from it how to make a revolu-
tion ?" I asked,' but received no answer.

I was tired ana walked on slowly. Along the road
the old, leafless chestnut trees came towards me in
hazy monotony, and there recurred to my memory
the little Russian town in Dostoevski's book,
into which with his genius he has crowded a picture
of Russia as a whole. Young revolutionaries, back
from Switzerland, meet accidentally in the little
town. The demoniacal leader of these morbid
youths, craving for power, destroys the existing
order and produces chaos. Consumptive students,
alcoholics, syphilitic degenerates, prospective
suicides, cracked intellects, murderers and despairing
cowards gather round him and he forms a group of
five from the select. And then he convinces them
that innumerable similar groups are waiting with
eagerness for the signal to revolt. When his five
men hesitate he tricks them to commit a murder, so
that the knowledge of common guilt should make his
slaves mutually suspicious of each other. At his

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 15

order they will raise the pyre . . . The actors of the
revolution are together and the primal conditions are
ready. And then dissolution, terror and panic will
come, and the frightened, despoiled people will be
prepared to suffer anything and to recognise anybody
as their omnipotent master who can create order,
whatever that order may be. " We take the sly
ones with us, and lord it over the simple." That
is the idea of Dostoevski's hero. The eleven inter-
nationalists of the National Council think the same.
They too share the power with the cunning ones and
use Karolyi as a stepping-stone to power. After all
Karolyi is nothing but the tool of this Council. Who
the demon is, I do not yet know.

Up, to power . . . But they will not get it ! A
few resolute officers with a handful of soldiers can
restore order. The National Council is nothing but
an isolated " group of five." There are no others.
If its members are arrested, the mud they have
stirred up will settle down; they are not united by
any common honour, by any common crime.

Napoleon once said that with a few guns he could
have stopped the great French Revolution. For
these, a volley of rifle fire would do. But where is
he who can command it to-day ?

I came to the bridge over the Devil's Ditch. In
the mist the bridge looked as if it did not rest
on the banks. Above the depth of the fog it floated
mysteriously in space. Behind a drab amorphous
veil the forest on the slope of the hills seemed a
dreamy enigma ; the trees by the road : lacelike
blossoms of mist on the background of the falling
night.

No sound reached me. Only some pebbles, dis-
placed by my steps, clattered behind me. A branch
cracked in the forest ; it made me think of a skeleton
wringing its hands in impotent despair . . . And
if they don't arrest Karolyi and his accomplices to-
night ? Dostoevski's novel came again to my mind
and from among my thoughts there emerged the
shout of a wicked, shrill voice : "To death with
Tisza !" The penetrating mist now chilled me to the
marrow. I felt cold all through ... " Death to
Tisza !" It rang in my ears all the time. Good God,
for how many years has this savage cry been pre-

16 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

pared by blinded politicians, by frivolous political
salons, by nearly all the press, in barracks, in
factories, in the aula of the University, in the market
place, between cellar and attic, in every human den !
For how many years ! The work was done by ruth-
less agitators, and now it is crowned with an awful
success. In the eyes of the crowd he would not be
a criminal who attempted the life of Tisza. His life
is outlawed. The crowd is already prepared for the
event. The mob in the street may clamour without
risk or protest for the life of this man : " To death
with Tisza!" I could not stop the fearful cry from
ringing in my ears.

For days I had spoken to nobody who belonged to
Tisza 's circle. Was he in town ? Had he gone ? If
only he had gone away ! . . . And I walked along
the mountain path while the hoarse cry followed me,
like a vagabond with evil intent. Try as I would I
was unable to shake it off.

Night had fallen and the mist had become dense
round our house. The fort opposite had disappeared
and the edge of the mountain had become invisible.
From far away, in the direction where the town lay,
the report of firearms was audible.

In the cold darkness the house appeared so lonely,
as if it had been expelled from communion with the
rest of the world. The bonds that had tied human
fates together have been severed, and we know of
nought but what is going on in ourselves. The house
was enclosed in a huge, grey wall of mist.

In the hall I tried to telephone, but could get no
answer from the exchange. The receiver buzzed
meaninglessly.

All at once rifle shots sounded from the hills,
then came nearer. Suddenly a shot rang out at the
bottom of our garden. Another. That one was
nearer. Then a bullet struck the chestnut tree
under my window. It had a curious effect upon me,
for an instant later it seemed as if the whole thing
had happened to someone else — as if I did not really
live it, but just read about it in a book.

I extinguished the lamp, so that my lighted
window should not serve as a target, and then
groped my way in the dark to the ground floor, to
my mother's room. A narrow band of light showed

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 17

on the floor under the door. As she was awake
I went in. She was sitting quietly in one of the un-
comfortable, high-backed, old-fashioned chairs. At
the sound of the opening door she turned and our
eyes met. For a time we remained silent. The firing
outside had stopped too.

" They seem to have stopped shooting," said my
mother, after a while, in that wonderful quiet way
which was always reflected on her countenance
whenever life treated her harshly.

"It will be over sometime; we've got to live
through it somehow," I said, just to say something.

My mother moved wearily. "Be careful you do
not catch cold. The night is cool ..."

Suddenly there was a sound of voices on the
road. I remembered something I had been told.
Burglars . . .

" We ought to hide our money, mother, at any
rate. If it were taken we could get no more under
the present circumstances."

For a moment, a moment only, my mother looked
at me with consternation. Then : "Of course."
And her mind too had crossed the abyss that separ-
ated the old world of safety and protection from the
new world of insecurity, lawlessness, and un-
certainty.

I slipped the money under the carpet in the dark
hall. Twice I stopped. Someone was speaking in
the road, near the gate. Voices were audible, long
consultations . . . Steps withdrew. I went care-
fully up stairs and took care that nobody should
observe that the house was awake.

My room seemed to have become chilled while I
was downstairs. The blackness engulfed me as in
some deep black sea, and I shivered. For a long
time I remained standing in the same place. An in-
cessant sound of death came to me from outside :
the chestnut tree under the window was shedding its
leaves. Resignation. The time of many falling
leaves. The eve of November . . . The air was
filled with low, rustling, soughing, ghostly sounds.
It was as if a crowd walked stealthily in the garden
and the forest stole secretly away.

Hopeless distress, as I had never felt it before,
came over me. Autumn is departing from the hills

18 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

this night, and by the morrow it will be gone. Then
winter comes irresistibly, dragging at its heels snow,
cold, frost, suffering, the unknown and perhaps the
impossible.

What is in store for us ?

In the darkness, like the ticking of time, in-
cessantly, the leaves fell with a faint sound. A dog
whined beyond the garden, whined in an eerie,
terrifying way, as if somebody had died in its
master's house . . .

Despair overcame me. It was not only a dog that
whined its lament : it was the night that wept over
Hungary.

CHAPTER II

November 1st.

In the morning I heard that Tisza had been
murdered.

The telephone rang in the corridor, sharply, ag-
gressively, as if the town was shouting out to us
among the woods. It was with reluctance that I put
the receiver to my ear.

The ringing stopped and I heard only that meaning-
less buzzing at a distance. It lasted for some time
while I stared through the window at the little ice-
house in the garden. At last there was silence and
I recognised the voice of my brother Geza. He spoke
from town, enquired after mother, and asked how
we had passed the night. In town they had been
shooting all night long, and armoured cars had rushed
through the streets. And then he said something I
could not understand clearly.

I felt a strange reluctance to understand. I began
to be afraid of what was coming, of hearing some-
thing which, once known, could never be altered
again. The presentiment of catastrophe took pos-
session of me.

" But what happened ?"

" Poor Stephen Tisza ..."

I still looked out into the garden at the reed-
thatched roof of the ice-house, staring at a reed which
had become detached by some winter storm. I
stared at it till my eyes ached, as if I were clinging
to it. It was only a reed, but now everything to
which one could cling was but a reed. Suddenly the
garden vanished. The window disappeared, and
tears fell from my eyes.

I heard the voice of my brother again. He con-

20 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

eluded from my silence that I had not understood
what he said, so he repeated it : "He is the only
victim of the revolution. Soldiers killed him. They
penetrated into his house and ... in the presence
of his wife and of Denise Almassy they shot him
dead."

" The scoundrels!"

Communication was suddenly broken off.

Poor human creature ! Forsaken, lonely, deserted
man ! Nobody protected him. In his greatest hour,
women alone stood by his side : it is always a woman
who is at the foot of the rood. My awful presenti-
ment of Tisza's martyrdom came back to me in a
shudder. How he must have suffered from the
thought that his usefulness had gone, how his
brilliant brain must have rebelled against anni-
hilation, how his remaining vitality must have
revolted. Stephen Tisza was dead ! What an awful
void these words created. Nobody was left to bear
every burden in Hungary, to bear all blame, all re-
sponsibility. The weight of the responsibility which
he alone bore falls to pieces with his death. Till
now, one man bore them ; will the whole country be
able to bear the burden ? Even whilst I asked this
question I felt as if something which I had never felt
before had fallen upon my shoulders : my share of
the terrible, invisible load. Small legatees of a
great testator ... I, others, every Hungarian.

Poor Tisza ! In his good qualities and in his
shortcomings he was typical of his race. He was
faithful and God-fearing, honest, credulous and
obstinate, proud, brave, calumnied and lonely, just
like old Hungary. In my mind his qualities were so
tightly knitted together that I could not separate
them.

He was killed ! Many will not understand the
portent to Hungary of that phrase. And yet Tisza's
corpse lies exposed in every Hungarian home, from
one end of the country to the other, in every house,
every farm, every cottage, even there where they do
not know, where they laugh.

The newsboy opened the door and threw the news-
papers into the hall. The papers flew in disorder
over the floor. I said nothing about it, though he
seemed to expect some remark and looked back with

Photo. Roller, Budapest.

COUNT STEPHEN TISZA.

(To face p. 20.)

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 21

an impudent grin to see the effect his action had pro-
duced. Yesterday he would not have dared to do
such a thing. To-day the change has affected him
too. How quickly it spreads, faster than civilization !
That would take years to cover the road.

I picked the papers up. Not one had the
customary black margin of mourning. A significant
omission on the part of newspapers of Tisza's old
party; it showed the restraining influence of some
unknown power. His death was reported in neutral
words, hidden in some obscure corner, while one of
the papers indulged in a riot of adulation for the
National Council and another shrieked victory over
the success of the revolution which it had prepared.
It wrote cynically about Tisza and sneered at his
widow. It referred to the King as Charles Hapsburg
and proclaimed in its columns the republic for
Hungary.

At last the Hungarian Liberal and Radical press
has removed its mask and displayed its countenance,
which had never been Hungarian, in all its naked-
ness. But to ponder these things was unbearable,
and the reality of our misfortune burdened my soul
anew with anguish. How shall I tell mother? I
crossed the hall slowly, hesitatingly, and went to her
room. As soon as I opened the door she looked at
me inquiringly, as though she were expecting some-
thing.

" Well, what has happened ?"

I searched for words to minimise the shock, and
then, I don't know how, I blurted out : " Tisza has
been murdered!" The words sounded sharp and
metallic, like the stroke of an axe when it fells a
living tree which in its fall clears a gap in the forest.

I shall never forget the sudden, painful alteration
in my mother's face. She, who always managed to
look collected, lifted both hands to her forehead.
" What is to become of us ?" she asked, in sobs
rather than words. I had never seen her in tears
before, and the grief that swept over me almost
stopped my breath : I was so unprepared for her
sorrow that I could utter no word of consolation.
Silently I kissed her hand. Then for a long time we
remained silent.

M How did it happen ?" she asked at last, in a
c

22 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

voice so weary that it was as if she had travelled a
great distance during our silence.

" Soldiers . . . " and I handed the papers to her.
I glanced at the page of one of them : these lines
met my eyes : " ... Glorious Revolution. The
National Council has taken over the government of
Hungary . . . Naturally the constitution is no
longer what it was. The King has handed all his
powers to Karolyi, so that he may maintain order
in the land." I turned the page. " One detachment
of soldiers after the other declares its adherence to
the National Council. The communal authorities
have submitted to the National Council. So have
the Exchange, the railway men, the men of the
electric trams . . . Count Julius Andrassy, the last
common Minister for Foreign Affairs, has resigned !"
News followed news in a topsy-turvy way. Vienna
— in Austria too the old order has passed away. A
Social Democrat called Renner has been made
Chancellor. The Social Democratic deputy, Victor
Adler, has become Foreign Secretary.

I read further, then my eyes were arrested by a pro-
clamation of the National Council : "Our beflowered
and bloodless revolution will bind the nation with
eternal gratitude to the men who have worked dis-
interestedly at its reconstruction." I looked at the
end of the paper : a notice in small type caught my
attention : " Report of the General Staff : As early
as the 29th of October the Higher Command had
established communication with the Italian Com-
mander in Chief "... "Trieste has been occupied
by an English fleet "... " The King has ordered
that the Fleet, the naval institutions and all other
things pertaining to the Navy, shall be gradually
handed over to the local Committees of Zagrab and
of Pola . . ."

Every word of the papers strikes one in the face.
Insult, shame and degradation. And in face of this
maddening conglomeration of defeats, of this heart-
less report of Hungary's collapse, there is Michael
Karolyi 's order : " The National Council orders that
on the occasion of the people's victory, which has
for ever abolished war, the whole of Budapest and
all provincial towns are to be beflagged."
My mother has thrown her paper aside.

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 28

"Have you read the circular by which the
National Council informs the people of Hungary that
Budapest has taken the power into its own hands
and that ' not a single drop of Hungarian blood has
been shed?' Tisza's blood is not Hungarian blood
in the eyes of Karolyi and his friends."

Even as she spoke, on the last page of one of the
papers I came across the following :

" Count Stephen Tisza has been sacrificed to the
cause of freedom ..."

" They hid that so carefully that I could not find
it," said my mother.

I read aloud :

" At the villa at 35 Hermina Road an officer and a
civilian appeared on the morning of the murder.
They demanded admittance. Tisza received them
in his study. ' What do you want?' he asked, and
the civilian answered : ' Are you hiding that swine
of a Czech attorney who is upholding the accusation
against me ?' ' I don't hide anybody,' replied
Tisza.

" The strangers left hurriedly ... It is more
than probable that they only came to spy if Tisza
was at home, because the rumour had spread in
town that he had left Pest !"

Then followed a remarkably short and cynical
account of the details of the murder, every word of
which showed clearly that the writer of the article
wanted to avoid anything that might raise pity or
sympathy in favour of the victim. The report con-
tinued :

" During the day a thick crowd ha'd gathered in
the vicinity of the villa. In the evening about a
quarter past six eight infantrymen climbed over the
high railings of the garden and crept across the lawn
to the house. They entered by the back door. They
quietly disarmed the police who were in charge of
Tisza's safety, and penetrated into the hall. The
footman tried to stop them. Hearing the noise,
Stephen Tisza, his wife, and his niece, the Countess
Denise Almassy, came out. Tisza held a revolver in
his hand.

" The soldiers began by reproaching him : ' We
have been fighting five years because of you . . .
You are the cause of the destruction of our country !

24 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

. . . You were always a scoundrel. ' Then they
shouted at him tb put his revolver down.

'"I will not,' said Tisza, 'you are armed too.'

"'Put it down,' a tall, fair young man aged
about thirty shouted.

" ■ I won't.'

" ' Then let the women stand aside."

" ' We will not," said they.

" Tisza retired a few steps and put the revolver
down.

" ' Now what do you want ?' said he.

" ' You are the cause of the war.'

M ' I know what the war has done to us, and I
know how much blood has flowed ; but I am not the
cause of it.'

" ' I have been a soldier for four years. Innumer-
able families have perished because of your wicked-
ness. Now you must pay for it.'

" ' I am not the cause of it.'

" 'Let the women stand aside ! ' No answer. 'It
is you who have brought this awful catastrophe
about, and now the day of reckoning has come.'

" Three shots were fired. Tisza fell forward on
the carpet. He was hit by two bullets : one in the
shoulder, the other in the abdomen. The third
grazed the cheek of Denise Almassy.

" ' They have killed me,' said Tisza; ' God's will
be done.'

" While the victim was writhing in agony the
soldiers hurried away. It is not known to what
regiment they belonged."

Thus far the reporter's account. My mother
looked at me interrogatively for an instant and then
shook her head sadly.

" Something has been omitted from that account.
It all sounds very improbable. Hungarian soldiers
don't kill in the presence of women."

"It is a psychological impossibility," I said;
" such an account can have sprung only from the
imagination of a Budapest reporter. Soldiers from
the front would not talk politics if they wanted to
kill. They might have rushed in and stabbed Tisza,
but such a cold-blooded, cowardly, premeditated
murder is not in the nature of Hungarians. It must
have been very different."

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 25

"However it was," my mother sighed, "it is
terrible to think that it could happen. Poor Countess
Tisza!"

A short notice at the foot of the paper said some-
thing about her — Count Michael Karolyi had sent her
the following telegram : " It is my human duty to
express my deep sympathy over the tragical death
of my greatest political opponent.

My mother was horrified at this.

" How could he be so shameless as to intrude like
that!"

Indeed, this impudence sounded like a sneer at
Tisza's memory, and in any case it was wanton
cruelty to the faithful, heroic woman who knew full
well that for many years Karolyi had with cruel
hatred incited the masses against her husband.

The origin of this hatred was deep and irreparable,
for it sprang not from a divergence of ideas but from
the physical disparities which resulted from Karolyi 's
infirmities. Michael Karolyi, a stunted degenerate
afflicted with a cleft palate, a haughty, hopelessly
conceited, spoilt and unintelligent child of fortune,
could never forgive the simple nobleman Tisza that
he was gifted, strong, clean and healthy, every inch
a man, powerful, and in power. It was the hatred
of envious deformity for strength, health and suc-
cess. Those about him, for ends of their own, made
capital out of this. Some of his satellites reported
several of his utterances on this subject. In fact
Karolyi made no secret of his hatred for Tisza.

Many times he was heard to assert that he would
not rest till he had ruined him. Could he have done
so, he would have sent his telegram of condolence to
the widow of his " greatest political opponent " at
an earlier date, namely when the discussion of the
new standing order of the Hungarian parliament
took place. On that occasion he challenged the
half blind Tisza, who was about to undergo an
operation, to a duel in the same week when he, Tisza,
had already fought two others, one against Count
Aladar Szechenyi, the other against the Markgrave
Pallavicini. On this occasion Karolyi's hatred was
fanned to a white heat, for Tisza, a master of fence,
assessed his adversary no more seriously on the
duelling ground than in politics : he played for a

26 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

little with him and finally thrashed him with the
flat of his sword till he collapsed.

Idly I turned the paper. Another notice attracted
my attention : " In the name of the National Council
Count Michael Karolyi, Dr. Joseph Pogany and
Louis Magyar order that on the first of November
all theatres of Budapest shall give gala performances."

Gala performances! Budapest and all Hungarian
towns to be beflagged ! And Hungary struggling in
agony and Stephen Tisza on the catafalque ! . . .
A wave of indescribable bitterness swept over me.
Oh ! that I could escape from it all and leave it far
behind me !

It was strange that at such a moment I could hear
the hissing of the damp wood in the fireplace and
could see that Alback's little old portrait was
hanging crooked on the wall. I got up and put it
straight. Out of doors the mist was drifting.
Drops condensed on the window and trickled slowly
down. The mist was noiselessly shedding tears over
miles and miles.

When I left my mother's room I met my brother
Bela in the hall. He stood with his back to me,
staring fixedly out into the mist. His sword with the
belt twisted round it and his officer's cap lay on the
table. The cockade of the cap was still in its place.

I looked at him silently for some moments, and a
deep pity filled me. He too was one of the hundreds
of thousands. For him it was even worse than for
us . . . As a lieutenant of reserve he joined his
regiment of lancers on the first of August, 1914.
Since then he had served with many branches of the
service, often in the infantry, till at last, after long
years of war, he was invalided home gravely ill from
under Jamiano. On the banks of the Drava, in
Przemysl, the battle of Lemberg, the wintry Car-
pathians, Besarabia, and that hell of rocks the Carso
— the road of many Hungarian deaths, of much
Hungarian honour. He had traversed it from end
to end. And now he stood here, like an old man,
looking into the fog, with his sword lying idle.

Only when I called him by name did he notice
that I was in the room, and as he turned I noticed
that his coat dangled as if it were hanging on a
skeleton.

COUNT MICHAEL KAROLYI.

(To face f. 26.)

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 27

On his drawn face deep lines extended to the corners
of his mouth. He seemed highly strung and started
to say one thing, then stopped and said something
else. " I started for town but could not stand the
walk so I came back." While he spoke I felt that he
was thinking of something else all the time. Sud-
denly he collapsed into a chair, his elbows on the
table. "There, in Pest, deserters and demagogues.
They have suspended me, and shirking defeatists are
the leaders and laugh at us. The new government
glorifies cowardice and dishonour. We have come
to this. Why, then, what was the good of it all?"
Through his voice spoke the voice of four years'
suffering, and a tear trickled down his pallid cheeks.
Suddenly he stretched out his thin hand for his cap,
and looked eagerly with bent head at the cockade on
it. "They won't tear mine off." He stopped
abruptly and looked up to me : " You have heard
what happened yesterday in Hermina road ?"

" I know."

He got up and returned to the garden door, and
motionless stared out into the fog.

In the evening a neighbouring farmer came over.
He was a faithful old friend of ours, and now, in his
own simple way, he tried to give proof of his
devotion, as if to offer reparation for the wrongs we
had suffered. He asked us if we wanted any
vegetables. " Just say the word, there are a few
left in our garden." And his thoughtful kindness
impressed me more with the change that had taken
place in our social order than any annoying brutality
of the street could have done.

Then we talked of other things. He spoke of
Tisza and told us with many lamentations that they
were still shooting in town, and that soldiers terrorised
the people from big motor lorries. One railway
station had been pillaged. Another was on fire, so
a man told him who had just been there. The mili-
tary stores had been stormed by the mob. Barrels
of petrol were rolled into the street, smashed, and
the petrol set on fire as it poured out.

Soon after the farmer left us, the door bell rang,
and my brothers and sisters came, one after the other,
up the garden path. Whenever the door was opened
the mist floated in from the darkness like smoke, and

28 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

the new arrivals stamped on the mat for a moment
or two to rid themselves of the mud. Slowly we
gathered round our mother like birds in a storm.

A fire was burning in the hall, its light playing
over the beamed roof, glinting here and there from
the oak staircase which rose high against the wall.
It came and went, flared up a little, flickered, and
then died down.

When daylight had disappeared from the
mullioned panes of the window the shaded lamp was
lit on the round table. My mother prepared tea,
just as if things were as they used to be, when we
came home chilled. Then she sat down in her usual
place, in the corner of the green velvet couch.
Above her, on the wall, was a fine old etching. It
was an old friend of my childhood, full of stories — Le
garde de chasse. How I loved to look at it on Sun-
day afternoons when it hung in my grandmother's
room ! Since then its old mistress had gone, so had
her room — indeed the very house had been de-
molished. The picture alone remained. In the
foreground on the edge of a wood, with raised fists
and a huge gun on his shoulder, stands the aged
keeper, in an old fashioned beaver and high shirt
collar. Cowed and cringing are two little children,
who have been caught in the act of stealing firewood.
And now while the voices of my brothers were
humming in my ears I was struck by something I
had never noticed before. How this picture had
gone out of date ! Justice has altered. Nowadays
the law of " mine, thine, his " is proclaimed in a
new shape.

Thine — is mine, his — is ours ! This is the teaching
of the new leaders of the people and the foundation
of their power. For many thousands of years the
crowd has learned nothing with such ease, and
nothing has ever made it the slaves of its masters
with greater speed.

Involuntarily I glanced at the opposite wall.
Another picture was over the other couch : a cheap,
coloured engraving of Ofen-Pest, the ancient little
town. People still passed across the Danube by the
floating bridge; in its narrow little streets real red,
white, and green flags were floating, and in their
shadow Louis Kossuth and Alexander Petofi made a

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 29

real war for freedom. How all this has changed !

The kettle was singing, and from the fireplace a
pleasant warmth, scented with the smell of pine-
wood, penetrated the room. The silver and the cut
glass shone on the white tablecloth. I sat snugly in
the armchair. Here things were still as of old, and
I felt a glow of gratitude towards the home which
now was no more taken for granted but appeared as
an island amid the flood.

Did the others feel this too ? I looked round. Ail
were unusually silent. Now and then someone said
a word which fell like a pebble in a silent pond.
Worry was written on all faces. During the long
war, among the many terrible misfortunes, I had
never noticed despair in my family. We never gave
up hope. Our faith that Hungary would survive
whatever happened had never altered.

" She has been betrayed!" And we returned to
the fate of Tisza. We decided between us that we
would all go to his funeral. But when will it be ?
Nobody knew. My mother had been sitting for a
long time silently in her corner when she said in a
low voice, as if speaking to herself :

"They killed him . . . killed him. They knew what
they did. They have bereft the nation of its head."

We looked at each other.

" And the guilty have escaped without leaving a
trace ... At any rate, they would not have been
hurt — the triumphing revolution will provide for all
eventualities by a general amnesty." My brother
took up the newspaper. " Have you read this ?
" By request of the National Council the Ministry of
Justice has ordered by telegram that all those who
are arrested or imprisoned for high treason, lese
majeste, rebellion, violence against the authorities
or against private individuals, or incitement to
violence, should be released at once !"

The new government could not have pronounced
a graver indictment of itself. This amnesty was a
free confession of its ends, its means and its guilt.
From this moment Michael Karolyi and his National
Council appeared to us in the role of the accused at
the bar of judgment.

" Criminals," said my brother-in-law. " Here in
Pest they have anticipated the ordinance. Two

80 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

days ago they set free the Galileists accused of high
treason."

"It is said that Countess Karolyi herself went to
fetch them."

" Yesterday they liberated in triumph all the
deserters . . . Only a few hours before the as-
sassination of Stephen Tisza a commission came with
the written order of the National Council to the jail
to free all political prisoners, and as the order put
it, " all deserving prisoners." The first to rush out
of the prison was Lekai-Leitner, the man who
recently made an attempt on Tisza's life. He ad-
dressed a speech to the assembled mob and ex-
plained without being interfered with why the prin-
cipal contriver of the war, Tisza, should be killed.
"Let him perish!" he shouted, and the mob
cheered while he, protected by the police, incited
his comrades in the street to murder."

" Karolyi 's National Council must have known of
that. Yet they did nothing to protect Tisza. A few
hours later his assassins could destroy him without
fear of interruption."

I thought of Marat's saying to Barbaroux : "Give
me four hundred assassins and I will make the revo-
lution." . . . Into the hands of what a crowd have
fallen the fates both of our country and ourselves !
High treason and rebellion are no longer crimes,
violence is lawful, incitement to it permissible.
Assassins can exercise their trade without punish-
ment, and there is no place where one can claim
justice. I staggered under the confusing thoughts.
I seemed to have lived through something like this
once before. Many years ago, on a hot, close
summer night, I was awakened by a violent shock.
The room swayed, the house tilted backwards and
forwards, everything tottered, cracked, collapsed.
An earthquake ! And when I wanted to grasp some-
thing it gave way, moved from its place; nothing
seemed firm . . . "Let us fly!" . . . A mad
voice shouted it through the night. . . . Fly ? On
such occasions there is no place whither flight
is possible ; for miles and miles the earth quakes.

Presently, in order to encourage my mother, I said
aloud :

" Everything is not lost yet. The troops will

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 31

come back from the front. They will restore order.
Those who have fought there will not tolerate the
rule of deserters and shirkers at home."

" Unfortunately Karolyi's agents have gone to
meet them at the front," said my brother-in-law.
** And they have taken with them an ample supply
of the government's newspapers."

Meanwhile out of doors the fog became as dense
as if a morass had swollen up in the valleys. It
clung about the windows and coated the panes. My
brothers and sisters prepared to go. When we took
leave we agreed that as we could hope at any rate
for a little more safety in town than here, we would
move in as soon as we could procure the necessary
vans. The villa stood in a lonely spot among
abandoned houses ; only my sister Mary, and, on
the other side of the ravine, the farmer, lived on the
hill besides ourselves. And the woods were full of
vagabonds.

** It will be safer ..."

" It will be equally unsafe everywhere in Hungary,"
I said while I put my coat on to accompany them a
short distance.

When we reached the bottom of the hill shots
broke the silence. Rifles answered them, and their
echo rolled on between the hills. A white dog,
frightened to death, rushed past me like an arrow,
his tail between his legs, and his ears pressed
tightly back. The caretaker of one of the empty
villas, an old Swabian gardener, stood in the gate,
smoking his pipe and watching the road.

" Himmelsakrament ! . . . The Russians have
escaped from the prisoners' camp, that's what people
say in the shop. Goodness knows what is going to
happen to us . . ."

" False alarms," I said as I passed.

The firing increased every moment.

"Mother will fret," said my sister Mary. We
took leave of the others and turned back.

Beyond the Devil's Ditch, where the road starts up
the hill, two bullets whistled over our heads. They
must have come from the bushes near by, for we
could smell the powder. In front of us a human
form emerged from the fog. " That one went too
low," he muttered. " God guarded me so that it

82 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

missed me." The stranger had a big collar and
wore a soldier's cap. He might have been a non-
commissioned officer. " Can one get newspapers
down there by the electric tram ?" he asked, touching
his cap.

" No, they don't sell papers to-day."

The man turned back, and, leaning heavily on his
stick climbed the hill slowly behind us. He never
spoke, but sighed now and then, and one of his
boots tapped curiously on the pavement. Through
my thoughts I had heard the tapping for some time
before I realized that the poor fellow had an artificial
leg.

"It was all in vain," he exclaimed unexpectedly,
and his voice sounded even duller than before. I
could not see his face, but somehow I felt that this
man with a wooden leg was weeping in the dark.
That made me think of my brother, and of the
others, the cripples, the blind, the sick, the maimed,
who all say to-day with a lump in their throat : " it
was in vain . . ."

When I reached our garden another shot passed
over my head. I pressed myself against the trunk
of a tree and waited a little. I seemed to hear my
heart beating in the tree. The danger passed by and
I went on. The lighted windows of the house shone
gently upon the path and beckoned to me, just as
they had done the day before, just as they had done
on any day when my steps took me home.

When I entered the house I found boxes and
trunks in the hall, and my mother was packing.
She was putting boxes tied with lilac ribbon into
the trunks, her own dear old belongings which she
had treasured with so much love throughout a long
life. Indefatigable, she went to and fro. She bent
down, brought another object, never complaining
and astonishingly calm.

Meanwhile the fire on the hearth went out, and the
sticky air of the night penetrated through the
shutters. The dining-room had become very cold
too. We did not dare to make fires : our wood in
the cellar was running short and should we fail in
our attempt to hire a van, who knew how long we
might have to stay here ?

Later on I went up into my room and collected

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 88

my papers. All the time I could hear my mother's
steps down below : it was a step that I could recog-
nise among a thousand others. It always sounds
as though she drags one of her feet slightly, but she
does not do so really, it only sounds like it, and it
gives her gait a kind of swaying rhythm. I love to
hear it, for it always reminds me of my childhood.
Whenever I dreamed anything frightful in my little
truckle bed that step would come slowly across the
room, and even before it reached me all that was
terrifying had disappeared.

On the ground floor a cupboard was opened : the
noise sounded like a sigh; then drawers were gliding
in and out. Beyond the garden the dogs barked.
Now and then violent outbursts of firing rent the
hills. But even then my mother's steps never
stopped. I could hear them passing quietly back-
wards and forwards between the trunks in the hall
and her room.

CHAPTER III

Dawn of November 2nd.

It was long after midnight before my mother's
door closed. I hung a silk handkerchief over the
lamp so that its light might not be seen from out-
side and then I went through the letters accumulated
on my writing-table. Suddenly a bell rang in the
hall. The telephone . . . Who could call so late ?
What has happened ? I ran quickly down the stairs.
An unfamiliar voice spoke to me from the unknown.
A terrified, strange voice :

M Save yourself ! The Russian prisoners have
escaped from their camp. Three thousand of them
are coming armed. They kill, rob and pillage.
They are coming towards the town. They are
coming this way ..."

" But . . ."I wanted to express my thanks, but
the voice ceased and was gone. It must have gone
on, panting, to awaken and warn the other inhabi-
tants of lonely houses. For an instant my imagina-
tion followed the voice as it ran breathless along the
wires in the night and shouted its alarm to the
sleeping, the waking, the cowardly, the brave. It
comes nameless, goes nameless, waits for no thanks,
flies on the torn wings of shattered, despised human
fellowship.

The Russians are coming . . .

I stood irresolute for a time in the cold passage.
What should I do ? Every moment life seemed to
present new problems. From the dark hall I listened
for any sound from my mother's room and looked to
see if a light appeared under her door. But all was

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 85

in darkness. Should I call her, tell her? What
good would it be ? I walked slowly up the stairs.
There was no sound from the room of my brother,
who was very ill. They both sleep ... It is better
so. At any rate, it would be impossible for us to
descend that soaked, slippery mountain path in the
night. And if we could, where should we go ? Fly ?
They said that when there was an earthquake. But
where can one find shelter when the earth is quaking
everywhere ?

WTien I reached my room I breathed more freely.
The lamp was alight, so at least I was spared the
addition of more darkness to that already in my
heart.

From the covered lamp a ray like that of a thief's
lantern fell on the table. I sat down in front of it
and rested my head in my hands, a dull weariness
behind my brow. It was some time before I over-
came this lassitude, and then four words formed
themselves on my lips : ' The Russians are com-
ing . . .' The past was stirred, and I remembered
the day when I had first heard those words . . .

Hungary did not want war. When it came she
faced it honourably, as she had always done for a
thousand years ... In their black Sunday best
peasants went through the town. The heels of their
high boots resounded sharply on the pavement . . .
Young women in bright petticoats, with tears in
their eyes, walked hand in hand with their sweet-
hearts, from whom they were about to be parted ;
old women in shawls, with their handsome sons.
Then — the Russians are coming ! . . . That was all
that was said. But those four words foretold an
immense upheaval, coming from the North. The
greater half of Europe, part of mysterious dark Asia,
moved from their ancient abodes and with a sea of
guns and rifles rushed on towards the Carpathians
to devour Europe. They poured like an avalanche
over the mountain passes, while Humanity held its
breath. Such a battle of peoples had never been
before.

Years went by. On the Russian fields and
swamps, along the Volga and the Don, from the
Urals to the Caucasus, on the endless plains of Asia,
the nations that had risen in arms were bleeding to

86 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

death. The empire of the White Czar had bled to
death, and that which was left of it became Red,
dyed in its own blood . . .

Summer had come many times since the tragic
summer of 1914 when the first boys went who never
came back again. Dear features now still in death,
playmates of my childhood, dead friends of my
youth. At the foot of Lublin, on the fields of
Sanatova, in the Dukla Pass, among the Polish
swamps, in Serbian land, at the Asiago, everywhere
flowed blood which was akin to mire. Dead shoots
of my ancestral tree ! And as you went, so did others
too, from year to year, without reprieve. Then the
call came to the school-rooms and to the sunny
corridors where the aged basked, resting before the
eternal rest, from the labours of life.

There was practically not a man nor a youth left
in the villages. The black soil was tilled by women,
and women gathered the harvest.

Springs were conceived in pain. Summers
brought forth their harvests in tears. In the
autumnal mists the withered hands of tottering old
men held the plough as it followed the silver-grey
long-horned oxen. A carriage might travel many
miles without passing a single man at work in the
fields. All were under foreign skies — or under
foreign soil, while the panic-stricken towns were
invaded by hordes of Galician fugitives. A new
type of buyer appeared in the markets, on the
Exchange. The Ghetto of Pest was thronged.
Goods disappeared and prices began to soar. Misery
stalked with a subdued wail through the land, while
the new rich rattled their gold impudently. A part
of the aristocracy and the wealth-laden Jewry danced
madly in the famished towns, amidst a weeping
land.

Now and then dark news came from the distant
tempest of blood. Now and then flags of victory
were unfurled and the church bells rang for the
Te Deum. One morning the flags were of a black
hue, and the church bells tolled for death : The King
is dead ! . . . Long live the King !

The old ruler closed his eyes after a long watch,
and the reins of the two countries fell from his aged
hands. In Vienna : an imperial funeral and imperial

Photo. Kosel, Vienna.

KING CHARLES.

(To face p. 36. J

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 37

mourning ; in Buda : a coronation shining with the
lustre of ancient gold. The clouds had broken !
With his veiled, white-faced wife the young King
passed like a vision through his royal town.

But it was all a dream. The King was in a hurry.
In vain did his people proffer their devotion at the
gate of his castle : he was incapable of grasping the
moment, and departed before he had gathered this
royal treasure. So the wind scattered the despised
love of the nation. Something froze under the
Hungarian sky, and in chilled soberness the morrow
dawned.

In those times the winters were cold in Hungary.
They froze one to the marrow as they had never
done before. There was scarcely any fuel. Along
the walls of the houses in Pest, children, girls, and
old people thronged at the entrance to the coal
merchants. They sat on the edge of the pavement,
shivered and waited. At the horse-butchers, at the
communal shops, in front of bakers', and dairymen's,
long rows of sad women waited from dawn till late
into the night. Quiet, patient women . . . waiting
. . . Everybody was waiting — for life, for death,
for news, for somebody to return. The hospitals were
overcrowded, and all through the land, from one
end to the other, the roads resounded with the
wooden clatter of crutches.

That was the once happy Hungary ! But hope
and honour were still alive. Our war was a war of
self-defence. Perhaps we, of all the combatants, had
nothing to gain, had no ambition to take anything
from any other country.

But our corrupt politics had lost a greater struggle
than a battle. Personal hatred and envy brought
about the downfall of Stephen Tisza, and the helm
came into inexperienced hands. The power which had
steered till then ceased to be, and while men of the
Great Plain, Transylvania, Upper Hungary and
West Hungary were away on the distant battle-fields,
in honour bound, something happened in the crowded
capital of the empty country.

Traces of the silent, clandestine work of under-
mining became gradually perceptible. But before
its threads could be clearly defined they faded away
and were absorbed by daily life. In the background,

88 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

as on a stage, sinister shapes passed. From the sides
invisible prompters whispered, and in the foreground
there appeared a figure which day by day grew more
distinct. This figure kept repeating, louder and
louder, the secret promptings, as though they were
his very own.

That man was Count Michael Karolyi.

I shivered as I pondered these things. Then some
noise outside interrupted my thoughts and I remem-
bered the night's warning . . . Hours may have
passed since I sat down at my writing-table. The
light of my shaded lamp fell in a narrow wedge
on to the sheet of paper in front of me, my head was
still between my hands.

What was that ? . . . Again the same noise.
Then suddenly with relief I realized what it was.
Near my window some mortar from the tiles had
rolled from the roof into the gutter, quietly, like a
shiver passing over the lonely house. I listened for
some time, then I buried my face again in my hands
and my thoughts wandered back by the path of
recent events, picking up on the way fading memories
which had been thrown to oblivion.

The picture of our great past was grand and full
of dignity. Details stood out. Scenes gained colour.
The expression of people's faces became clearer, and
now and then one could look behind the veil of
things. That which was far away had become history,
whereas the present was warm, throbbing, human
life.

How did it happen ? And when ? At the time
train after train was rolling across Hungary, long
military trains, carrying the troops from the freed
Russian frontier towards the Italian and French
fronts. The end of the war had never seemed nearer.
The hope of victory carried all hearts with it. Even
the prophets of evil portent became mute, and the
possibility of an honest peace appeared like a
mirage on the horizon. The frontiers of Hungary will
not change : that was our only condition of peace —
we have never wanted anything else. And then the
road will be clear for the second thousand years.

But then, all of a sudden, a shining blade seemed

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 39

to pierce the air. There was a flash of light, and the
light lit up a new wound. What had happened.
Who had caused it ?

In the first days of January some people unknown
had introduced revolutionary literature into the
arsenals and munition factories. " Workers ! . . .
Brethren ! . . . Soldier-brothers ! . . . Not a
penny, not a man for the army !" Those who had
an opportunity of reading these pamphlets could
have no doubt that they were produced by people
who were opposed to Hungary's interests. What we
imagined in horror had become a reality. A foe was
in our midst and was attempting to achieve here
what he had failed to accomplish on the other side of
the front. Who are the guilty ? The nation, fighting
for life, clamoured indignantly for the mask to be
torn off them. And when the mask was torn off they
stood there in the light, with blinking eyes, caught
in the act : a pseudo-scientific organisation of the
Freemasons,* the International Freethinkers' branch of
Hungarian Higher Schools, and the Circle of Galilee
with its almost exclusively Jewish membership.

Others, who were equally implicated, withdrew
suddenly into the obscurity of the background. As
far as he was concerned, however, Michael Karolyi
thought caution superfluous. He continued to
remain in the foreground of the scene; and though
doubtful strangers sneaked through the entrance of
his palace, nobody interfered with him. Even the
police left him alone, though it knew full well that
when the revolutionary documents were drawn up
he had been in close contact with the Galileist youths,
and had even spent many hours in their office. He
was observed from a neighbouring house. But in-
visible powers protected Michael Karolyi, and it
was said that his confidential friends in official
positions always informed him in time when his
position was becoming dangerous.

Public opinion became nervous in those times, and
waited with impatience for retribution. The head-

*It should be remembered that the Hungarian Freemasonry
had become, like the Grand Orient de France, a political associ-
ation and is fundamentally different from English Freemasonry.

[Translator.]

40 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

quarters of the Galilee Circle was sealed up by the
police. Arrests were made. Then the names of some
of the accused reached the public through the doors
of the secret court — names with a striking sound.
Even now I remember some of them : Helen
Duczynska, Theodor Singer-Sugar, Herman Helfgott,
Csillag-Stern, Kelen-Klein, Fried, Weiss, Sisa,
Ignace Beller, and about three more Russian Jews,
among them a prisoner of war called Solom, who
possessed a multiplicator. There wasn't a single
Hungarian among them. Obscure foreign hands
had fumbled at our destiny ! But nobody spoke of
that. And yet the very names of the arrested
Galileists were an indication of future events. Alas !
the Hungarian nation has never known how to in-
terpret the future by the warnings of the present.

The trial of the Galileists came to an end : the
court martial inflicted two remarkably lenient
sentences and acquitted the rest. That was all.
Then there followed silence, a silence similar to the
one which in the autumn of 1917 hid Karolyi's journey
to Switzerland and stifled the whispers that he had
betrayed there to the French the German offensive
which was preparing and had hobnobbed with
Syndicalists and Bolshevists. Only when the sailors
of Cattaro revolted was there another commotion.
Notwithstanding the secrecy of the army command,
rumours got about. The batman of a. high officer
brought a letter sewn in the lining of his coat.

Down there in the Gulf of Cattaro the fleet had
mutinied. Michael Horthy, the hero of the Novarro,
suppressed the rising and saved the fleet for the
Monarchy. But in the embers of the extinguished
fire the army command found curious footprints. It
was alleged that two telegrams of the mutineers
were intercepted. One was addressed to Trotski,
the other to Michael Karolyi.

And again, nothing was done ! Political considera-
tion . . . Great names are involved . . . The King
won't have it . . . The time is not propitious . . .

It was about this time that I reminded Count
Stephen Tisza of a letter which I had received
through Switzerland in the autumn of 1914, and
which I had shown him at the time. The letter
arrived approximately at the same time as Michael

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 41

Karolyi, whom mobilisation had found on French
soil. According to this letter the French had good
reasons for sending Karolyi home. He was to be
well rewarded if he did his work well . . . he might
even become the President of the Hungarian
Republic. Stephen Tisza only shook his head :
" You see phantoms. It would be a pity to make
a martyr of him."

It was a long time ago. Much has become blurred
since then, but I still feel the bitterness of that
moment.

And all the other politicians thought as Tisza did.
They did not take Michael Karolyi seriously, because
they did not see those who were behind him. The
attention of public opinion was absorbed by other
things. Every day life became more difficult, and
far away in Brest-Litovsk peace negotiations were
going on. The delegates of the Russians dragged out
the negotiations cunningly, and the German command,
losing patience, rattled its sword at the council table.
Meanwhile Bronstein-Trotski, the Foreign Com-
missioner of the Soviet, addressed inciting speeches
over the heads of our delegates — to our soldiers, our
workmen.

At home these speeches created a curious stir. As
if they had been a signal the Jewish press of Hungary
began to attack our German allies. The "dispersed"
Circle of Galilee organised a demonstration in front
of the German Consulate and broke its windows.
The co-religionists of the Trot skis, Radeks and
Joffes organised strikes by means of the trade union
headquarters, which they had under their control.
Thus did they support the interests of their Russian
friends and weaken the position of our delegates.

During the strike Michael Karolyi, walking one day
with his wife in the city, met one of their
relations who lived in the suburbs and asked him
anxiously, "Are the people rising out there?" The
negative answer depressed them. " It does not
matter ... The day has not yet come . . . But
we shall not escape revolution."

Louder and louder came the whispers out of the
darkness : we had come to a phase when words
could do the work. And words began to agitate :
" Only a separate peace can save us from the revolu-

42 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

tion . . . We must leave the Germans to their
fate ... They are the cause of everything . . .
The war goes on because of them . . . Alsace
Lorraine ..." Invisible lips uttered these things
with persistent consistency. Unknown voices spoke
to those who repeated their sayings. And far away
from the fields of battle, in the country's capital, in
the workshops and the barracks, quietly, secretly,
the earth began to quake.

And yet the front was never stronger than at this
period of the war. After the Ukrainian and Russian
peace, these were perhaps the last moments which
permitted us to hope for a possible peace, if only we
showed unity and resolution. But in these fateful
days some mischievous magic lantern flashed the
picture of a weakening alliance with Germany, of
internal discord and risings, towards our adversaries,
and these pictures inspired them with new zeal. At
home it became more and more clear that we
harboured men who ate the bread of our soil under
the protection of Hungarian soldiers, who drank the
water of our wells and slept peacefully, whilst
putting forth every possible effort to make us lose
the war.

If I remember rightly it was at this time that
Karolyi 's political camp began to spread the rumour
that he had come into touch with leaders of the
Entente. Poincare had once been the lawyer of the
Karolyi family . . . Stories circulated. Others
again knew that he had connections with Trotski
and that he had organised secret military councils
in the smaller towns round the capital.

" The traitor!"

While we in my family called him a traitor, the
radical press raised him to the dignity of a prophet,
and the misguided masses saw in him the saviour of
the country.

The freemasons, socialists, feminists and galileists
stood behind him. Some female members of his
own family surrounded him like disciples and re-
peated without discrimination everything he pro-
claimed. That which would have brought a trooper
to the gallows was freely said by Michael Karolyi the
officer. In the clubs gentlemen shook hands with
him, and society thought it original and amusing

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 48

that he should have called his little daughter
Bolshevik Eve. The haughty Count Karolyi, who
would not have offered a seat to his bailiff and who
during the war — well behind the front — refused to
shake hands with infantry officers who came, covered
with blood and mud, from the trenches, because "t7s
n'etaient pas de famille," now declaimed about
democracy and equality, and made Bolshevism
fashionable among his younger female relatives !

In this inner circle his influence reached such
ridiculous proportions that a lady of his intimate
acquaintance exclaimed in her democratic zeal :
" Oh, I do love the rabble !" His wife's relations,
following his teachings, poked fun at patriotism,
raved about the Internationale, and wore some
travesty of a dress because it had been dubbed
" Bolshevik " fashion. Of course it was " only in
play," but it was a dangerous game, for it covered
those who wore Bolshevik fashions in earnest.

The young King was full of the best intentions.
Perhaps he saw the danger, but he drew back when
he ought to have excised the source of infection
spread by Karolyi's friends. In Austria he granted
an amnesty and released from prison the Czech
traitors. The Austrian people, once so devoted to
their Emperor, became indifferent ... In Hungary
he ordered judicial proceedings to be commenced
against the traitors, but did not insist on their being
carried out. Thus it happened that the Hungarian
people, in an agony concerning the fate of their
country, felt themselves forsaken and regarded their
King with disappointment and bitter reproaches ;
while the dark forces, gathering encouragement from
this eternal indecision, were emboldened to come
out into the sunlight. Thus a bloodless war against
Hungary was started in Hungary.

In the West the successful great German offensive
shook for a time the camp of destruction. The suc-
cesses of our allies were received by Karolyi with fear
and trembling. His wife went into hysterics and his
confidential newspaper editor, Baron Louis Hatvany,
exclaimed sadly in my presence :

" No greater misfortune can befall us than a
German victory. Russian Bolshevism is a thousand
times preferable to German Militarism."

44 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

It was as if the earth had opened in front of me
when I heard these words. I remember my reply :

" German militarism goes armed against armed
men ; Russian Bolshevism goes armed against un-
armed people. That may please you better. As for
me, I prefer militarism."

At this time the voice of the Hungarian Radical
press was the same as that of Baron Hatvany. The
same press which at the beginning of the war
blackguarded our enemies shamefully, now wrote of
them sentimentally. The same papers which, when
the Russian invasion was threatening, cringed re-
pulsively before the German power, now kicked the
wounded giant fearlessly.

For Germany was stricken now. The offensive
came to a standstill. Contradictory reports spread.
And while our enemies prepared with burning patriot-
ism for the sublime effort, underhand peace talk was
heard in Hungary, and Karolyi — through his friends —
acclaimed pacifism and internationalism. The Radical
press was triumphant. Not content with attacking
the alliance it attacked that which was Hungarian
as well. Nothing was sacred. It threw mud at
Tisza's clean name. It derided all that was precious
to the nation. Base calumnies were spread about
the Queen.

The overthrow of authority and of traditions are
the necessary preliminaries to the destruction of a
nation.

With such evil omens came the fifth summer of
war, which brought the fifth bad harvest. In the
West, the German front retreated unresistingly.
In the East, the storm of the Russian Revolution
was blowing over the Carpathians. Our fronts were
infected with Karolyi 's agitators. Those who were
caught paid the penalty. Yet there were enough
well-paid poisoners of wells who slipped through.
Their work was easy : the West provided gold, the
East the example. The infection spread . . .

The collapse of Germany's power, the many old
sins of the Austrian higher command, the catastrophe
that befell our army at the Piave, the bitterness for
the disproportionate blood sacrifice of the Hungari-
ans, the anti-Hungarian spirit of the Austrian
military element, the endless squabbles of our

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 45

politicians, the blindness of our impotent govern-
ment—--all these served those who, to Hungary's mis-
fortune, aspired to power.

Bad news came fast. In Arad, in Nagyvarad,
some detachments mutinied and refused obedience.
Revolutionary papers were found in the barracks.
In Budapest the working masses became threat-
eningly restless; near the communal food-shops and
other stores the waiting crowd was no longer
patient and silent. I stopped often at the edge of
the pavement and listened to what they said. The
shabby, waiting rows of tired people struggled for
hours between two wedges. In the shop the
profiteers sucked their life blood; in the street paid
agitators incited them cunningly, clandestinely
against " the gentle-folk." " It all depends on us
how long we stand it. After all we are the majority,
not they."

The crowd approved and failed to notice that the
Semitic race was only to be found at the two ends
of the queue, and that not a single representative of
it could be seen as a buyer among the crowding, the
poor, and the starving . . . This was symbolical, a
condensed picture of Budapest. The sellers, the
agitators, were Jews. The buyers and the misguided
were the people of the capital.

A carriage passed in the middle of the road. A
pale, sickly woman sat in it. The waiting row of
people growled angrily towards the carriage : Cannot
this one walk like everybody else? Unpleasant
words were spoken. I looked along the line. The
agitators were there no more. But the seed they
had sown grew suddenly ripe. The people talked
excitedly to each other and shouted provocatively
at those who wore a decent coat. " Why should he
have that coat? All that will have to change!"
Envy and hatred distorted the face of the street. A
part of the press was already inciting openly to class-
hatred.

The town was now on the eve of its suicide, and
presently, like a thunderbolt, there fell into the
streets the news that the Bulgarian army had laid
down its arms !

I well remember that awful day. It was the
twenty-sixth of September. Through the agitated,

46 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

humming town I was going to the funeral of my
little godson. The streets were thronged with people.
As they went along they were all reading news-
papers, and I noticed that they seemed to stagger as
if they had been stunned by some terrific blow.
Harassed faces rushed past me, and only here and
there was some contrast perceptible. I did not
understand it until later . . .
Two Jews were talking to each other :
"At last! Beneidenswertes Volk, these Bulgari-
ans. They will get good conditions ! Prima
Bedingungen! And that is the beginning of peace."
They alone seemed to be happy . . . And the
sun glittered on the roof-tops and there was some-
thing in the glowing brightness of the early autumn
which reminded me of the waking life of spring,
when I had walked in the same neighbourhood.
When was it? I remembered with a pang. On the
morn of the victory of Gorlice did the sun shine thus,
above the bright-coloured waving flags. And
through my tears I saw suddenly the little dead
golden-headed boy, the hope of his house : little
Andrew Tormay . . . He came during the war, he
smiled, and he was gone. His short life ended with
the last world-moving act. But was it the last ? Or
was it a new beginning ?

A cold shudder ran down my back. Merciful
God, is it not enough ? Somewhere a cock crowed and
roused me from my meditations. I took my hands
from my face and rose stiff from beside my table.
The room had become chilled during the long night.
Between the slats of the blind something was paint-
ing with a delicate brush rapid, cold blue lines on
the darkness. Dawn. I looked out for an instant into
the damp, sad half-light and tried to picture the morn.
But the thoughts of the night crowded upon me.

Some time must have elapsed before I noticed
that I was sitting on the edge of my bed, rigid,
dressed. A jumble of thoughts thronged my
brain . . . Since the Bulgarian armistice life
had been one continuous series of shocks, and I
remembered events only with gaps. Big pieces were
missing, then they started again . . . Wilson ! In

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 47

those dark hours this name still soothed our har-
assed souls. Disastrous illusion, enticing nations
into a death-trap ! Peace . . . peace ! howled the
voice of this phantom behind the battlefields,
attacking the still resisting armies in the back.
Peace ! . . . Peace ! it howled along the fronts.
Then in an aside it added : " There is no peace for
you till you discard your Emperor!" Meanwhile,
in our midst, the camp of Count Michael Karolyi
studied cynically, as if it were a game, the guide-
book of the Russian Revolution. Tisza and
Andrassy became reconciled. Too late, too late . . .

Then came a memorable day. Parliament sat on
the 17th of October and the Prime Minister an-
nounced the severance of all community with
Austria, except the personal union of the Sovereign.
Too late, too late . . . The aspiration of centuries,
the hope of generations, became a puppet. The
unity of the Empire, dualism, the common army,
were feverishly thrown overboard from the
Monarchy's drifting airship. The opposition
laughed. One deputy promised a revolution for
March and turning toward Tisza spoke of the
gallows.

" The parody of a revolution," answered Tisza
contemptuously.

Karolyi rose to speak. The storm broke, and one
of his hangers-on, Lovaszy, shouted at the House :
" We are friends of the Entente !"

This was the first open avowal of the treason
which had been committed for years by Karolyi 's
party; the horror of it ran like a shudder through
the House, the city and the land, to pass on as a
slavering mendicant to our enemies. Those who
were honest among us hurled the treason back at
the traitors, that it might brand the foreheads of
those who in the hour of our agony could offer their
friendship to our destroyers. How could the powers
of the Entente feel anything but contempt and dis-
dain for such an offer ! Their generals and
politicians might make use of traitors, but certainly
they would not demean themselves by accepting
their friendship.

After this disgraceful sitting, in front of the very
gate of the House df Parliament, an attempt was

48 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

made on Count Stephen Tisza's life. Years before
a deputy called Kovacs-Strasser, and now a certain
Lekai-Leiter, raised the weapon against him.

On October the 22nd Tisza spoke for the last
time in the Commons and declared that we must
stand by our allies. If we had to fall, let us fall to-
gether, honourably. And then his voice, which
never deceived and never lied, told the unfortunate
nation that : "We have lost this war !" . . . Amidst
breathless silence the sinister words rang through
the country and, like Death's scythe, cut down all
hope.

" Tisza said so . . ."

There was no more. And henceforth every new
event was but another mortal wound. Wilson sent
a reply to the Monarchy which implored him for
peace. He would have no intercourse with us, and
referred us to the Czechs, the Roumanians and the
Serbs. They wanted to humiliate us, and humiliate
us they did. But we still had an army, and we clung
to the idea : the Hungarian troops would come
back from the front.

Before we could recover our breath there came
another stroke. On the 23rd of October a deputy of
the Karolyi party shouted into the sitting House of
Commons that when the King had entered
Debreczen the Austrian National Anthem had been
played. Nobody asked if the news were true. The
song of Austria's Emperors in the very heart of the
Great Hungarian Plain ! Always, even now ? Have
they not yet learned, will they never forget? . . .
Then Karolyi read aloud a telegram which turned
out later to be a forgery : the Croatian regiment in
Fiume had mutinied ! — Thus the opposition possessed
itself of two weapons. The reporters in the press
gallery jumped up at once and loudly supported
Karolyi's camp. The impossible happened : in the
Hungarian Parliament the Radical newspaper men
of the press gallery brought about the fall of the
government ! Tisza looked angrily towards the
gallery and made signs to the speaker. What had
become of his authority, the imposing of which had
nearly cost him his life ?

The storm passed by, and after this the ground
gave way quickly under the Hungarian Parliament.

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 49

Wekerle resigned. All parties negotiated a coalition.

Meanwhile the King sat in council at Godollo, and
it was about this time that the shifty rabble which
gathered in the night of the 22nd of October at
Karolyi's palace and dubbed itself the National
Council emerged from darkness. The storm-troops
of destruction, the Galileist Circle, came again to the
fore ; headed by a flag which Karolyi had given them
they paraded the town and penetrated into the
Royal Castle. The flag-bearer, a medical student of
Galician origin called Rappaport, stuck the flag out
of one of the castle's windows and addressed the
rabble in the court yard. He blackguarded the
King and called for cheers for Karolyi and the
Republic.

Nobody attached any great importance to all this,
and the town remained indifferent : the incident was
practically unknown beyond the streets where the
Galileists' strange, noisy procession had passed.
Through the gate of Karolyi's palace furtive people
hurried in and out. Some said that officers and men
escaped from the front were hiding in the palace,
others whispered of secret meetings in the Count's
rooms.

What was going on there ? Nobody troubled
about it, and the newspapers wrote ' long articles
about the Spanish " flu." The epidemic was serious,
people met their friends at funerals, but the news-
papers exaggerated intentionally; they published
alarming statistics and reported that the under-
takers could not cope with the situation : people had
to be buried by torchlight at night. The panic-
stricken crowd could scarcely think of anything else.
The terror of the epidemic was everywhere, and the
greater terror which threatened, the brewing revo-
lution, was hidden by it. The press, as if working to
order, hypnotised the public with the ghost of the
epidemic while it belittled the misfortunes of the
unfortunate nation and rocked its anxiety to sleep
by raising foolish, false hopes of a good peace, and
gushed over Karolyi's connections with the Entente.

And so the big, unwieldy mass of citizens slid to-
wards the precipice in its sleep.

There came an awful day. We learned that as the
result of the insidious propaganda of Karolyi's

50 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

agents and his press, a Hungarian division and a
Viennese regiment had laid down their arms ... It
was through this break that the forces of the Entente
had crossed the Piave. Our forces repelled them in
a supreme effort. Then the English tanks came into
play. These were too much for the nerves of oui
men, whose discipline had been slackened by several
months' intrigue. They mutinied, and it was re-
ported that in the confusion General Wurm was
killed by his own men.

In Budapest the papers which appeared were
blanked heavily by the exertions of the censor, but
in the streets people already spoke openly of the
National Council and proclaimed loudly that one
could take the oath of allegiance to it at the rooms
of Karolyi's party. There was an astonishing
number of soldiers in the crowd. I noticed then for
the first time how many sailors walked the streets.
Where did these come from ?

Next day was Sunday, October the 27th. I re-
collect clearly that I did not leave the house. With-
in the last few days most of the inhabitants of the
villas in our neighbourhood had moved in haste in
to the town. It was quiet, and I pruned the shrubs
in our garden.

It was only through the newspapers that I learned
what had happened. Advised by Karolyi, the King
had received at Godollo the day before the Radical
journalist Oscar Jaszi and the two organisers of his
party, Zsigmond Kunfi and Ernest Garami, both
Socialist journalists. Karolyi's press was shouting
victory, and having obtained all it wanted, it began
to see red and started to defame the King. Poor
young King ! The reception was a sad and useless
concession. These men were revolutionaries and
poisoners whose due was not an audience but a
warrant of arrest. Even now everything could have
been saved, all that was wanted was a fist that
dared to strike. But the King's beautiful hands,
according to Jaszi's report of the audience, only
toyed nervously with his rings . . . Their Majesties
went in the evening to Vienna. They left their
children in the royal castle and took Karolyi with
them in the royal train.

The morning papers spoke of " Karolyi, the Prime

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AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 51

Minister designate of Hungary." There was to be a
monster meeting in town in front of the House of
Parliament. The workmen appeared in full force.
Lovaszy, Count Batthyany, and " comrades " Garbai
and Pogany made revolutionary speeches. A group
of workmen, to show their approval of these measures,
carried a gallows on which a doll dressed like Tisza
in red hussar breeches was suspended. In the even-
ing the crowd went to the railway station to receive
Karolyi on his return from Vienna.

Later in the day my brother Geza telephoned to
me from Baden (near Vienna) ; he. had just come
from General Headquarters. Archduke Joseph and
Michael Karolyi had come in the same train. The
King had recalled the Archduke from the Italian
front and sent him as homo regius to Budapest.
The Archduke obeyed, though he would have pre-
ferred to return first to his troops and come back at
their head to restore order in the capital. The King,
however, vetoed this plan. Two unfortunate blun-
ders. The Archduke arrived without backing, and
Count Karolyi infinitely offended in his vanity. The
youths of the Galilee Circle were waiting for the
latter at the railway station, and he shook his long
yellow hands in the air and shouted : "I will not
forsake Hungary's independence."

Meanwhile worse and worse news reached us. We
reeled under it, stunned. Our inertia was folly.
Everybody expected somebody else to do something,
and in the dark hours of our mad misfortune Karolyi's
National Council alone became bolder.

Then came the events of October 28th. A crowd
which had gathered near the rooms of Karolyi's
party, incited by the revolutionary speeches of two
factious orators, and led by Stephen Friedrich, a
manufacturer, started towards the Danube to cross
over to the Royal Castle and claim from Archduke
Joseph the Premiership for Karolyi. " He alone
can get us a good peace ! . . ." There was a crush
at the bridge-head. The crowd used the police
roughly. Shots were fired. The police replied with
a volley. A few people fell dead on the pavement.
That was exactly what the organisers wanted. They
shrieked wildly : " These martyrs will make the
revolution . . ."

52 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

How many days ago did all this happen ? I began
to count. One, two, three, four days in all. It
seemed as though it had been much longer ago.
Four days ! . . . What a gap between then and
this day when Tisza lay dead and with him much of
Hungary's honour !

The torture of these memories drove me into des-
pair. An utter weariness possessed me. I fell back
on my bed. I wanted to rest, but against my will
impressions came crowding into my brain . . .
October 29th . . . What happened on that day ?
Detached images passed before me. Fields soaked
with wet ... A little, whitewashed cottage on the
edge of a wood, a tangled little garden, with ivy
creeping over the paths and covering the old trees.
For years I have gathered my evergreens there for
the Day of the Dead. This year the little house has
a new inmate. The old people have gone and the
new proprietor appeared frightened when I shook
the gate for admittance. Even after he had ad-
mitted me he looked at me several times suspici-
ously. His name was Stern, or something of the sort.
While selling the ivy he spoke nervously :

" This neighbourhood has become very insecure.
Many deserters roam the woods. They spend the
night in the empty villas." Then he asked me what
I wanted the ivy for. "The cemeteries will be closed
this year on the Day of the Dead. They are afraid
of the crowds, because of the epidemic, and then . . .
who knows what may happen if the King is obstinate
and won't make Karolyi Prime Minister."

"I hope he never will ..."

The man looked at me angrily :

" He must come, and so must the Socialists.
They will save Hungary."

" It is odd that you should expect the salvation of
the country to come from those who denounce
patriotism."

"I see things differently," said the man. " That
is just the trouble in Hungary. They always talk
of the country, the nation. There is no such thing
as a country and a nation. It is the same to me
where I live, in Moscow, in Munich or in Belgrade.

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 53

It is all the same to me as long as I live well. That
is the thing we have to drive at, and it is only
through socialism that it can be attained."

" The ultimate end being communism ?"

" Later, sometime, some day, yes," the man
answered in a low voice.

" And the Russian example ? Do you think that
what is going on there is the realisation of human
happiness?"

" That is only the stage of transition."

M Transition which may mean annihilation."

Rain began to fall. It drifted in dense silver
threads between the hills. The cottage, its inhabi-
tant and its garden disappeared from my memory.
I saw another picture. It was evening. My mother
was sitting silently in the hall, lit up by the shaded
lamp, and, as she was wont to do every year, she was
winding the ivy wreath for my father's grave.

" It is better for him not to have lived to see this,"
she said abruptly, quite unexpectedly.

I looked at her. It was as if her words had
opened a gap through which I could get a glimpse of
her soul. I now knew that, though she never said so,
she was worried by premonitions.

Later on my brothers and sisters came. They
brought news. "It is said that Archduke Joseph
would be made Viceroy. The King has charged
Count Hadik to form a Cabinet. Karolyi's agitators
are making speeches in the streets all over the town.
There are great demonstrations. The printers' com-
positors have gone over to the National Council.
Now the compositors censor the papers themselves.
Nothing is allowed to be printed without the ap-
proval of the secretariat of the Socialist party.
The workmen of the arsenal have broken open the
armouries. The police have joined Karolyi's
National Council . . . Down there at the Piave
everything has collapsed. There is mutiny in the
fleet at Pola. In the plains of Venezia the front has
gone to pieces."

And all the while, my silent mother was making
her wreath . . .

I remembered nothing more. The hours passed
unnoticed. Where was I next day? What did I
hear? Memory was effaced. That day was the eve

54 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

of the 31st of October . . . Ah yes I In the after-
noon we had a visitor. Countess Rafael Zichy came
from the Castle Hill though the town had ceased to
be safe. Yet she came and stayed late. The lamps
on the roads had not been lit and we had to light
her down the misty dark hill with a lantern. I was
anxious to know if she reached home safely. My
mother telephoned ... So much I remembered,
but I have no recollection of what we talked about
while she was here.

• •••••••

Dead tired, I closed my eyes. But the swift
changing pictures passed in restless fantasy . . .
Human figures chasing outlines . . . bloodmarks
. . . and the dead, white face of Stephen Tisza . . .

Shuddering, I opened my eyes. The night was
over and day had come. And then I remembered
that the Russians had not come after all. We had
escaped that danger, but the rest was still there,
encircling us and holding us in captivity.

A slight noise attracted me. It came from the
lamp hanging from the ceiling. A moth had got
into the glass chimney and with tattered wings was
struggling vainly to escape.

CHAPTER IV

November 2nd.

The house stood amid a sad, grey morning. Through
the fog a continuous drizzle , was heard in the woods,
and along the road a muddy stream gurgled in the
broken gutter. The people in the electric trams
going townwards were just like the morning itself :
grey, wet and sad. They spoke of the mutiny in the
Russian camp.

"They have been disarmed" . . . "Not at all,
they have spread over the country ..." "They
pillage in small bands, like the escaped convicts.
They too broke out on the news of the revolution.
They captured a train and came, all armed, towards
Pest. On the way they fought a regular battle,
with many dead and wounded ; the rest escaped." . .
" No, they did not. They enlisted as sailors."

There was panic and confusion in all this talk, and
nobody seemed to know anything for certain.

The tram turned round the foot of the hill. At
the stopping place I bought a newspaper. The
papers were filthy, and the woman who sold them did
not take much heed of me ; she was talking politics
with a hawker who sold boot-laces and moustache
wax at that spot.

" Give me the Budapesti Hirlap." — But the
paper which for the last ten years had fought, prac-
tically single-handed, against the machinations of the
destructive press was not to be had. The woman
thrust another paper into my hand. The tram
went on and I began to read. As if announcing a

56 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

glorious victory the head-lines proclaimed in im-
mense type : "on the whole front we have laid

D< »WN OUR ARMS ! IN CASE OF OCCUPATION WE HAVE
ASKED FOR FRENCH OR BRITISH TROOPS." Something

stabbed and tore my heart : Gorliee, Limanova,
liovchen, Doberdo . . .

The newspaper continued : " Six weeks are needed
for tihe conclusion of peace . . . The King has
relieved the new government from its allegiance . . .
The government has decided in principle for a Re-
public and has extended its programme by this con-
dition . . . The Government has sworn allegiance
Le the National Council at the Town Hall . . . the
touching scene, which buried a past of a thousand
years, passed amidst indescribable enthusiasm."

Our arms laid down ! Foreign occupation ! The
King has relieved the perjurers ! A republic in
Hungary ! And one of the most important papers
in Hungary writes of all this as if it were the ac-
complishment of long cherished hopes, as if it re-
joiced that " the past of a thousand years " had been
buried ! Not a word of sympathy, of consolation.

Then something suddenly dawned on me : in this
paper a victorious race was exulting over the fall of
a defeated nation ! And the defeated, the insulted
nation was my own ! . . . So they hated us as much
as all that, they, who lived among us as if they were
part of us. Why ? What have we done to them ?
They were free, they were powerful, they fared
better with us than in any other country. And yet
they rejoiced that we should disappear in dishonour,
in shame, in defeat.

I threw the newspaper away — It was an enemy.

We came to the Pest end of the bridge. The
tram stopped, and I wanted to change. " The trams
are not running. You can walk," growled the inspec-
tor. The walls are covered with posters, orders,
announcements, proclamations. On a big coloured
poster: "Lukasich has been appointed executioner."
And under the announcement the execution of a
soldier was depicted. As I walked along my eyes
gleaned a sentence from another poster : " People of
Hungary, soldiers, workers and citizens !" (The order
of the words was significant; but it did not appear
to strike people's imagination). " Fellow-citizens !

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 57

Glory, honour and homage to the victorious people
of Budapest. The people's revolution has con-
quered "... and the signature : " The First
Hungarian Popular Government." Then another
sentence : " The military and civil power is in the
hands of the head of the Hungarian Popular
Government, Michael Karolyi." Many words, many
black words. I read the last words of the Popular
Government's Proclamation : "To assure the transi-
tion from the present conditions to a quiet peaceful
life, we organise Soldiers' Councils and a National
Guard so that eternal peace may gain its healing
sway over us all."

Red and white blotches of paper and alternate
signatures : Heltai, Commander of the Garrison,
Linder, Commander-in-Chief.

Linder? I never heard this name during the war.
And yet it seemed familiar to me. Then I re-
membered. I met him at a social gathering, and once
at an afternoon tea. On both occasions he seemed
under the influence of drink. That was the reason I
noticed him, otherwise his insignificance would have
wiped him out of my memory. Now I seemed to
see his face. He gave me the impression of an elderly
stage swashbuckler. His well-groomed hair was
grey, his shoulders high, his neck thick-set, his face
congested; his tiny grey eyes winked all the time,
and when he laughed they disappeared entirely.
Linder . . . Can this stage swashbuckler be the new
Minister of War?

I now noticed that more and more people hurried
past me, and that all were going towards the House
of Parliament. A crowd was gathering in the big,
beflagged square. People dressed in black, officers in
field uniform, poured from the neighbouring streets.
Some mounted police arrived. Then came a military
band. A military cordon was formed in the centre.

"What is happening here?" I asked a woman who
stood aimlessly among the loafers on the kerb.

" I don't know." A young man, who might have
been in her company, answered for her : " The
officers of the Garrison are swearing allegiance to the
National Council."

" There are crowds of them," said the woman, and
moved her neck like a duck in a pond. The young

58 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

rrian laughed with contempt. " There may be four
hundred." His accent seemed to proclaim him from
Transylvania.

Motor cars rushed past me. Overhead, aeroplanes
were circling and strewing leaflets among the crowd :
" The glorious revolution ! The people have con-
quered!" Leaflets on the ground, leaflets in the
gutter, leaflets everywhere.

The great grey mass of the House of Parliament
hid the Danube from our sight like a petrified lace
curtain. On its walls the ancient coats of arms of
various counties, the monuments of past Kings, ap-
peared and disappeared in the mist like a dissolving
view. At the sides of the building the square ex-
tended to the river, and the ghostly outlines of a
bronze figure on horseback stood out against the
background of mist-covered Buda : the statue of
Andr&ssy, the great Minister of Foreign Affairs. In
the haze it seemed that the rider moved, as though he
wanted to turn his steed and ride away to the sound
of brazen horse-shoes, back along the banks of the
Danube, to see if the river had changed its course —
the river which had imposed upon the lands between
the Black Forest and the Black Sea the alliance
which he had written on paper. Had it left its bed,
had it dried up, that great Danube, the ancient zone
across Europe's body, that some man should be so
bold as to tear up the scrap of paper which con-
firmed the bond ? Mist rose over the yellow waves.
The poisoned town threw its image across a veil into
the river and poisoned its waters. And the stream
carried the poison, and perhaps by to-morrow the
lands it crosses may already writhe with internal
pains.

To-morrow . . . Everything is lost in a mist.
Round the square the houses showed their many-eyed
faces through a haze. Below, the rain-covered
asphalt pavement shone, reflecting the people who
stood upon it. In the windows of the houses, on the
stone steps of the House of Parliament, between
two stone lions, more people. I looked at my watch.
It was eleven o'clock. Another motor car dashed
up, there was some cheering in the centre of
the square, and the figure of a man rose above the
crowd. He stood on the steps of the House of

h- 1

O
W

P

o
«

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 59

Parliament in a dark overcoat, a bowler-hat on his
head, a glaring red tie round his neck.

The Minister of War. He began to wave his hat
over his head as if attempting to catch an elusive
butterfly. I caught a few of his words. He spoke
with a lisp and stuttered slightly. "Soldiers, I expect
discipline . . . We have faithfully done our duty on
the field of battle . . . We suffered and we
fought . . . We imagined that the ideals we fought
for were worth while ... I, your responsible
Minister of War, declare that these ideals were
false !"

I thought he would be knocked down for saying
that. Four hundred officers. Just enough . . .

" There is a new order of things," . . . shouted
Linder. The short woman next to me jerked her
neck and complained: "I can't hear anything."
The slim young man, in his thin shabby overcoat,
stretched his neck to listen : " He says that we have
not been beaten. We have won, the sovereign people
has won. We have conquered that false system ..."

" I can't understand," said the woman excitedly.

We could hear Linder 's voice : " When we had
beaten the Russians and there was no more question
of national defence, we had to go on fighting for
imperialistic, militaristic, egotistic ends ..."

" Aha," said the woman, and was bored.

The voice in the middle of the square continued to
shout : " But perhaps we ought not to grumble that
this war has lasted so long. We had to demolish the
tyranny of a thousand years, the tradition of a
thousand years, the servitude of a thousand years."

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 com-
prehension. 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

60 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

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 Yugo-
slav 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 with-
draw 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.
Karolyi stood on the steps. At his shoulder
appeared a puffy, olive coloured face : Oscar Jaszi,
Karolyi 's prompter. So there they are too, listening
to all this, and Karolyi nods and Jaszi smiles, con-
firming, 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 com-
pared 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 !

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 61

Within the military cordon the officers of the
garrison stood in a row, stood there and took the
oath. The soldiers of the King swore obedience to
Michael Karolyi's National Council.

A burning sense of shame rose within me. And
then, suddenly, something seemed to open my eyes,
and I saw beyond men and events. Those officers in
the square could not be, all of them, deserters and
hired traitors. Surely there were some among them
who had taken an honourable share in the tragic
Hungarian glory of the war, who had suffered just
as I had. They were soldiers, and as if it were a
dishonour to be so, that fellow dared to tell them to
their face that he did not want to see soldiers any
more. And these words will run all over the town,
and to-morrow they will be racing across the country
and will reach the frontiers where they will lie in wait
for the armed millions returning form the front.

Some vile spell, the dazzle of some occult charm,
held the crowd fascinated and cowed all into a
lethargy of terror. What power could it be ? Whence
did it come ? What was its end ? For neither
Karolyi, nor Linder, nor Oscar Jaszi possessed that
demoniacal influence which crushes will power and
opposition, makes cowards of brave souls and drags
honour in the dust. This force did not rise to-day
or yesterday; it is the result of thousands of years
of savage hatred and bestial will for power, a
monster begotten in obscurity, which, safe from
attack, has spread across the globe, waiting its
opportunity, setting its snares with cunning,
watching for the hour when it can strangle its
victim as with a rope.

And now it will strangle us too ! Our time has
come !

I shuddered in my helpless solitude amidst the
crowd that blackened the square, where men suffered
everything, cheered the negation of their existence,
and pledged themselves to their own destruction.

The sound of trumpets rose. The military band
struck up a tune. What was it ? . . . My heart
nearly stopped beating when I realised what it was.
The great revolutionary song of a strange people
rose above the square, the national anthem of a
nation which had been our enemy during the war,

62 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

which led on the revengeful victors who were pre-
paring to trample us beneath their feet. A hymn of
rebellion, which they play in the beflagged towns on
the banks of the Seine and the Marne to proclaim
their victory, a tune which means glory to them,
humiliation to us. If the French nation had suc-
cumbed to German arms, would they play this day
Deutschland, Deutschland iiber alles on the Place de
la Concorde ?

To what depth have you sunk, Hungarian men ?
I set my teeth and pressed my suffering down into
my heart. And the grandiose strains of the
Marseillaise floated over my head. Their beauty I
heard not. To me the notes were but the guffaws
of a scornful melody that roared derision over the
square. The clarions sounded brazen yells of con-
tempt, the rolling of the drums emphasised their
mockery, and the cymbals applauded — applauded
our defeat . . . And the crowd cheered Karolyi.

The soldiers went back to the City. The inter-
rupted traffic thronged over the shining asphalt.
Carriages drove by. Small groups vanished in the
distant streets. Slowly the square became empty.
A few constables remained on duty in front of the
House of Parliament; people waited at the stopping
place of the tram. The woman with the duck's
neck and the Transylvanian youth were there too.
We waited.

The House of Parliament relapsed into its grave
silence. The bronze figure of the horseman near the
shore was invisible. Had it gone, was it still there ?
I hesitated. There, on the other side, towards the
bridge, near the river, the embankment was bare.
There never had been a statue there. But the wraith
of a giant whose blood was spilt on October 31st is
slowly groping his way towards it. His chest is
pierced by a bullet, his heart's blood has flowed
away. He goes slowly, but he will get there — when
the day comes.

The Transylvanian young man and the woman
near me were both staring at the shore. I had no
intention of speaking aloud yet I said :

"That is where Stephen Tisza's monument is going
to stand."

The woman was horribly frightened. " Please,

o

i— i

'Z

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 68

don't say things like that. The people hate him
frightfully."

" But why should they hate him so?"
"He was the cause of the war; the soldier who
killed him said so."

" His monument is going to stand there."
" You will be knocked down if you say such
things," said the young man. " This morning a
gentleman just said to his wife: "Poor Tisza!"
Nevertheless the passengers became indignant, in-
sulted him, stopped the car and shouted till both got
off. You must say nothing openly about him, ex-
cept that he was a scoundrel, that he wanted the
war and was the cause of all the bloodshed. One
may not say anything of anybody but what the
National Council says. One must say nothing of
Karolyi but that he is the only person who can save
Hungary. This is our liberty."

Later in the day I had news of another misfortune
which had befallen us while the drunken Minister of
War was proclaiming in front of the House of
Parliament that he never wanted to see a soldier
again. Archduke Joseph and his son Joseph Francis
have sworn fidelity to the National Council at the
Town Hall. Somebody who had seen the Archdukes
told me that they had gone to the ceremony in
field-uniform, with all their orders on their chests.
John Hock had the doors of the hall opened so that
the public might follow the ceremony and then
received in the name of the Council the oaths which
bestowed a certain prestige and a doubtful legal
standing on the power they have built up on mud.
Karolyi's press shrieked with joy. The mid-day
papers published the report and obsequiously
fawned on the Archdukes. Cunningly they called
this brave, clean soldier the new Philippe Egalite,
comparing him to the Orleans Prince who had
denied his origin and pronounced death on his
king ... I was dumfounded. Those who had any
strength of character would feel now that they had
been abandoned, while the weak would have nothing
to cling to and would inevitably drift toward the
National Council. What was at the bottom of it all ?
How did it happen that Archduke Joseph, the general
idolized by the nation, the bearer of the great

64 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

traditions of the great Palatines, how did he come
to the disgraceful table where a disreputable priest
collected oaths for the National Council? What has
forced the Archduke to join the enemies of his
country and his dynasty ? Among the many dark
scenes of this grim tragedy this one alone has come
to light ; it cannot yet be understood, and the time
has not yet come to pass judgment upon it. That the
Archduke went there with a stricken soul, against
his innate convictions, those who know him cannot
doubt.

Ever since his childhood, ever since he started life
under the old trees of Alcsuth, he had always trod
the paths of the nation's honour. During the war
he was a father to the Hungarian soldiers. Of the
many stories told about him I will repeat only one
which I had from my brother. At the Italian front
a wounded Hungarian soldier was asked on his
deathbed if he had any wish. " I should like to see
Archduke Joseph once more." That was all he
said and the Archduke came and held his hand while
he died. One who was loved like that was not
carried by fear or bribe to the Town Hall. It was
not for his own sake but in the misconceived interest
of his country that he made the sacrifice, aggrandised
by its background, his family's transcendent history
of a thousand years.

In front of him in a dirty office : Michael Karolyi,
John Hock, Kunfi, Jaszi. Behind him, on a road
lost in the centuries, in silver armour with vizor
raised : the haughty face of the Emperor Rudolph,
Count of Hapsburg, whose cup-bearer was a
Hohenzollern. And again, his handsome silver locks
covered with a black velvet biretta, the chain of the
Golden Fleece about his neck : Maximilian, the
friend of poets, the hero of Theuerdank, the last of
the knights. In a heavily embroidered bodice, the
sparkling Marguerite of Austria, ruling Duchess of
the Netherlands. Philippe le Bel, and the amorous
Joan. In grave splendour, Charles V., on whose
kingdom the sun never set, and the victor of
Lepanto's gory waters, the young Don Juan of
Austria. The gloomy cortege of the Spanish Philips
and Carlos. The full-wigged Ferdinand and Leopold
under the holy crown, and Maria Therese's powdered

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 65

little head bowed in the grandiose tumult of
Hungarian fidelity, among drawn swords and hands
uplifted for the vow : " Vitam et sanguinem pro
rege nostro ..." Joseph, the king in a hat,*
a narrow, meditative face at the window of the
Vienna Burg, while behind him Mozart's spinet
sounds delicately sweetly from the gilt white room.
A touching face : Marie Antoinette, more royal on
the scaffold than on the throne. Leopold of Toscana,
the friend of the Hungarians. In a simple white
frock-coat : the Duke of Reichstadt. In the robes
of the Order of St. Stephen : the great Palatines.
And at the end of the row the constitutional old
King, the last grand seigneur of Europe, and Eliza-
beth, the wandering queen, who never was at home
but when she was in Hungary.

This history of the Hapsburgs is the history of
Europe itself. It is a history of imperial diadems
and royal crowns, of empires, kingdoms and
countries, of centuries and generations. And so to
drag the Archduke Joseph into the mire was pre-
cisely what Karolyi and his accomplices desired.
Let the downfall be complete, so that there shall be
nothing to look back on, so that the abased nation
shall not be able to expect anything from anybody.
The political leader of the nation has been killed in
the person of Stephen Tisza; its military leader has
now been enticed into the gutter and has been
covered with mud so that those who look out for a
chief round whom to rally may not discern his real
character. The bonds have been severed, and in the
silence of our amazement we are all become solitary
and forlorn.

What is left to us ? The funeral of Stephen Tisza !
The dead leader will once more gather his followers
together. And then our bitterness shall find voice
and strength.

• •••*«••

It was in the afternoon that I heard that the
funeral which we had wanted to attend had already
taken place quietly, in other words secretly. Only
a new act of Karolyi's impudence made some noise.

* Joseph II. would never consent to be crowned.

66 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

He had sent a wreath labelled : " A human atone-
ment to my greatest political adversary. Michael
Karolyi." The mourning family, however, had the
wreath thrown on the garbage heap. Quietly, with
secrecy, Tisza's coffin was taken from the house of
the bloody deed to the railway station. Few of his
friends were present, but the two women who had
been faithful to the last were there. They took him
to Geszt. Once more he was to cross the great plain
he loved so much, to take his rest in the soil of the
land that had allowed him no rest while he lived.

Evening came. A cart rolled through the silence
of our rural retreat and stopped in front of our
garden. We had been waiting for weeks for the
long paid-for firewood, and at last it had come. The
Swabian driver who had brought it stood lazily on
top of the pile and threw one log after the other
indifferently into the road. I asked him if he would
mind bringing the wood into the courtyard. If it
remained out there every piece of it would be stolen
before the morrow.

"Certainly not; you ought to be jolly glad that
I brought it at all," he answered. He squeezed the
money for cartage into the pocket of his breeches,
whipped up his horses, and the cart rolled downward
on the mountain road. I did not know what to do.
I went to the farm, then enquired at the nearest
houses, when I noticed two men coming up the road.
They had red ribbons in their buttonholes, and rifles
over their shoulders. I stopped them and asked
them if they would carry the wood in for me :
I would pay for it with pleasure. They looked at
each other, whispered, and at last one said, as if
bestowing a favour on me :

" We might, but it will be sixty crowns for the
cubic yard."

"Have you taken leave of your senses ? You know
it won't take you an hour to carry the whole lot in."

" Well, if it doesn't suit you, carry it yourself,"
and they laughed sardonically. " You'll have to
come to us in the end," one of them added. Then
they sat down on the edge of the ditch opposite the
gate, lit their pipes and looked on maliciously to
see what I would do next. I turned my back on
them, picked up a log and dragged it into the yard.

1
AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 67

The men sat and looked on. I had to go in and out
a good many times, and was soon panting with the
unusual exertion; my hands got wet and sore with
the damp wood. Then suddenly my sister's children
appeared. They got two poles and we carried the
logs in on the improvised stretcher. On the road
two little boys and a girl came strolling towards the
farm. They stopped, looked on for a while, and
then they too joined us. Now the work proceeded
fast, and within an hour the wood was all stacked
in the yard.

While we worked the two men sat on the edge of
the ditch opposite, smoked, spat, and addressed
provoking remarks at us. When I closed the gate I
could not resist shouting across to them : " Good of
you to have stayed here. At least you saw of what
mettle we are made. We managed your job although
you couldn't manage ours."

The log-pulling tired me out — and that did me
good. For fatigue softened my troubles, and when
I went to bed I fell asleep at once. But I must
have slept only a short time, for suddenly I dreamt
that somebody was standing in front of my window
and knocking. In the semi-consciousness of
awakening I listened. My room was on the first
floor. I jumped up. Violent shooting was going on
near the house and the windows rattled in their
frames. Then a long appalling howl rent the night,
steps ran down the hillside, and everything lapsed
into silence.

I lay awake for a long time. A curious light
came through the latticework of my blinds which
overlooked a piece of waste ground. I listened.
There were steps in the neighbourhood. Something
was happening out there. Should I go and see ? . . .
I hesitated for some time. My limbs were heavy
with fatigue. Then at last I went stealthily to the
window. Soldiers were standing in front of the
empty villa which stood next to ours and were sup-
porting a hatless man who seemed to be wounded or
insensible. A small shrivelled form held an electric
torch in its hand and fumbled with the lock of the
door. The shadow which he cast on the white wall
was like that of a hunch-backed cat. The door
opened and they all went in.

68 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

My first thought was " I must telephone to the
police!" Then I realized that even that impulse
belonged to the past. What good would it be ?
There is nobody who can maintain order. I thought
of the fugitives in our woods. The country was
swarming with deserters, released convicts, small
bands of burglars. We shall have to get used to
it — we shall have to get used to many things.

And again there was firing down in the valley.
Although the danger of remaining longer in this
deserted neighbourhood still worried me, I was too
tired to absorb fresh troubles, and went to sleep.

CHAPTER V

November 3rd.

A raven sat on a branch of the chestnut tree. It
did not fly away when I opened my window, but
sat there like a stuffed bird and stared with
half-closed eyes into the yard. Near the black
bird a few big red leaves fluttered on the bare tree,
like bleeding scraps of flesh on a skeleton. And the
raven sat on top of the skeleton against the rusty
sky and rubbed its beak now and then against the
branches as if it would scrape some carrion from it.
Then again for a long time it sat motionless and
stared unconcernedly at the ground beneath it.
Suddenly it swayed as if it were going to fall,
sprang clumsily away from the branch, and slowly
took its flight into the autumnal air. Whither is it
going and what is happening there ?

Alarming news comes from all parts of the
country. Home-coming soldiers and inflamed mobs
are pillaging everywhere. As yet the news relates to
no definite locality, for there is no post, and the
newspapers pass over in silence anything that might
create prejudice against the new power, yet the glare
of conflagration is to be seen in all directions. Many
people fled from the capital after the 31st of October,
but in vain; risings awaited them in the very places
where they hoped for safety.

The government took good care that this should
be so. Karolyi's party, as well as the socialist and
radical party, got together agitators whose duty it
was to incite the lower classes. And these did not
confine their attention to the returning soldiers, but

70 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

lectured the peaceful country folk concerning M the
results of the glorious revolution and the dangers of
the counter-revolution." They threw firebrands
wherever a conflagration was likely, and blew into
flames such smouldering fires of revolt as they could
find.

At the tram station the newsboy openly offered
for sale the papers of subscribers : no more news-
papers will be delivered, and those who want one
must go and fetch it, they rudely asserted. They all
seem to have learnt the same lesson. The voice of
the street becomes coarser day by day and in every
word there is an intonation that savours of class
hatred.

Crowds gathered in the town. Meetings were being
held everywhere. In front of the House of Parlia-
ment a few thousand workmen and the people of the
Ghetto had assembled. Speeches inciting to violence
were heard on all sides. The contractor Heltai, now
commander of the garrison, and a socialist agitator
called Bokanyi, addressed the crowd :

'* Down with Kingship ! Down with the House of
Lords ! We want new elections ! But the elections
won't be made by Lord Lieutenants but by the
People's Commissaries!"

The People's Commissaries . . . Trotski and
Lenin's henchmen in Hungary ! So now the
rebellion which dubbed itself the national revolution
dares to speak openly of these ! Everything here is
being ordered after the Russian pattern. In the
barracks the men of the garrison have dismissed
their officers, elected representatives, and constituted
Soldiers' Councils, which are developing into a new
power. The head of this new power is a socialist
journalist called Joseph Pogany-Schwarz. The
vice-presidents are Imre Csernyak, a cashiered
officer, and Teodor Sugar-Singer, a Galileist with a
shady past. Pogany has declared that "the military
council can have only one programme : the final
abolition of the army!" and while day by day he
arms more workmen with the help of the socialist
party organisation, he dissolves feverishly the old
Hungarian army. Nor does the Minister of War
remain inactive : he has organised Zionist guards
and has armed the members of the Maccabean Club.

JOSEPH POGANY alias SCHWARTZ.

(To face -p. jo.)

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 71

Ladislaus Fenyes, who from being a journalist has
turned into the Government Commissary of National
Guards, has enlisted and equipped more and more
vagabonds and escaped convicts with sailors'
uniforms.

A motor-car passed me, going slowly. It was
a beautiful car and its window was ornamented with
a label : " National property, to be protected."
Near the label, inside the car, I saw the face of
Michael Karolyi. I was in no laughing mood, yet
I could not help laughing at this. " National
property!" . . . The nation must be in a sad
plight indeed. "To be protected!" ... Is that
the only thing which is to receive protection ?

By Karolyi 's side his wife was visible. Now and
then there was a cheer — u The King's car," said
somebody near me. I felt suddenly sick. He goes
about in the King's car and is cheered. Stephen
Tisza travels in a hearse and stones are hurled at
him. The face of Tisza appeared so vividly in my
thoughts that it seemed to stand before me ... I
remembered a summer afternoon during the war.
Mixing with the crowd, Tisza came towards me in a
light summer suit. The descendant of a long line
of horsemen he was slender and looked young; his
shoulders were broad, his waist narrow, but his face
was worn and as if shrunken with grief. Deep
wrinkles ran to the corners of his mouth, and as I
recollected him I thought of the strong, sad look in
his eyes and the movements of his shoulders. Only
his shoulders moved ; he walked with an easy,
elastic gait, as if he were strolling along a forest
path, and his hands swung lightly . . .

The vision passed, and I was brought back to
earth by some unkempt vagabonds cheering Karolyi.
And the living man there in the car seemed more
like a corpse than the dead man of my thoughts.
His long, bloodless body was thin and bent. His
narrow head, with its artificial stern expression,
lolled on his shoulder as if it were too heavy for his
neck to support. His watery, squinting eyes shifted
blankly from side to side. His mouth was slightly
open, as if his long, round chin had drawn down his
fleshy cheeks. I remembered an ivory paper-knife
I had once seen, the handle of which was carved to

72 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

represent an unhealthy looking head, worn smooth
by much use. He reminded me of that sallow ivory
head, the neck of which had been turned into a
spiral, like a screw. The screw of Karolyi's neck
had come loose, and his head dropped sideways.
His wife was rouged in a doll-like fashion and her
beautiful big eyes sparkled. Her voluptuous young
mouth smiled in rapture, and she seemed to be
drinking her success from the air greedily.

I looked after her. The car had long disappeared
but it seemed to me as if the smile of those painted
lips had left a trail of corruption over the suffering,
harassed people. It spread and spread . . .
Stephen Tisza's body is covered with blood. The
frontiers of the country are bleeding. The enemy
is victorious without having vanquished us. The
army goes to pieces; the throne has fallen. St.
Stephen's crown has lost Croatia and Slavonia. The
rabble robs and pilfers. A Serbian army has crossed
the frontier.

And the painted lips smile, smile . . .

Only a few days ago Michael Karolyi had said in
jest:

" The smaller the country becomes the greater
shall I be. When I was leader of the opposition, the
whole of Hungary was intact; when I became Prime
Minister Croatia and Slavonia had gone; there will
be five counties when I am President, and one only
when I shall be King."

If only the miserable deceived millions could have
heard this, they for whose benefit he proclaimed on
the 31st of October with the recklessness of the
gambler: "I alone can save Hungary!" They
believed him ! . . . And yet mysterious Nature
itself had warned the country to beware of him.

The deformed offspring of a consanguineous
marriage, the heir to the enormous entailed posses-
sions of the Karolyis, was born with a cleft palate
and a hare-lip. He was fourteen years old when an
operation was performed on him which enabled him,
against the will of Divine Providence, to learn to
speak — so that he might beguile his nation and his
country into destruction. A silver palate was put
into his mouth. The boy struggled and suffered. He
wrestled with the words, and if his poor efforts were

COUNTESS MICHAEL KAROLYI

Knie COUNTESS KATINKA ANDRASSY).

(To face p. 72.)

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 78

not understood by his companions he went into
violent fits of temper. The only one who could have
understood him, his mother, died early. His grand-
mother and his sister guided the poor boy through
his unhappy early days. His progress in school was
slow and the results of examinations deplorable. He
passed his baccalaureat at the same time as my
brother, yet he practically knew nothing and could
not even spell. He passed all the same : " The poor,
young invalid!" That served him as a passport
everywhere. Fate decreed that the misshapen
youth should live, and he lived to take a cruel
revenge for its cruelties.

His physical shortcomings prevented anyone from
expecting much from him, so that almost everything
he learned, did or said, surpassed the extremely low
standard his family had set for him. His relations
recognised this " ability " and admired him. And
this delusion was the root of Kdrolyi's ever-increasing
vanity. He became convinced that he was an extra-
ordinary man and that he was predestined for
wonderful things.

When he came of age he entered into possession
of one of the greatest estates in Hungary. He could
dispose freely of an enormous income. He had no
need to keep accounts, and he kept none. He spent
recklessly. He gambled, indulged in orgies. People
laughed at him. Nobody took him seriously. His
spendthrift life, cards, and the political role he
assumed later, absorbed fabulous sums. But his
fortune could still stand it. He was surrounded by
sycophants. And he believed the flatteries of his
cringing parasites. His megalomania at last became
pathological. Without possessing the necessary
aptitude, he now conceived the idea of making up
for what he had neglected in his idle youth. He
began to read. And when husbandry, political
economy, sociology, were accumulated in an
indigestible hotch-potch in his brain, he aspired to
become a leader of men.

At the head of the conservatives stood Stephen
Tisza, by race and tradition the very model of
Hungarian conservatism; another faction of this
party was headed by Count Julius Andrassy. In
these camps Karolyi could never be anything but a

74 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

secondary figure; leadership was beyond his reach.
This fact drove him to the extreme left. Spurred by
his unhealthy ambition for power he assumed the
absurd position of leader of the radical democracy,
a demagogue playing with national catchwords,
though he was an aristocrat by tradition, had no
national feeling whatever, and had constantly pro-
claimed himself essentially a Frenchman at heart,
the spiritual descendant of his French great-grand-
mother. His faction was in need of a figurehead. It
found one in him.

The clash between him and Tisza came when
Tisza, then the President of the Commons, tired of
the barren fights of eternal obstruction, and in anti-
cipation of the future extension of the franchise,
wanted to assure the decency of the proceedings in
the Hungarian Parliament by a revision of the
standing rules of procedure. The parties sounded
the alarm. Personal feelings were much embittered.
Andrassy and Karolyi found themselves in the same
camp and both were mortally offended when Tisza
imposed his haughty will with merciless firmness.

It was by the application of the new rules that
K&rolyi happened later to be expelled from the
House by physical force at the hands of the parlia-
mentary guards. On this occasion he was heard to
declare, foaming with rage, that he would get even
with Tisza, even though it should be at the cost of
his country's ruin. His frenzy became akin to
dementia as the result of the duel he fought about
this time with Tisza, who managed to impress him
once more with his contempt even at the moment of
giving him armed satisfaction. Henceforth it was
always the opposite to anything Tisza approved of
that he desired, and consequently his gambler's
instinct forced him to put his money always on some
other card than that on which the nation, through
Tisza's foresight, had risked its stakes.

By this time his entourage was composed almost
exclusively of Freemasons, and his person became
the centre of attraction of that suspicious gang
whose aim was to incite Hungarians against
Hungarians, and Christians against Christians, so
that it might gain the upper hand — in proof of the
adage inter duos litigantes tertius gaudet. Shortly

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 75

before the war Karolyi went with some of his
adherents to the United States to collect party
funds. No account of those funds was ever rendered.

The outbreak of the war found him in Paris. His
financial position had now become strained. The
life-interest in his property, heavily mortgaged, left
him no surplus. Yet he went on spending and gam-
bling. Nobody knew whence his money came. Nor did
anybody know why he alone was allowed to leave
France at the outbreak of the war, while obscure in-
dividuals were mercilessly interned for its duration.

It was after his return that Karolyi began to
spread the infection which, on the 31st of October
1918, like a septic sore that had long been festering,
broke out in putrid suppuration.

The lamp-lighter came up the street. The glass
of the lamps rattled and the little flames flared up.
Over the bridge an arc of light appeared in the mist
rising from the river. In the tunnel under the Castle
Hill old-fashioned lamps lit up the damp walls. Two
soldiers were walking in front of me, otherwise the
tunnel was practically empty. Their voices resounded
from the roof — they were quarrelling in a strange
thieves' jargon. On the other side a well-dressed man
came towards us on the pavement. The two soldiers
discussed something in their incomprehensible lingo,
then crossed together to the other side, saluted
the stranger and, as if asking him a question, bent
towards him. Obviously they were asking him the
time. The gentleman drew his watch. One of the
soldiers grasped him suddenly by the shoulders, the
other bent over him. A loud shout rolled away under
the vault, and next moment the two soldiers were
running in their heavy boots with loud clatter to-
wards the other end of the tunnel. It was quickly
done and created no sensation. The whole thing
was quite in keeping with our daily life
nowadays.

This night vagabond soldiers again visited the
empty villa and shots were fired near the garden.
The dogs barked no more. Have they been shot, or
have they got accustomed to it ?

76 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

November bth.

I went through the rooms again. In front of the
gate the carriage was awaiting to take us away for
the winter, from among the trees to among the
houses. The small light of the carriage-lamps
filtered hesitatingly through the mist on to the bare
branches of the shrubs. A vague anxiety took hold
of me. It seemed to me that hitherto we had looked
on from the shore, but that now we were going to
wade into the turbulent, muddy flood. Whither
will its torrent carry us ; what is to be our fate ?

I went all over the house, and, one after the
other, opened the doors of the cupboards and the
drawers. I left everything open so that if burglars
did break into the house in winter the locks might
not be forced, the cupboards not smashed with
hatchets. The fireplaces cooled down slowly. We
had had no fires during the day in order to avoid
accidents after we had gone. In one of the grates the
embers still retained a little warmth, the others were
as cold as the dead. I fastened the grated shutters
in every room. In the semi-darkness, against the
whitewashed walls, the old furniture, the old story-
telling engravings, friends of my childhood, the big
vase, the parrot-chandeliers, the coloured glasses
in which the flowers of a hundred summers had
blossomed in the rooms of my mother and my
grandmother, all looked at me as if in sorrow. I
looked also at my books, the old Bible on the shelf,
at everything for which no room could be found in
the vans and which had to be left behind.

Things too have tears . . . What if the empty
house were pillaged ? If I were never to see again
the dear things full of memories ? . . . Why do you
leave us here ? the abandoned things seemed to ask,
and I felt as if I were parting from devoted, living
beings, which patiently shared our fate.

My mother called from below, waiting, ready to
start, in the hall with my brother, who had come for
us so that he might be there should the carriage be
waylaid. As we went out of it the old house lapsed
into lethargy and everything closed its eyes. The
key turned, the pebbles clattered on the drive, and
the carriage went slowly down the slope of the hill.

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 77

At the bridge over the Devil's Ditch my brother-
in-law was waiting with his little daughter, and she
got into the carriage. Reckless soldiers had overrun
the hills and life was so insecure that they did not
dare to keep the young girl at home. In town things
may be quieter . . . Beyond the cemetery we came
to the booth of the excisemen. We waited for a time
in the mist and as no policeman, no exciseman ap-
peared, we passed on through the open barrier. The
outlines of armed soldiers and sailors peopled the
ill-lit streets of Buda. The forms of a few frightened
citizens who were trying to get home appeared now
and then, but were soon absorbed by the night.

Beyond the bridge over the Danube the town was
floating in light. Big arc-lamps were burning, as of
old when a victory was reported from the battle-
fields. Flags floated from the houses. In the
fashionable streets the crowds thronged for their
evening walk, and as the carriage passed Karolyi's
portrait could be seen in the shop windows among
stockings and ribbons, furs and sausages.

I felt relieved when we came out of the sea of
people into quieter streets. The carriage stopped at
our house in Stonemason Street. Under the porch
a half-turned-on gas lamp was burning, which threw
a light up to the ceiling but left everything under
our feet in darkness. The house seemed to have be-
come shabby during the summer. The staircase was
dull and ugly. The fires smoked and nothing was as
it used to be when we came in olden times to our
friendly winter home. Disorder, covered furniture,
draped pictures. It was like wearing summer
clothes on a frosty winter day.

" Well, we are settled for the winter now, mother
dear," I laughed, to make it seem more cheerful.
My mother laughed too and we both pretended to be
happy.

A clumsy little German maid rushed about among
the trunks and did nothing. Our faithful farmer
neighbour, who had kindly escorted the luggage,
was struggling with the fires. The housekeeper
boiled some water over a spirit lamp. My mother
went to and fro, and wherever her hand reached
order sprang up. All at once the little green room
assumed a friendly appearance and tea steamed in

78 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

the cups on the white covered table. Home was
home again and we smiled at each other.

M The many war winters have passed, and this is
going to pass too."

" This is worse than the winters of the war," my
mother said with unusual gloom.

I looked involuntarily at the window. Out there
beyond, a big town was breathing, but it was im-
possible to get information from its chaos. The
scum had got the upper hand ; was any resistance
being organised ? It was impossible that things
should remain like this ! One regiment coming back
in order, one energetic commander, and Karolyi's
band will tumble from power.

Newspapers lay on the table, and my eyes fell on a
proclamation of Karolyi, which he had made in the
presence of the representatives of the Budapest
press : " From the 1st of November Hungary be-
comes a neutral state," he declared. " This tired
government ..." He did not say what the Entente
powers would say to this neutrality. Further on he
spoke of the Minister of War . . . "He had
immortal merits in obtaining peace. History will
not fail to recognise the credit due to him ; Linder
has rendered to the Hungarian people services of
eternal value and usefulness ..."

I remembered the disgraceful scene in front of the
House of Parliament, a scene cunningly contrived by
those in the background ... "I do not want to
see any more soldiers ..." I had heard since that
it was for this sentence, promised beforehand, that
the social democrats gave the Ministry of War to
the obscure Linder. The price of his portfolio was
the disruption of the army. And Karolyi spoke of
history's gratitude !

On the last page of the paper I found accidentally
an extract of the conditions of the armistice.

Immediate disarmament, the withdrawal of our
armies from the North Sea to the Swiss frontier . . .
When I read on my eyes faltered. Then they were
rilled with alarm. The last terrible condition (un-
known in modern warfare) followed : Prisoners of
war to be returned without any reciprocity ! This
seemed incomprehensible. Our enemies want to
retain as white slaves soldiers, heroes who had faced

5. B

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 79

them armed in open battle. Then another pain
stabbed me : We must lose the coast, Dalmatia,
the dreamy blue islands, the fleet to whose flag so
much glory was attached, the monitors of the
Danube. We must deliver up all floating material,
the commercial harbours, and ships.

The scorched, lifeless Carso, wild tracts of rock
under an azure sky, great murmuring forests, and
there, down below, the sea, and, like corals and shells
on the shore, Fiume, Hungary's gate to the seas. It
was indeed a bitter thought. Italy, with thy
hundred ports, why dost thou rob us ? We have
only this one ! It was a tiny fishing village, like so
many others in the bay of Quarnero. We made it
what it is : it sprung up from Hungarian labour, the
gold from Hungarian harvests of corn and wine has
flowed there to raise dams, to build quays, to work a
wonder among the stones. Fiume is our only
port . . .

And beyond, that which was not ours but which
we loved dearly, the rosy bastions of the Dolomites,
reaching into the clouds, the home of the Tyrolese,
and Riga on the shores of Lake Garda, peaks and
ravines, sacred by so much Hungarian blood. What
the war could not take is peace to take from us ?

Beside myself, I walked up and down in my room till
morning, haunted by despair, utter, complete despair.

November 5th.

In place of the free morning of the woods, the
gloom of a narrow street looked in through my
window. The wall of the opposite house drove my
eyes back to my books, my furniture, my pictures.
Now I saw their beauty again, and I was glad that
they were there with me.

The many old books in the bookcase behind my
writing-table ran up the wall like the fading gold of
an ancient embroidery. Above, on the red wall, in
a frame surmounted by the Pope's triple crown, in a
soft haze the Madonna of Venice by Sebastiano
Ricci. The portrait of Castruccio Castracani and a
Dutch Old Man in a sable-bordered green mantle.
The clock ticked under the Empire mirror. From
the escritoire with the many little drawers, a copy

80 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

of San Lorenzo the child-monk, the most beautiful
piece of sculpture of the early Renaissance, looked
into my room with a youthful challenge.

The fading gold of ancient frames, the stale green
of old furniture. The colours toyed with each other
in silence and the red curtains and walls threw a
russet light over things as if a magic sunset had been
caught between the window and the door.

Next to my room, in the small drawing-room, the
old water-colours hung over the sofa. My ancestor,
the powdered, pigtailed old gentleman, in his
romantic breastplate of the Hardegger Cuirassiers,
my grandfather's handsome young head, and beauti-
ful fair women with locks on the sides of their faces.
Opposite, on the piano, between the golden Old
Vienna vases, stood my mother's portrait as a child,
in all its delicacy. And on the mantelpiece the
butterfly-shaped pendulum of the marble clock told
me endless tales of the past.

I loved all these things so much, or rather I became
conscious of my love for them because fear was now
added to my affection. Shall we keep them ? Will
they remain our own ?

In the evening I was on Red Cross duty at the
railway station. The clock on St. Rocus' chapel
proclaimed it half past six. The trams, crammed
full, raced down the street, with people hanging on
outside like bunches of grapes. It was impossible to
get into one. I had to walk, and as I came to the
more remote parts of the town I remembered October
81st. The pavement was thronged with criminal-
looking men, suspicious vagabonds, drunken sailors,
Galician Jews in their gabardines. Whence did this
rabble come ? Or did it always live here among us,
only we did not know it ?

The neighbourhood of the station was swarming
with people. Disarmed, ragged soldiers sold cigarettes
and sticky sweets ; one or two asked for alms. Near
the wall, on a stair covered with a waterproof, some
obscene books were lying about. Dirty men sold
pencils, purses, tobacco. A boy in a gabardine
offered broken bits of chocolate from a tray. There
was something Balkan in this noisy scene : a red
cross flag floated over the murky street. People
went freely in and out through the doors of the

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 81

station. No tickets were required— anyhow, it
would be impossible to stop the mob — the guards
had gone. Russian soldiers in sheepskin caps, Rou-
manian and Serbian prisoners of war, like a
stampeded herd, broke through the throng. These
at least could go home. And my hand went to my
heart.

Wounded soldiers, drinking tea and eating slices of
bread, sat on the benches in the carbolic-scented,
stuffy air of the former Royal waiting-room, which
was lit up sparsely. It was the first time I had
been on duty since the Revolution. During the
many years of war so many stretchers had gone
through this Red Cross room, so much suffering and
moaning and knocking of crutches, that it seemed to
me now as if all these turned back with reproaches
and asked continually : " What good was that sea
of suffering, all these deaths, if this is to be the end
of the road ?"

Round the low-burning gas-stove sat some
sergeants of the Army Medical Corps. Further
away, in a cold corner, a few disabled officers had
retired. The insignia of their rank on their collars
were missing. They were pale and thin. One of
them leant his elbows on his knees and buried his
f[ace in his hands. Another's head was bowed down
on his chest. Never in my life have I seen men more
dejected than these : they just sat there without
moving. And while I looked at them I realised with
an aching heart that the horrible betrayal, " the
glorious revolution " has wounded the wounded, and
far, far away, in the many soldiers' graves, has
killed the dead anew.

A hospital train arrived ; it brought Germans. In
silent line one stretcher after the other defiled
through the door, and the men were laid in a gray row
on the floor. Under torn, bloody, great-coats, pale
patient ghosts. A hospital from the Southern front
had been evacuated in haste. " The Serbians are
advancing ..."

The old bandages soaked with blood were dirty
on the men : an awful stench of corruption spread
over the place. And between the stretchers a Jewish
sergeant, in brand new field-uniform, with golden
pince-nez, sporting a red cockade, walked haughtily

82 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

up and down. I had never seen him in the place
before. " I have been delegated by the Soldiers'
Council," he remarked. And this man, whose very
appearance betrayed the fact that he had never been
a soldier during the war, now stood there, his legs
apart, between the wounded and spoke to them
with impertinent condescension.

I told the doctor that the men required new
bandages, it was two weeks now since they had
been put on. "There are no bandages," said the
doctor sadly and went back to his room. I did not
see him again that evening. The reeking air was
now and then rent by a moan, a quiet sigh. That
was all. But nobody spoke. The men thanked one
with a weary look for the bad decoction and the
bread that tasted of sawdust.

" Our men are still fighting against the Serbians,"
a fair Bavarian mumbled, when I leant down over
him. It was only when the red-cockaded sergeant
had retired and the other orderly had gone to smoke
outside on the platform that there was some talk
between the stretchers.

" How are things at home ?" the Germans asked.
"We have no newspapers, we know nothing. People
say that there they have made a revolution too and
that they want to banish the Kaiser."

Wounded Hungarian soldiers sat on one of the
benches and talked of the Italian front :

" It was after our men had laid down their arms
that the Italians began to shell us. They used
heavy artillery and killed whole regiments. Whole
divisions were surrounded. They report three
hundred thousand prisoners and a thousand guns.
All is lost."

" Newspapers too reported that the Italians con-
tinued to fire at us for twenty-four hours after we
had fired the last shot."

" More men were killed during the armistice than
in the bloodiest battle," an officer grumbled.

He who had buried his face in his hands now
looked up :

" Pacificism has begun with more bloodshed than
war. If we had held the front for another two weeks
what has happened to us would have happened in
Italy. That was the reason they hurried so. That

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 88

was why we had to capitulate without conditions.
The trouble was with the reserves; they were in
communication with Budapest. They received
wireless messages from the National Council ..."

This talk reminded me of the message Karolyi
sent in the name of the government to the Higher
Command : " I freely accept responsibility for
everything." He also declared that: "The popular
Hungarian government desires to take all steps for
peace negotiations itself." Originally he wanted to
go personally to Padua, but was prevented by the
Higher Command. Yesterday the rumour got about
that as he could not negotiate with the Italians who
had been charged by the Entente to represent it in
its dealings with the Monarchy, he had appealed to
Franchet d'Esperay, the Commander-in-chief on the
Balkan front. The French General had answered
that before he would negotiate with him, all the
troops on the Hungaro-Serbian frontier must retire
fifteen kilometres into Hungarian territory and that
the German troops be disarmed within a fortnight.
The abandonment of Hungarian territory was re-
quired . . . We must oust our last friends, who still
defend our frontiers which our own people have for-
saken. Give up Hungarian territory . . . There
can be only one answer to that : a refusal . . . But
rumour says otherwise : Karolyi is going with his
adherents to Belgrade, perhaps he has gone
already . . . Incomprehensible ! Surely I have not
dreamt it? I read in a newspaper the report of the
Chief of the General Staff that in consequence of the
armistice all hostilities had ceased on the Italian
front. What are the negotiations of Belgrade about ?

There was a great noise in front of the door. Tea
was clamoured for and rough voices filled the room.
Some of the talk was bitter. Most of the men
coming from Austria had been robbed of everything.
In Vienna Red Guards robbed the Hungarians at
the railway stations. Their haversacks had been
taken, some had their coats torn off their backs,
their boots, rations, even their pocket-knives had
been filched from them. They came home hungry
and furious and clamouring.

Then I caught sight of the sergeant with the red
cockade. He mixed with the men and whispered

84 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

secretively with first one then another. I asked a
tall soldier, with a peasant's face, if all the men were
coming home. Were there no troops remaining on
the frontier to defend the country ?

"To be sure we don't stop there; we are going
home; we even left the guns as soon as the news
reached us that we need no longer be soldiers." He
produced a crumpled copy of a radical evening paper
from the pocket of his coat and waved it in his hand.
" Here, in this paper too it is written that the
Minister of War has said himself : ' Now we have
peace.' "

So the War Minister's announcement : " I do not
want to see any more soldiers " had already reached
the front. The fatal words were lying in wait on
every road by which Hungarian soldiers were
coming home.

It was about eleven o'clock when I went off duty.
As I went through the gate two men slunk to the
wall. They were soldiers — officers. One of them
spoke excitedly and snatched at his head. He gave
me the impression that he was mad. " I brought
the regiment home fully equipped and in perfect
order, reported at the War Office, offered my services
to the country, and they told me to disarm and go
home ..."

I heard no more, but that was enough. We could
have no hope in those who had come as far as this.
But perhaps somewhere else, far from the town,
somebody will be found who can keep his men in
hand, march them to the capital, and disperse
Karolyi's rabble. That is the only hope left to us,
there is no other.

Through the noisy thoroughfares the tram wound
its way into dark side-streets. From St. Rocus'
chapel I walked home. In our street the steps of a
patrol resounded. I turned rapidly into the house.
Behind me the shriek of a woman rent the silence of
the night. As I ran up the stairs my mother stood in
the ante-room waiting for me. Goodness knows how
long she had been waiting, but she did not reproach
me. I could see by her face that she was worried.
Only when I went to bed did she say imploringly :
" Another time don't stay so late."

CHAPTER VI

November 6th.

I feel so queer. I feel as though there were an open
wound in my head from which blood was spreading
over my thoughts. How long can one bear this kind
of thing? Something must happen . . . We always
say that, and yet one hopeless day passes after the
other. All that happens is that we get news of some
further disaster. The whole country is being
pillaged. Escaped convicts, straggling Russian
prisoners, degraded soldiers, murderers are plunder-
ing country houses, farms, whole villages, and in-
citing the mob to violence. Alarming news comes
from all parts of the country.

Somebody came this morning from the County of
Arad. Algyest; an unknown little village, which
does not even appear on the map, and yet it is very
dear to my heart. There, on the banks of the river
Koros, are an old garden and an ancient house under
the poplars ... It has been broken into and
pillaged. And as I heard of this, I understood the
tragedy of every despoiled castle, of every ruined
home in Hungary. Smoking walls, empty rooms . . .
The venerable manor-house with its loggia was not
mine, yet this misfortune touched me to the quick :
they have injured the past summers of my childhood.
They have trodden down the paths along which, in
memory, I still wandered with my grandmother.
They have denied the slope of the chapel hill where
I played so often in happier days They did not
shrink from breaking into the crypt. They even

86 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

robbed those who had retired there for their last
sleep in the dim twilight, generation after generation.

The incited Roumanian peasants wanted to beat
the inhabitants of the house to death ; and while the
latter fled secretly, the wild horde, under the guid-
ance of the village schoolmaster, rushed in with
scythes and hatchets; and whatever they could not
carry off they destroyed in an orgy of havoc. The
fine old books of the library they tore from their
shelves and trampled into the mud. The portraits
of the ancient landlords they hacked with axes,
pierced their eyes and cut out the canvas in the place
of the heart. Persian carpets were cut into bits and
carried off. Like madmen they smashed and de-
stroyed till night fell; then they made bonfires with
the furniture many centuries old. The old well they
filled to the brim with debris of Old Vienna porcelain,
with splinters of broken crystal.

How often have I not looked into the clear water
of that well at the reflection of my childish face,
and put my tongue out at myself; how often have I
not chased butterflies near it and on the sunlit paths
of the warm, rose-scented garden, which led beyond
the firs into the wilds . . . Velvety moss grew on
the edge of the roads, under the shade of the trees.
It grew also on the stone seat at the bottom of the
garden, where one was safe from the disturbing in-
trusion of grown-ups. One could climb up on the
seat and look over the hedge into the main road.
Rumbling carts passed in the soft white dust, and
the Roumanian peasants used to doff their caps to
me when they caught sight of me. " Naptye buna !"
I nodded to them. I knew old Todyert, and
Lisandru and Petru, who was my mother's godchild.
They spoke their own tongue, nobody ever harmed
them, their teacher knew nothing but Roumanian,
nor their priest, and yet they were paid and looked
after by the Hungarian state. So it was elsewhere too.
The Hungarians did not oppress its foreign-tongued
brethren, who for centuries in troublesome times,
escaping the oppression of Mongols, Tartars, Turks,
and of their own blood, sought refuge in our midst.
Had it oppressed them there would be no German,
Slovak, Ruthenian, or Serb in our country to-day;
and yet these people shout now in mad hatred that

o
M

Q

i— i
P

-

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 87

everybody who is Hungarian ought to be knocked
on the head.

To attain this result two parties worked hard.
The Roumanian propaganda and Karolyi's satel-
lites undermined the hill from both sides. They met
halfway in the tunnel, the Roumanian agitators and
the Hungarian traitors. That was one of the plans
of Karolyi's camp. To create the sine qua non of
their power, disruption, they sent their agents to the
regions inhabited by these nationalities and stirred
them up against the Hungarians. In the Hungarian
regions it was class hatred that was used to incite
the people to robbery. And the people became in-
toxicated : the sufferings of the long years of war
boiled up furiously.

Everybody expected that the soldiers, when they
came back one day from the battlefield, would
question those who had exploited and starved the
people and got rich by staying at home while the
soldiers were suffering at the front. In the last
years of the war the embittered soldiers at the front
talked of pogroms " when the war was over." The
nation was preparing for a reckoning and its fist rose
slowly, terribly, over the heads of the guilty.

But a devilish power had now suddenly thrust
that fist aside. The accumulated hatred must be
turned into a new channel away from the Galician
immigrants, profiteers, usurers — against the Hungar-
ian manors and castles, against the Hungarian
authorities.

It was with shame and bitterness that I heard
the news. The country folk here and there, even
those of Hungarian blood, destroy, under the
guidance of government agitators, the homes of the
Hungarian landlords. The people satisfy their own
conscience by repeating what they have been taught :
" Now that there is a republic, everything belongs
to everybody." And well-to-do farmers go with their
carts to the manors to carry off other people's
property. The authorities are helpless : the fury
of the excited people has driven away the magistrates
and petty officials. The excuse for this is readily
forthcoming. During the war-time administration
the local government officials were charged to col-
lect from the producer the necessary wheat and

88 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

cattle, and they also selected those who had to do
war-work. They distributed sugar, flour, oil and
the necessary subsidies. Consequently they were
frequently accused of having kept the surplus for
themselves and they were hated for everything that
went wrong. This hatred served as a side-channel to
those who feared pogroms, and cunningly they made
use of it. About three thousand of these officials were
driven with cudgels from the villages and many were
beaten to death.

Thus it happened that the communes were left to
themselves. As a result of agitation the people
would not listen any longer to their priests, and many
of the school-teachers had become tainted with the
infection. Order disappeared. Disguised as popular
apostles, the agitators of the National Council —
journalists, waiters, cabaret-dancers, kinematograph
actors and white-slave traffickers, invaded the
country-side. Practically on the day of the
revolution in Budapest local National Councils were
formed everywhere. As if executing a pre-arranged
plan, at an inaudible command, the Jewish leaders
of the trade-unions, the Jewish officials of the work-
men's clubs, usurped authority. They knew the
battle cries that impressed the crowd, and they kept
in close touch with the rebels in the capital. They
at once took their seats in the communal councils
and assumed the direction of affairs amid the con-
fusion they themselves had produced. Appealing to
the National Council of Pest they issued orders to
provincial towns and villages as well, and in this
humiliating state of lethargy everybody obeyed.

Karolyi's revolution was engineered almost
exclusively by Jews. They make no secret of it,
they boast of it. And with a never satisfied greed
they gather the reward of their achievement. They
occupy every empty place. In the government
there are officially three, in reality five, Jewish
ministers.

Garami, Jaszi, Kunfi, Szende and Diener-Denes
have control over the Ministries of Commerce, of
the mayors and the communes. The vile spell which
had benumbed the capital cast its evil eye over the
Nationalities, of Public Welfare and Labour, of
Finance and of Foreign Affairs. By means of the

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 89

Police department of the Home Office they have
control over the police and the political secret
service : they have placed at its head two Jews,
former agents provocateurs. The right-hand man of
the Minister of War is a Jew who was formerly a
photographer. The president of the Press Bureau is
a Jew and so is the Censor. Most of the members of
the National Council are Jews. Jews are the
Commander of the garrison, the Government Com-
missary of the Soldiers' Council, the head of the
Workers' Council. Karolyi 's advisers are all Jews,
and the majority of those who started last night
for Belgrade to meet the Commander-in-Chief of the
Balkan front, the French General Franchet
d'Esperay, are Jews.

Incomprehensible journey ! Carefully hidden, but
still there, in the semi-official paper of the govern-
ment, there is given the news which ought to render
any further negotiations concerning the armistice
perfectly unnecessary. I have copied it word for
word :

" In consequence of the armistice as agreed be-
tween the plenipotentiaries of the High Command of
the Royal Italian Army, acting for the Allies and
the United States of America on the one side and the
plenipotentiaries of the High Command of the
Austro-Hungarian Army on the other, all further
hostilities on land, on water and in the air are to be
suspended at 3 p.m. on the 4th of November all
along the Austrian and Hungarian front."

What then do Karolyi and his associates want to
negotiate about in Belgrade?

An angry protest rose in me. Michael Karolyi
and his minister Jaszi ; Baron Hatvany, the delegate
of the National Council; the Commissary of the
Workers' Council, a radical journalist; the delegate
of the Soldiers' Council ; Captain Csernyak, a
cashiered officer . . . how dare these men speak in
the name of Hungary ?

I became restless. The walls of my room seemed
to be closing in upon me, caging me. The room,
the house, the town, had all at once become too small
for me. What was happening beyond them ? Was
salvation on its way ? It must be quick, for the flood
is rising, swelling, it has reached our neck, to-morrow

90 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

it will drown us. I could stay at home no longer. I
must do something; walk, run, tire myself out. The
anxieties of the last few days have whipped me into
action. Suddenly I realised that my own inactivity
was part of the great culpable inactivity of the
nation. I too was guilty of lethargy. No longer must
I content myself with accusing others, no longer ex-
pect action from them alone. Dimly, despairingly,
I realised that henceforward I must expect something
from my own self.

But what could I do, I who have lived a retired
and almost solitary life, I who could do nothing but
love my country and depict its beauty with my pen ?
What is the good of speaking of one's country when
a whole town, with a foreign soul, laughs in one's
face? What good is its beauty when millions tread
it under their feet ?

Despondently I walked slowly through the badly
lit, dingy streets. At the gate of the Museum a
sailor was standing, a rifle over his shoulder
and a revolver in his belt. Opposite, under
the porch of the old House of Parliament, soldiers
were unloading heavy boxes from a motor lorry and
dragging them into the building. This building, in
which Francis Deak had once poured out his soul
before the National Assembly of old, was now the
headquarters of the revolutionary Soldiers' Council.
Its organiser, Joseph Pogany, whom Karolyi had
nominated Government's Commissary, had by now
risen to such power that he could effectively oppose
the Minister of War.

" What is there in those boxes ?" a slatternly
servant girl asked a soldier.

" Bandages," replied the soldier, and winked at
her; "but we bring the best of it at night!" As
soon as he noticed me he shouted out threateningly :
" Get away from here ! Down from the foot-path !"

I noticed then that there were machine-guns on the
lorry, and that two words were repeated on all the
boxes : Danger and Cartridges.

The Minister of War orders the ammunition at the
front to be thrown away, while the Commissary of
the Soldiers' Council accumulates it in the heart of
the capital. Is it accidental or is there a con-
nection between the two ?

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 91

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 pos-
sible 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 any-
body ? At least I might have seen a familiar face
coming towards me, greet me, stop and tell me some-
thing that would have raised hope. I might have
heard that General Kovess was marching on Pest
with his returning army, or that Mackensen had
gathered the Szeklers round him in Transylvania.
So this was what I had been seeking ! I wanted to

92 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

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.

M Have you heard," I asked her hesitatingly,
"that the United States have recognised Roumania's
right over Transylvania ? Her right . . . And our
traitors are going to hand it over."

It was too terrible. The United States addressed
the aboriginal Szekler inhabitants concerning the
rights of immigrant Roumanian shepherds. The United
States : a young nation which, so far as civilization
is concerned, did not exist at a time when Transyl-
vania had already been united to Hungary for half
a thousand years !

'* Not an inch of ground could be taken from us
even now if only the army made a stand on the
frontier."

" If Tisza were alive !"

"If he were alive they would kill him again."

We became silent, and for a long time the only
sound was the crackling of the embers in the stove.

"All conspired against him," at last said Countess
Mikes. She was a close relation of Tisza and had been
a faithful friend to him in the height of his power as
well as in his downfall. " When I went there his
blood was still on the floor of the hall. There was

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 98

also the mark of a bullet ... He lost very much
blood. He bled to death, that is why his face became
so frightfully white. "

"And his wife?"

"She sat motionless near him and held his
hand . . . Poor Stephen, his body was not yet cold
when an officer presented himself at the house. He
produced a paper which showed that he was
aide-de-camp to Linder and said that he had orders
to ascertain with his own eyes if Tisza was really
dead. He wouldn't go until he had accomplished
his task. A soldier was with him : he had been
sent by the Soldiers' Council. The officer looked in
at the door of the death chamber. When he saw
that Tisza was dead, he had the cynical impudence
to express the condolences of the whole government
with the family. Bela Radvansky told him that we
did not require them. Later on somebody came
from the police with a police surgeon. It was done
for appearance's sake. Of course they couldn't trace
the criminals ... A telegram arrived from
Karolyi, and a wreath — both were thrown away."

"But why hadn't Tisza gone away?"

" He said he would not go into hiding." Then my
guest told me further details of the murder.

Already in the early morning of the fateful day
people were loitering about the villa. Denise
Almassy came early and begged Tisza to leave the
place and to go to one of his friends, as his life was
not safe there. Tisza answered that he would not
go uninvited into any man's house. Meanwhile a
crowd was gathering in the road outside. The mob,
always ready to insult greatness in misfortune,
cursed Tisza with threats. The crowd increased.
The garden gate was broken in. Soldiers noisily in-
vaded the place. A Jew in a mackintosh, who
seemed to be drunk, led them on. When they
reached the villa itself their leader asked to be
allowed to speak alone with Tisza. The soldiers
remained in the hall. Tisza received the stranger.
He noticed that the man had a revolver, and, with
a movement of his hand, showed him that he too had
one in his pocket. The man was cowed by this and
asked Tisza if he was not hiding a certain judge of
a military tribunal who was his enemy and with

94 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

whom he wanted to settle. Tisza answered that
nobody was hiding in his house. At this the man
and the soldiers left. Did they come to inspect the
premises and get " the lie of the land " or did they
come with the intention of killing him ?

In several provincial towns it was reported at
three o'clock in the afternoon, when Tisza was still
alive, that he had been killed. In the suburbs too
the rumour of his assassination spread early in the
forenoon, and at about four o'clock, in the Otthon
Literary Club, Paul Keri, Karolyi's confidential man,
was heard by several people to remark, after looking
at his watch : " Tisza's life has an hour and a half
more to run."

The policeman who had been sent there by the
Wekerle government to guard Tisza were replaced by
others before the 31st of October. The new men
were restless, and their sergeant asked Tisza to obtain
reinforcements. Tisza replied that as he had not
asked for any guards it was not his business to ask
for reinforcements. In the afternoon the sergeant
came and said that he and his men were going to
leave. It was impossible to telephone from the
villa : the exchange answered but did not make the
required connection. Everything seemed to be con-
spiring against him. The people in the house saw
the police no more after this. They had not left, but
they did not show themselves. Later on Tisza's
brother-in-law and his nephew came and brought
news of the upheaval in the town and said that the
power had fallen into the hands of Michael Karolyi.
Tisza wanted to go down to the Progressive Club and
speak to his adherents, but his wife implored him not
to go. So he sent his brother-in-law and asked his
nephew to go with him.

Meanwhile it was getting dark, and the rabble in
the street assumed a more and more threatening
attitude. The gate of the garden was again being
forced. No help could be expected from any
quarter. The house was now besieged, and there
was no way out . . .

Where were Tisza's friends and followers at this
time ? In the hour of his Golgotha there were but
two women to share it with him. And history will
not forget the names of those two women.

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 95

About five in the afternoon the shooting in the
street became louder. The house-bell rang. The
valet ran in and said that eight armed soldiers were
in the house. Meanwhile two soldiers went down to
the policemen and disarmed them in the name of the
National Council. They made no resistance : eight
men submitted to two. All this time the valet with
tears in his eyes was imploring his master to escape by
the window. Tisza put his hand on the man's
shoulder : "I thank you for your faithful services.
God bless you ! " Then the three were left alone for
a short time, he and the two women. "I will not run
away; I will die just as I have lived," said Tisza. He
took a revolver and went out into the hall. His wife
and Denise Almassy went with him. Soldiers with
raised arms were waiting for him, cigarettes in their
mouths.

" What do you want ?" Tisza asked.

" We want Count Stephen Tisza."

"I am he."

The soldiers shouted at him to put his revolver
down. Tisza had said several times during the day
that he would defend himself if it could do any good.
But now he put down his revolver. This showed
that he considered the situation hopeless. Yet he
never winced for an instant. All his life he had been
strong and brave, and now he was true to himself.
He did not ask for his life but faced death boldly.
One of the soldiers began a harangue, telling Tisza
that he was the cause of the war and must pay for
it. This soldier had carefully manicured nails . . .
Another said that he had been a soldier for eight
years and that Tisza was to blame for it. Tisza
answered: "I did not want the war." At this
moment a clock struck somewhere in the dark. One
of the soldiers exclaimed : " Your last hour has
struck." Then the cigarette-smoking assassins fired
a volley. One bullet struck Tisza in the chest, and
he fell forward. Denise Almassy was wounded too
and collapsed. Tisza was lying on the floor when
they fired again into him. Then they left.

In the dim light of the hall, rilled with the smoke
of gunpowder, the dying Tisza lay on the floor, and
the powerful hand which had once governed a king-
dom waved in its last movement tenderly towards

96 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

those whom he loved : " Do not cry ... It had
to be!"

So he died as he had lived. His sublime fate had
been accomplished. Life and death had produced a
greater scene than the genius of the Greek writers of
tragedies could accomplish. The fate of a whole
nation is reflected in the bitter bloody fate of one
of her sons. Tisza fell like an oak — and in his fall
tore up the soil in which his life was rooted. While
he stood, nobody knew how tall he was. Like a tree
in the wilderness, it was possible only to measure
him when he had fallen.

Stephen Tisza died in the same hour as Hungary.
Those who murdered him will die in the hour of
Hungary 's resurrection .

• •••••••

November 7th.

I was due to go on duty at the railway station
this morning. I started from home in the dark.
Rain was falling. Under the occasional lamps the
murky neglected asphalt was like the rough skinned
hide of some giant animal. The house-doors were
still closed, and in front of the sleeping buildings
the garbage stood in boxes and baskets on the edge of
the pavement. Here and there in the dim light of
the streets an early-riser passed.

The trams were filled with workmen. Sitting
opposite me two evil-intentioned eyes glared at me
out of a heavy coarse face. They were looking at
the crown over the red cross on my coat.

"Don't wear that, there is no more crown."

" There is for me, and I worked under that sign
during the whole war." The man grumbled, but
said no more to me. Later, I was told that for
wearing this emblem of charity a lady was hit in the
face in the street.

At the station there was dense, frightful disorder.
With a loud echo crowded trains rolled under the
glass roof. The carriages were like ruins and their
walls were riddled with bullet holes, for out on the
open track bands of robbers shoot at the trains. The
windows were smashed and the steps were falling
off. Men were standing, shivering with cold, on
the roofs, the steps, and even on the buffers of the

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AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 97

in-coming trains. The noise was appalling. Thous-
ands of returning soldiers fought their way in wild
disorder.

On the concrete floor of the platform, ankle-deep
in mud, the splashing of innumerable shortened steps
made a sickly noise. Russian prisoners, Serbians,
Roumanians, stormed the waggons before they were
quite empty. Home . . . Home . . .

They pushed each other, swore. They climbed
in by the windows because there was no more room
by the doors. A man employed at the station told
me that during the war the daily number of passen-
gers had been about thirty thousand. Now two
hundred thousand come and go in a day. Trains
able to carry 1500 passengers now carry 9000.
Travelling is deadly dangerous : the axles cannot
bear the excessive loads, and out of the desperate
chaos there comes occasionally the news of some
awful catastrophe. Hundreds of soldiers coming from
the Italian front were swept off the roof at the en-
trance of tunnels. Corpses mark the road home.

Another train entered with shrill noise, bringing
refugees and soldiers from the undefended frontiers.
The refugees spread their news. Czech komitadjis
mixed with regulars have invaded Upper Hungary.
The Czechs have crossed the frontier in Trencsen
and are marching on Pressburg. Wherever they
pass they drive the Hungarian officials in front of
them, and impose levies.

A woman from Nagy Becskerek lamented loudly,
plaintively, like the whistling of the wind in the
chimney.

M Dear, oh dear, the town is in the hands of the
Serbians. In Ujvidek they are looting. They cross
the frontier and nobody resists them. Only the
German soldiers are pulling up the rails. And the
Roumanians ! . . . The Roumanians ! . . .

A Szekler woman sobs desperately.

M And the government has forbidden any armed
resistance. Why, in the name of goodness, why ? . .
How can one understand it ? For a Galician trench,
for a rock on the Carso thousands and thousands of
Hungarians have died. Yet nobody defends our
own soil ! Wherever it has been attempted
threatening orders have been sent from Budapest."

98 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

The government has given orders that no resist-
ance is to be offered to the foreign troops, so the
authorities have to content themselves with pro-
testing and let the inhabitants remain quietly in
their homes. No opposition whatever to the troops
of occupation ! . . . And if this order is disregarded
anywhere, detachments of sailors are sent from
Budapest — escaped convicts and robbers, who arrest
the organisers of patriotic resistance. Agitators
creep among the people arming for resistance, Jews
from Pest who incite to pillage. The people, stupid
and misguided, crowd round them. Then things
move quickly : they are told that peace has come
and that everything is theirs. The crowd goes mad.
It cares no more for country, for the enemy. There
is no more resistance and all their anger is directed
against the authorities and the landlords. The
rabble start pillaging. There is general disorder and
in the upheaval somebody turns up who, on pretence
of restoring order, calls in the army. A foreign
armed patrol enters : eighteen men who stick up their
flag and beat down the Hungarian arms. And our
folk just stare and look as if they were sleep-walking
lunatics.

That is what they say, all of them, wherever they
come from. One Hungarian town after the other
falls into enemy hands. What we have held for a
thousand years is lost in a single hour, and foreign
occupations spread over Hungary's body like the
spots of a plague. The names of towns and villages
... A wild, desperate shout for help rises continu-
ally in me: "Is there nobody who can save us?"

The crowd of refugees rolled past me.

" They have pillaged our house ! They have burnt
down our cottage!" . . . Two men lifted a half-
naked old man out of a cattle truck. His beautiful
noble gray head wobbled as they carried him. His
face looked like wax. Whence did they come ?
Nobody inquired. From everywhere, all round us !
. . . And the refugees are being crammed into hotels,
unheated emergency dwellings, cold school-rooms.
At the stations mountains of luggage grow up on the
platforms : huge piles, the remaining possessions of
whole families; bundles tied up in tablecloths;
washing-baskets ; crammed perambulators ; glad-

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 99

stone bags ; fowl-houses ; trunks and portmanteaux.
And the pathetic piles grow and grow from hour to
hour in wild disorder . . .

More Russians were coming from the entrance.
Soldiers hustled the people with the butt-ends of
their rifles. " Go on, Ruski!" A heavy animal
stench drifted behind them. Desperate men
struggled round the piles of trunks ... A boy
dragging an immense old leather bag ... In front
of a broken trunk an old lady kneels in the mud.
She wears a sable coat and her head is covered with
a peasant woman's neckerchief, just as she had
managed to escape. She weeps loudly, wringing her
delicate hands. All her possessions have been stolen
on the way. Nobody heeds her. Children shriek and
cannot tell whence they came. They want their
mother, lost during the flight. In one carriage a
little girl has been trampled to death in the throng.
Soldiers carry her dead on a stretcher. From the
other side across the rails, a woman comes running :
she jumps wildly and her hair flutters madly in front
of her eyes. She screams. She has not yet got there,
she has seen nothing, but she knows; it was hers, it
was hers . . .

Meanwhile Polish Jews, slinking along the walls,
bargained . . . They pounced on the soldiers back
from the front, and bought Italian money. At the
exit armed sailors made a disturbance and took eggs
and fat from the baskets of peasant women. Agitat-
ors with red ribbons round their arms, delegates of
the Soldiers' Council, distributed revolutionary
handbills ; one of them made a speech. The soldiers
surrounded him, some listened, some laughed,
scratched their heads, and, as they went on, no
longer saluted their superiors.

A train came in with a shrill cry, as if it were a
refugee itself, panting and shabby after its long
flight, and poured out more people. Wounded
soldiers dragged themselves to the refreshment room.
The foot of one was wrapped in a newspaper : the
red guards at the Austrian frontier had taken his
boots. More refugees. Once they had a home, they
had a fireside . . . Now all is lost ! Hunger stares
imploringly out of their eyes and they reach for their
crust of bread as if they were asking for alms.

100 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

What hast thou done, Karolyi ?

I went home with a reeling head. Morning had
extinguished the gas lamps a long while ago. I
looked in the faces that passed me in the gray light
of day. Are these refugees too ? The town around
me was shabby and dirty. Grimy flags flapped from
the houses in the cold air. They were still there to
proclaim their impudent lie — "the people's victory."

We have lost the war. Foreign troops invade
Hungary, tens of thousands of refugees tramp the
streets, and Budapest feasts her traitors and stands
beflagged in the centre of the collapsing country.

CHAPTER VII

November 8th.

The wind chases the clouds above the Danube. It
whistles down the chimneys. The streets of Buda
shiver between the houses.

The tram to our hills was practically empty.
Everybody has come to town and the houses stand
abandoned. The strokes of axes resound in the
woods, and trembling townspeople steal scraps of wood
along the roadside. Shabby clerks, teachers, women
pick up brushwood in the thickets. Now and then
a shot is heard from the hills. Thousands of dis-
banded soldiers have taken their rifles with them
and are shooting game freely all over the country.
The woods are crowded with poachers. Blood-stains.
A rotting carcase. Hungary's famous game is on
the verge of extinction.

I reached our villa and walked round the abandoned
house. It has not yet been broken into. The wind
was twisting the dead leaves along the road into
ropes. There was a dry rattle everywhere, and the
branches of the bare trees knocked together in the
moving air. An old woman walked down the road
and her thin silken skirt fluttered in the wind. She
must have known better days, and now she carried
firewood on her back. There is no wood to be got in
town. What will happen in winter? We shall
freeze . . .

Coming back I bought a newspaper through the
tram window. Many hands were stretched out.
Opposite me a young ensign bought one too. The

102 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

torn off insignia of his rank had left their mark on
the collar of his uniform. Well disposed officers have
ceased to wear uniforms. It has become a livery of
shame, and is worn only by those who have nothing
else to wear. This one looked like one of that cate-
gory. Only deserters, civilians, and those who shirked
the war now wear uniforms.

I began to read the midday paper. Belgrade . . .
Everything around me disappeared. Through the
printed letters of the paper I saw the Serbian town
as I had known it long ago. The Danube was rolling
past the wharf, there was the high fort, once
Hunyadi's impregnable Hungarian stronghold, the
Konak ; and between the trees beyond the town
the small convent where, under the oil-painted planks
of the floor, without any monument, the massacred
bodies of the last Obrenovic and his mutilated Serbian
queen, Draga, lie. Then I thought of the garden of
Topcider and its oriental little Kiosk where Serbian
Gypsies used to fiddle and sing. Officers, in brilliant
uniforms after the Russian pattern, took their after-
noon substitute for tea at small round tables, eating
onions with bread. Some of them had the ribbon
of an Order on their chest. A Serbian explained to
me proudly that this Order was bestowed only on
those who had taken an active part in the events that
cleared the road to the throne for Peter Karageorgevic.

Herds of cattle were driven through the ill-paved
streets. Manure, dirt, bugs, rubbish, and flies — big,
shiny, blue flies. The Skupstina . . . When I saw
that I could not help thinking of Hungary's house
of Parliament. The two buildings proclaimed both
the past and the culture of the two peoples. Ours is
a Gothic blossom, with its roots in the Danube, the
bed of which is the grave of our first conqueror,
Attila, who received tribute from Rome and Byzanti-
um, and sleeps there his sleep of fifteen hundred
years. When I saw the Serbian Parliament it was
a building like a stable, with wooden benches in it
and the walls covered with red, white and blue stuff.
Its air was reeking with the scent of onions and
sheep, while the windows were obscured with fly
marks.

Since I had been there this small Balkan town must
have suffered much. The soldiers of Mackensen and

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 103

Kovess had passed victoriously over its ruins. Now
Karolyi and Jaszi, with the delegates of the Workers'
and Soldiers' Council, go there a-begging.

Why did they go there ? Why just there ? The
jerking of the wheels of the tram seemed to repeat
rhythmically "Why just there, why just there . . ."

According to the official news the French general
was haughty and ruthless. He took Karolyi's mem-
orandum, turned his back on him, and banged the
door. . .

This memorandum reveals the unsavoury truth
when it complains that within twenty-four hours after
assuming power Karolyi had promised to the Allies
to lay down arms at once, but his offer had been
prevented by the common High Command from reach-
ing its destination. The High Command had isolated
Hungary from the Allied powers, and had cut the
telephone wires. It had charged General Weber to
negotiate in the name of the old Monarchy with
General Diaz, the Italian Commander-in-Chief.
Karolyi's memorandum protested against this because
" nobody but the delegates of the Hungarian people
are entitled to negotiate for independent Hungary.
This is the reason for our appearance," ended this
disgraceful document.

So it was nobody who called for them, nobody who
sent these people who claim to be the representatives
of the Hungarian people. Karolyi the gambler
gambles in Belgrade. He plays an iniquitous game.
He cheats for his own pocket while his own country
loses.

The newspaper was executing a wild dance in my
hands while I read the memorandum. Surely men
have never written anything like this about their own
country. They go to ask for an armistice and accuse
us before our enemies. " We oppressed the nation-
alities, we were tyrants ..." I felt as if something
had been poured down my throat which it was im-
possible to swallow. I choked for a time, and my
blood was beating a mad tattoo at the sides of my
head. He who wrote that lied in hatred, while those
who transmitted it were cretins or criminals.

In his answer to the memorandum the French
general was insulting and contemptuous. The shame
of it all ! They are slighted and we bear the disgrace.

104 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

Every word of Franchet d'Esperay was a slap in the
face to Karolyi and his fellows. What unfathomable
contempt must have been felt by this old Norman
nobleman, this patriotic soldier, for Karolyi and
his Bolshevick Internationalist companions !

Workers' Council . . . Soldiers' Council . . .

He looked sternly at the Semitic features of Jaszi
and the faun-like face of Hatvany as he said :

" You only represent the Hungarian race and not
the Hungarian people."

Then he answered the clumsy, cunning sentence of
the memorandum, sprung from the brain of some
journalistic fantast : " From the first of November
Hungary ceases to be a belligerent and becomes a
neutral country."

" The Hungarians have fought side by side with
the Germans and with the Germans they will suffer
and pay."

An answer to those who shouted in Parliament over
dying Hungary " we are friends of the Entente," an
answer to Karolyi, who in the interest of his personal
ascendency intrigued with Prague, Bukarest and
Belgrade.

" The Czechs, Slovakians, Roumanians and Yugo-
slavs are the enemies of Hungary, and I have only
to give the order and you will be destroyed."

I forced my eyes to overcome my shame and
anger, and read on.

Followed the conditions of the armistice. . . Not
conditions, but orders born of revenge and hatred
dictated by the commander of an armed force to the
self-appointed, obtruding envoys of a disarmed
people.

Horrible nightmare . . . The Hungarian govern-
ment has to evacuate huge territories in the east and
in the south. Hungarian soil must be delivered
over to the Balkan forces. We must surrender from
the Szamos to the Maros-Tisza line, from the Danube
to the Sloveno-Croatian frontier, that which has
been ours for a thousand years.

Eighteen points . . . Eighteen blows in the face
of the nation. After this Hungary is a country no
longer, she is a surrounded quarry thrown to the fury
of the pack. The Kill . . .

Poor country of mine, poor countrymen . . .

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 105

Suddenly I saw the letters no more : something
had covered them, as the stones at the bottom of a
brook are rendered indistinct by the waves above. I
wiped my eyes and looked up. Had others read it
too? The little ensign had. He was weeping
silently. He sat there with his head bowed, crushing
the newspaper in his fist. I looked round. Faces
had changed since I had read the paper. The others
had read it too. Strangers began to talk to each
other excitedly: — "I always told you so, Karolyi
alone could bring us a good peace. He got it in
two days. It was said that he alone could save
us . . ."

For an instant the misguided people seemed to
have regained their consciences. Terrified disap-
pointment, bitter complaints filled the car. Most of
them cursed the French general furiously, and re-
marks of a new kind were heard about Karolyi too.
Something had become clear ... Or did I only see
my own views in the eyes of the others ?

" It isn't all that," said a gentleman to his neigh-
bour; "we must not judge hastily." And he read
aloud that the delegates of the government had
made the signing of the armistice conditional. These
conditions were set out in a dispatch which was for-
warded through Franchet d'Esperay to Paris. " It
is clear," the gentleman said, " that the government
will only sign the armistice if the Entente powers
guarantee the old frontiers of Hungary till the con-
clusion of peace. Karolyi will manage the peace
treaty all right. His confidential friends say that he
can carry everything before him in Paris. He will
get peace in six weeks."

The exhausted people clung to these words. The
protesting telegram had destroyed the finality of the
catastrophe . . . And those who a few minutes ago
had spoken desperately, sent their tired souls to sleep
with self-deceiving optimism. They became quiet.
They crowded together and looked out of the
window. A woman yawned aloud. Behind my back
they talked of the high prices : potatoes had gone
up again . . .

When I came home my mother was sitting in
the little green room near the window. She sat
passively in the twilight, she who was always busy

106 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

with something. When the door opened she turned
towards me and raised her head slightly to be kissed.
I saw in the twilight her kind blue eyes, which, in
spite of years, had retained their youth and lustre.
They now looked at me in indescribable grief. A
newspaper lay on the table.
" Have you read it ?" I asked.

" I have

November 9th.

Huge white posters have appeared on the walls.
All along the streets everything is covered with
them. They are posted on the shop windows, on
the windows of the coffee-houses. They appear be-
tween the announcements of the kinematographs in
the advertisement columns. Not orders, not regula-
tions, not proclamations : from far away I could see
it, one word at the top of them all : A BALLAD.

It is an old, sweet word, one which seems to come
from olden days bringing a message to the new : a
ballad ... I scanned one of the posters, but was
unable to decipher the smaller words. I had to cross
the road. While doing so I pondered : will this
ballad contain that which we are waiting for, the
cry of Hungary's agony ? The rebelling voice of our
sufferings ? Is it an old ballad, or one of the later
ones ? Or is it by some misled poet who has helped
to burn his ancestor's soil and had aided the band
of Jews to make the revolution ? Has the erring soul
returned to the fold of his race and does he give voice
to the tortures of the betrayed Hungarian land into
which Balkan robbers are already setting their
teeth ? Or is it by one who could shape into our
language the sufferings of homeless Dante, who could
put into verse the moaning of the dread storm that
rages over the Great Plain ?

Not they, it is not Hungarians who speak. The
sickly verses of one Renee Erdos polluted the air,
plastered up by the government all over the town.

"And he went to Belgrade, good Michael Karolyi

sad Michael Karolyi
great Michael Karolyi."

And this was stuck up on every house in Buda-

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 107

pest. What a childish game ! The ballad is meant
to create sympathy for Michael Karolyi, so that
anger against him shall not rise in people's hearts;
it attempts to transfer to him the pity that the
nation should feel for itself. And as though by a
word of command, the whole press of Budapest is
writing in the same strain. The newspapers prac-
tically hide the conditions of the armistice and en-
large on the rude contempt of the French general.
In their columns Karolyi has became a martyr who
has suffered for the nation.

The people in the street stopped and read the
ballad, and now and then somebody said : " Poor
Michael Karolyi!" But even while this was being
said bitter news spread over the town, news which
none could stop. The truth about the Belgrade
meeting has filtered through, and already people are
clenching their fists.

Franchet d'Esperay had come to the meeting in
an aeroplane from Salonika. He stationed a guard
of honour in front of his hotel. He wore full dress
uniform, with all his decorations, and thus received
those whom he believed to be the envoys of
Hungary. Michael Karolyi and his friends appeared
in shooting-jackets, breeches, gaiters : as if they
were out for a holiday. The general glared in
astonishment at the motley company. He became
cold and contemptuous, shook hands with nobody,
and folded his arms over his chest. Astonished at
first, he became ironical as he listened to Karolyi's
faulty speech. After taking possession of the
accusing memorandum (which had been edited by
Jaszi) he ranged the company within the light of his
lamp and looked attentively at one after the other.

" Vous etes Juif?" he asked Hatvany ; then
looking at Jaszi and Karolyi, he said, " You are
Jews, too?"

His face showed undisguised disgust when Karolyi
introduced to him, as an achievement of the revolu-
tion, the delegates of the Workers' and Soldiers'
Council. He pointed at the collar of Csernyak, the
delegate of the Soldiers' Council, whence the
insignia of rank had been removed : " Vous ites
tombSs si bas?" Then, instead of bowing, he threw
his head back haughtily, turned on his heel, and left

108 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

them. He dined with his officers, and did no€
invite the delegation, though the table had been
laid for them.

The self-delegated men looked at each other in
dismay. How were they to report this to the be-
fooled, betrayed country, which had been rocked to
sleep for months by the recital of Karolyi 's connec-
tions with the Allies, and the belief of a good peace ?
... In their fear they accused each other, and one
of them said to Karolyi : "In Budapest you were
feasted like a demi-god, and here you are treated
like a dog ..."

Karolyi and his friends went without dinner that
day in Belgrade, and after his dinner General
Franchet d'Esperay put on his field uniform and
with hard words handed the delegation the terrible,
degrading conditions of the armistice.

This happened in Belgrade on the 7th of
November. One day later, yesterday evening, the
members of the government went solemnly to the
railway station to accord a triumphant welcome to
the delegation. Countess Karolyi, Mrs. Jaszi and
other " revolutionary ladies " (as they like to be
styled) were there too. But the festal crowd waited
in vain. Karolyi and his following dared not face
them . . . They had stopped the special train at
a little side-station, got out quietly, and dispersed in
the ill-lit streets.

It was through a back-door that they brought their
shame from Belgrade into the betrayed town.

November 10th.

A leaden gray rain is falling. From the wall of
the old neglected house opposite a big piece of
plaster is washed off and falls with a splash into the
street, where pieces of it fly in all directions. It is
Sunday. Nobody passes along the street. Only the
rain drives before the window. It comes and goes
again, and writes something on the panes.

The republican party has called a mass meeting
for this afternoon. Organised labour and organising
good-for-nothings, the Soldiers' Council, the officers,
the non-commissioned officers . . . meetings every-
where. And everywhere discourses on the supremacy

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 109

of the people, its rights, democracy, independence
and freedom. But no mention is made of Belgrade.
There is no protest meeting or demonstration
against the conditions of the armistice. With its
cunning lies the faithful, servile press of Karolyi has
hoodwinked the crowd again. The town hides the
shame of Belgrade in silence, as if it were not its
concern, as if it had lost all self-respect. The
crowd, stupid and good-tempered, continues on the
road which it trod yesterday. Blind flocks of sheep
and herds of blinkered oxen, thoughtless and sight-
less masses, following their degraded leader towards
the precipice. They are going, and why does he
delay who is to bring salvation ?

The rain writes ghostly characters on my window
as well as on the panes of the house opposite. That
is all; nothing else happens.

Nothing? I must be mad to write such a thing.
Does not every day bring with it the collapse of
something which had always existed, ever since I
was born, and before that, long before that ? . . .
It is incomprehensible. One reads only the news,
and when one has read that it seems impossible, and
one half expects somebody will laugh, or a voice will
tell us that it is not true and that everything is
really as it used to be. Yet we wait in vain . . .
And again we believe that nothing will happen.

Meanwhile loyal Bavaria has driven King Louis
out of the country. The Soldiers' and Workers'
Council in Saxony has made a proclamation to the
people : " The King has been deprived of his throne,
the Wettin dynasty has ceased to exist." Baden has
expelled its ruler, and the Grand Duke of Hesse is a
prisoner of the mob. Wurtemburg, Brunswick,
Weimar . . . Ancient thrones, legendary old
courts, centres of culture, art-loving little residences,
all collapse in a few minutes. It is as if some giant
Hatred roams abroad, demolishing everything it
finds standing, from east to west.

All the faithful German princes have lost their
thrones. The only one who still wears a crown is the
one who has shown himself faithless — the
Hohenzollern down there in Roumania. And the
Kaiser has fled to Holland from his unhappy Empire.

Kaiser Wilhelm has resigned his throne ! As the

110 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

news spreads this fresh token of the mutability of
human affairs causes a shudder even in those who
worked for it with hatred and received it with shouts
of triumph.

Since Napoleon, nobody has been so violently hated
on this globe as he. Doubtless this will be the
measure of his importance in history. It will judge
his power by the fact that against Napoleon
England had allied only a fraction of Europe, while
against the Hohenzollern the whole world was forced
to rise in arms.

The cause of the two Emperors' downfall is the
same. Napoleon wanted to make France the first
power of the world, and Kaiser Wilhelm dreamt the
same dream for the German Empire. Neither of them
could stop half-way.

Is it a Saint Helena that fate has in store for
Kaiser Wilhelm ? Will the Dutch castle that has
received him turn out to be a replica of the
Bellerophon ?

The Kaiser was a friend of the Hungarians. Once
in the royal castle of Buda he proposed the health of
the Hungarian nation. Since the rule of the
Hapsburgs no crowned head has ever spoken to us
like that. His speech was printed in school books,
the children learned it by heart, and the memory of
the Kaiser stayed with us. But he never came again
to our midst. During the war he went to Vienna,
to Sophia and to Constantinople. He never stopped
at Budapest. And while the Hungarian people
waited for him whose soldiers had bled witji ours at
three gates of our country, he was forced to bear in
mind the jealousy of Vienna. His picture was in the
shop-windows, Budapest had named its finest
boulevard after him, the colours of his Empire
floated everywhere and if his train touched the
country's soil the newspapers wrote in his homage.

In 1916 Tisza went to the German General Head-
quarters. The Roumanians had just invaded
Transylvania and he asked for troops and help for
his hard-pressed country.

"Will the Hungarians be grateful for it?" asked
the Kaiser.

" We shall be grateful," answered Stephen Tisza.

They have torn the contract of our alliance, but

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 111

a common misfortune can write a more permanent
alliance than any human hand. Marshal Foch's
document stating the conditions of the armistice
with Germany is the twin of the ruthless writing of
Belgrade. Wilson's mask has fallen and the victors
beggar us and let loose upon us the blood-stained
cloud which comes from the East to cover the
despair of betrayed peoples.

On this cloud obscure strangers steal over the
Russian border into the heart of Europe and join /
with those whose features resemble theirs. And
there are such in Paris, in London, and in New York
too . . . They have invaded the greater half of
Europe. In Russia Trotski-Bronstein, Krassin-
Goldgelb, Litvinoff-Finkelstein, Radek and Joffe are
all-powerful. In Munich Kurt Eisner is the master
and president of the Republic. In Berlin Beerfeld
is at the head of the Soldiers' Council and Hirsch at
the Workmens'. In Vienna the power is in the
hands of Renner, Adler, Deutsch and Bauer. And
in Budapest . . .

Is this all accidental ?

Carrion-crows on dying nations . . . They hack
out the eyes that still see, they pierce the still
throbbing hearts with their beaks, tear shreds of
flesh from the convulsed members. And nowhere
does anyone appear to drive them away.

Nothing happens . . . Silently, silently, like
speechless despair, the rain beats at my window.

November 11th.

I might have known that it would end like this !

Karolyi and his government decided yesterday
afternoon that they would accept the Belgrade con-
ditions without alterations . . . The French
Premier did not even deign to answer their pro-
testing telegrams. He looked over their heads and
would not speak to them. Instead he sent direct
instructions to Franchet d'Esperay : "I request
you to treat with Count Karolyi military questions
only, to the exclusion of all other matters. This is
final. Clemenceau."

In the old palace of the Prime Minister, up there
in the castle of Buda, the cabinet met in council.

112 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

At first Karolyi was greatly excited, then, tired of
listening to the others, he stretched his long legs,
plunged his hands into his pockets, and with his
head bowed on his chest stared into a corner where
nothing was going on. The ministers of his party
were nervous. The socialist and radical ministers
were cool. Linder is a minister no more. He was
perpetually drunk. Brandy bottles stood on his
ministerial writing-table and in his ante-room sailors
were constantly drinking. The government has
relieved him and put Lieutenant Colonel Bartha into
his place. But " to make sure of Linder's valuable
services for the future " he was invited to go to
Belgrade and sign the conditions of the armistice in
the name of the Hungarian authorities . . .

It all looks as if it were a systematical, devilish
conspiracy. Apparently they want to degrade us as
much as possible so as to make it easier for them to
tread on us. After the delegation in shooting
jackets, a dipsomaniac lieutenant goes to Belgrade,
and with his watery eyes and alcoholic breath repre-
sents Hungary before the haughty French General.

And while Linder was preparing for his journey,
Karolyi made a speech at the National Council,
meant to encourage and reassure those who wanted
to rob Hungarian territory.

The Serbian troops have crossed the frontier and
are advancing rapidly into the country. On their
national holiday the Czechs have decided to occupy
all counties to the possession of which they aspire.
The Czech troops have started and are fast over-
running the country . . . Their plan is to occupy
Pressburg and Upper Hungary. This means seven-
teen to nineteen counties. The situation on the
Roumanian side is serious too. Roumania has de-
cided to order a general mobilisation ... "In the
full knowledge of our physical inability and of the
right of our cause," Karolyi finally declared, "we
can only rely on justice. Consequently I propose
that we sign the treaty of armistice with General
Franchet d'Esperay, and when we have signed it,
every invasion becomes simply an act of violence.
Whoever invades us, we shall protest, raise our
warning voice, and appeal to the judgment of the
civilised world; but we shall offer no armed opposi-

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 118

tion, because we want, and are going to stand by,
the conditions of the armistice."

The so-called Prime Minister of Hungary, from the
very heart of Hungary, promises to our little neigh-
bours, when they start on their plundering expedi-
tions, that if they come they shall not be interfered
with, that they will meet no armed opposition. And
so Michael Karolyi, in the hearing of the National
Council and of the united Cabinet, calls in the
Serbians, Roumanians and Czechs.

With trembling lips I read the words of this
shameful speech. What does Michael Karolyi get
for this infamous job ? . . . It is but two hundred
years since his ancestor Alexander Karolyi received
from the Emperor of Austria the domains of Erdod,
Huszt, Tarcalt and Marosvasarhely, at the valuation
of fifty thousand pieces of gold, and the crown of
a count (on to which the herald painter at Vienna
painted by mistake two more pearls than the other
Hungarian counts wear) for his betrayal of Rakoczi,
the Hungarian champion. The crown of the Counts
Karolyi has eleven pearls. Was it for those two
pearls that the democratic Karolyi was haughtier
than any man of his rank ? He wore them and wears
them to this day, when he is making a republic. He
wears the rank bestowed on him by the Hapsburgs,
while he deprives the Hapsburgs of theirs. He
insists on being called the Right Honourable Count,
and that his wife be called the Right Honourable
Countess, while those who are the source of his title
are called in his press Charles Hapsburg and Joseph
Hapsburg ! He uses the King's special train, his
motor-car, and at the opera sits with his wife in the
royal box. He intends to occupy the royal castle
too. One day after dinner, in the intimacy of his
family, smoking his cigar, he said casually : " I'll
make the King resign." But his two advisers, Keri
and Jaszi, advised him that this should not be done
by him or by the government. The Hungarian
educated classes were attached to the crown and
the peasantry was loyal to the King.

I met an old acquaintance this afternoon. It was
he who reported to me this opinion of Karolyi 's
Councillors. It was told to him by quite reliable
people. Paul Keri said : " One never knows. Let

114 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

the odium of it be attached to someone else. We had
the German Alliance broken by some outsider; let
us get the resignation of the King effected by other
people. The most suitable people would be the
magnates. If it suits the people, it is a good card
in our hand that even the counts don't want the
King. If they don't like it, let the nobility pay
for it . . ."

" They won't find anybody to do it," I said, as
we walked side by side through the crowded street.

M You may be right," my companion replied,
shrugging his lean shoulders. " I hear that Karolyi's
negotiations have all failed. And yet, the matter
becomes urgent for him. They want to hurry here
too. They envy the priority of Berlin and Vienna.
Do you know that when the news of the German
events reached the Austrian National Council, it at
once decided for the republic, and the Emperor
Charles yesterday signed his resignation in Schon-
brunn?"

" No . . . I did not know . . ."

" Under the influence of this event Karolyi's
government admitted that it did not intend to wait
for the constitutional assembly to decide on the form
the Constitution should take. * Companion ' Bokanyi
abolished Kingship on the day of the revolution . . .
He does not want it, nor does Kunfi, nor Pogany.
Baron Hatvany, Jaszi and Paul Keri are all against
it; in short, Kingship has to go . . . They made
Karolyi sign a declaration for form's sake, but that
does not count. But if it interests you, let us go to
the editorial office of the Pesti Naplo where we can
read all about it."

In the lighted window, among the latest news,
there it was, the text of the proclamation : " The
Hungarian National Council has addressed a solemn
request to the National Councils formed in the
various towns and communes, that they should
decide at once whether they agree with the decision
of the Hungarian National Council that the future
form of the Hungarian state be that of a Republic.
A rapid decision and immediate answer are
requested."

I felt the same inexpressible disgust that I always
feel when I read the writings of the new power. "An

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 115

immediate answer is requested . . ." as if an agent
were asking for orders ... "a rapid decision'' . .
as if it were an auction of somebody's old clothes :
the crown of St. Stephen and the traditions of a
thousand Hungarian years.

" Don't let it annoy you," my companion said
bitterly; "it is only a comedy. It makes no
difference what they write, and it's just the same
whatever the country answers. The secretariat of
the Social Democratic party and the other i com-
panions ' have already settled the question. On
November the 16th they are going to proclaim the
republic, and Karolyi is to be President. And we
shall say nothing and do nothing."

" And how long are we going to do nothing?"

" What can one do ? I was at the front for forty-
four months. I was wounded three times. I'm ill
and I'm tired. And in other places it's even worse
than here. In Berlin they are shooting in the streets.
Officers, loyal to the Kaiser, and the Red Guards cut
each other's throats in Unter den Linden. Machine-
guns fire from the roofs of the houses. Red sailors
have occupied the imperial palace, and corpses lie
between the barricades. Here, they rarely knock a
man down, and they only take his watch once." He
laughed painfully. " You know I was buried by a
shell in my trench. They had to dig for some time
before they found me, and the earth was heavy.
Since then ..." Horror showed in his eyes and he
shivered. "It's no good struggling. We can't get out.
It was all in vain."

He turned his head away, and we went on side by
side for some time without a word ; then he saluted
clumsily and turned down a dark little street. But
although he had gone his voice remained with me,
and as I went on I could hear it over and over again ; it
came towards me, followed me, kept pace with me :
"It's no good struggling ... we can't get out . . .
it was all in vain ..." Those who suffer, those who
are cold and hungry, those who are beggars and
cripples, those who had their orders torn from their
chests and the stars from the collars of their
uniforms, all think alike. Those who did the tearing
had not seen the war, had stayed at home, had lived
in plenty and got rich ; their numbers increased

11« AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

while ours grew less ; they won the war that we lost.

" We are done for, it's no good struggling." Is
that what I see written in people's eyes ? Ex-
haustion and the endless "I'm ill and tired?" . . .
Now I understand. The best have fallen, and those
who have come back are wounded, though there be
no wound on their bodies. Neither generals nor
statesmen can remedy this.

I went home. The staircase was in darkness, the
electric light had gone wrong a few days ago and no
workman could be found to repair it ; all had joined
the unemployed's bargaining federation. The front
door bell was out of order too. The electrician who
always kept it in order had been deserted by his men
and had to attend to his shop himself.

One has to knock at one's own door nowadays, for
it cannot be left unbolted. Loafing soldiers pay
visits to houses. One hears of nothing but burglaries.

As I went upstairs impressions of the streets of the
decaying town passed through my mind : the furious
struggling crowd of crammed electric trams ; the
* new rich ' in fur coats ; dirty flags, the remains of
last month's posters on grimy walls ; coffee-houses
with music within, crude noises and lewd conversa-
tions; people loafing in front of coal merchants'
cellars. The horror of the foul streets was still with
me when I reached my room.

My mother called to me. She was sitting in her
room with a shaded lamp on the table, and on the
green velvet table-cloth the kings and queens of a
pack of little patience cards promenaded as if in a
field.

w Where have you been ?" my mother asked.

" I went to see about the coal."

" Well ?"

I did not want to tell her my visit had been in
vain. " I shall have to go again. I couldn't settle
matters to-day." I thought of our empty cellar
and of the coal-office, the long queue of waiting
people. Scenes passed before me like the pictures of
a kinematograph . . . The window of the PestiNaplo.
People were waiting there too . . . Big letters,
latest news . . . Czechs, Roumanians, Serbs, and
the names of ancient Hungarian towns . . . People
said nothing and craned their necks to see . . .

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 117

Everywhere the same tired faces . . . And as
if one voice were speaking for them all : " It is no
good struggling ... we can't get out ... it was
all in vain "... Yes, it is past the remedy of
generals and statesmen . . .

All the time my mother was looking at me
thoughtfully over her patience cards. She said
nothing, asked no questions, but leant forward and
stroked my head. It was unlike her : her tenderness
was hardly ever visible or heard. It was always
there, but quietly, underneath. She rarely showed
her feelings, and lived behind a veil of self-control.
In my childhood it was only when I was ill or down-
hearted that she showed her true self, for my sake,
not for hers. But lately, now that events had caused
old age to quicken his steps, the veil had been more
often drawn aside. I wanted so much to say some-
thing, to thank her for what was beyond thanks.
She stroked my hair . . . How soothing it was !
Her hand knew a sweet, tender secret which it re-
vealed only on the brows of her children when they
bent under the weight of sorrow. Dear loving
hands 1 They can accomplish what neither generals
nor statesmen can.

Something I cannot express in words rose within
me in that moment. Was it a foreboding, was it the
clue that we were all seeking, was it a presentiment
of something I was to do ? I cannot answer, but it
was something that should throw itself before the
torrent of destruction, should raise a dam before the
motherland and its women, the faithful, the prolific,
the holders of Hungary's future ... To protect
those who see things with eyes different from those
of generals and statesmen.

A carriage stopped in front of the house. Who
could it be ? For days I had seen practically
nobody. Social intercourse had almost ceased; one
did not even know what was happening to one's best
friends or where they were. Everyone took refuge in
his own home, and the threads that had been broken
in October had not yet been retied. A knock at the
door, the hinges creaked. Steps in the corridor. It
was my friend Countess Raphael Zichy.

" Do you remember the last time we met? Up in
the woods in a fog? And while we were trying to

118 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

guess what the future had in store for us the rebellion
had already started in the town."

" Then it must have been about the 30th of
October."

" Since then everything has collapsed. Is there
any force on earth that could repair the havoc ?"

" Nothing ever can be repaired," said my visitor,
pensively. " The evil always remains ; but one can
raise something good by its side that will progress
and leave the evil behind it."

" But is there anybody who can do this ? We're
not organised, and everybody is so despondent and
tired. As long as this is so, nothing will ever happen.
It is this that has got to be cured first. I was
thinking about it just before you came : in defeat
women are always greater than men. If they could
only be roused and set going they might restore the
faith that everybody seems to have lost."

"I'm already negotiating with the various Catholic
women's institutions," the Countess said, " and I
hope to bring about their unity."

"I don't want the unity of creeds," said I; "I
want the unity of Hungarians. The forces of De-
struction have united in one camp. All its apostles
work together. Why shouldn't the forces of Re-
generation unite as well ?"

"I'm going to begin where I'm rooted," answered
my guest with an enigmatic smile, while taking
leave. " You're like all Hungarians. You want to
do everything at once and carry everything before
you ..."

She was right. She had started to work in the
right way.

CHAPTER VIII

November 12th.
What has happened ?

In front of one of the big schools sailors were lined
up in a row. A company, armed to the teeth, stood
in the middle of the road. People looked at each
other curiously, anxiously. This school had an evil
past. In October the deserters had gathered to-
gether here, the armed servants of the Karolyi re-
volution. It is said that Tisza's murderers started
from this point.

"What are they up to now?"

" They're Ladislaus Fenyes's sailors. They're
going to Pressburg against the Czechs," a lean, fair
man said.

Somebody sighed "Poor people of Pressburg!"
The fair man made a frightened sign to him to keep
quiet. Behind his back an officer began to talk ex-
citedly. I could only hear half of what he said, but
it was something to the effect that in one of the
barracks three thousand soldiers and five hundred
officers who were going to the defence of Upper
Hungary had been disarmed by the orders of
Pogany.

A broad, dark Jew, rigged out in field uniform,
now came out of the school building, a ribbon of
national colours on his chest. His voice did
not reach me. I only saw his mouth move. He
addressed the sailors, and cheers rang through the
street. The crowd rushed forward and I turned
back to escape it, tried to reach home by a circ-
uitous route. Suddenly I heard more cheering, and
behind me the roadway resounded with heavy steps.
The detachment of sailors was marching to the rail-

120 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

way station, the mob accompanying it. The detach-
ment was headed by the dark Jew, with drawn
sword, and behind him marched a criminal looking
rabble dressed in sailors' uniforms. Most of them
wore red ribbons in their caps, and the deeply cut
blouses displayed their bare, hairy chests. The last
sailor was a squashed nosed, sturdy man, his dirty
pimpled face shone. Round his bare neck he wore
a red handkerchief. As he walked along he caught
his foot in something and looked back. Between
his strong, bushy eyebrows and protruding cheek-
bones his eyes were set deep. I shuddered. This
riff-raff going to the defence of Pressburg ! Are
such as they to recover Upper Hungary ?

Then I remembered. The man at the head of the
sailors must have been Victor Heltai-Hoffer, who on
the 31st of October, from the Hotel Astoria, was
nominated Commander of Budapest's garrison. I
was told that he had been a contractor, but people
from Karolyi's entourage affirmed that he had been
a waiter in a music-hall of ill-fame. Later he be-
came a professional dancer, and during the war
he lived by illicit trade, dabbling in hay, fat and
sugar. Those who were his accomplices are not
likely to be mistaken . . . On the day of the revo-
lution Heltai offered to storm the Garrison's com-
mand with a band of deserters. This disgraceful
success was followed by his nomination to the post of
commander by Fenyes, Keri, and the other National
councillors. A few days ago queer news was circul-
ated about him, and he was suspended from his
position. Heltai is said to be in possession of certain
disgraceful secrets concerning those in power, and it
was possible that he was put in command of the
Pressburg relief force in order to get rid of him.

The noise of the sailors' steps was lost in the hub-
bub of the street. Carriages passed with their
miserable lean horses, people went to and fro with
spiritless monotony. Although the sailors had long
disappeared I still seemed to see the last, with his
squashed nose, his red tie. That criminal face
wore the expression of the whole contingent.

And that horrible face under a cap worn on one
side of the head is everywhere in a country that
putrifies. It appears in the light of the burning

CO

O
-
i— i
<]

72

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 121

houses, it enters at night into lonely manors, into
cottages, it rushes in under the portals of palaces,
goes through the rooms, searches, spies, and there
is no escape from it. Whoever it pursues, it will
catch . . . Then it wipes its bloody hands on silk
or linen, and when its heavy step has passed, death
grins in the dark, pillaged room behind it.

Once upon a time the word " sailor " brought to
our minds the image of the great, free expanse of
oceans and shores. Now we hold our breath at its
sound, and shudder in horror.

That face with the sailor's cap worn rakishly on
one side, that face with the deep, loot-seeking
eyes . . . There it was in Moscow when thousands
of Imperial officers were slaughtered between the
walls of the Kremlin. It was in Petrograd in the
hour of starkest horror, in Odessa, in Altona; and in
Helsingfors it bathed itself in the blood of Finns.
It is now in Berlin, in the Imperial castle on which
the red flag floats. And it was lurking in the court-
yard of Schonbrunn Castle when the Emperor Charles
was driven from his home.

I can see the large staircase of Schonbrunn by
which the Emperor, the Empress and their little fair
children left their home, walking down alone, ex-
pelled. In olden days a hundred footmen jumped at
a sign of their hand; courtiers bowed to the ground
before them. Now, wherever they looked, there was
not one faithful eye for them; whoever they might
call, he would not come.

When Francis Joseph was dying on his little iron
camp-bed, in a room at Schonbrunn, the heir to the
crown and the Archduchess Zita wrung their hands
in their despair. " Good God, not yet, not
yet "... Then the door of the old ruler's room
was opened : it had become a mortuary, and they
two walked slowly down the great gallery. The Court
bowed low before them. And they walked weeping,
holding each other's hands. Since then they have
been always walking, through many mistakes, dis-
appointments, and tears, and now they have reached
the bottom of the staircase.

The little Crown Prince, as he had been taught,
saluted all the time with his baby hands. u They
won't acknowledge it to-day, mother," he said sadly.

122 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

The red-cockaded peoples' guards who occupied the
place turned aside.

The King, in civilian clothes, with bowed head,
stepped out into the open. The sound of his steps
died away in the big, empty house, and the darkness
of the evening swallowed up the garden, under whose
straight-cut hedges, peopled with statues of gods and
goddesses, the Hapsburgs had passed so many
lovely summers.

When the royal motor-cars passed through the
court of honour the usual bugle-call did not resound ;
the guard did not turn out, and red flags rose above
the roofs of the houses of Schonbrunn. Over the
gate the double-headed eagle was covered with red
rags; though it had been predatory and had cruelly
clawed peoples and countries, it had never returned
from its flight without bringing treasures for Vienna.
And it may be the greatest tragedy of the Hapsburgs
that their unduly favoured capital turned indiffer-
ently away from them when the scum of the red
power had driven them from home.

The rapidly speeding car took the unfortunate
prince to Eckhardsau, and henceforth he lived under
the protection of the National Council of the
Renners and Bauers. Who knows for how long?
Who knows what is in store for him ?

November 13th.

Every day has its news, and the news has eagle's
claws that tear the living flesh.

Behind the retreating Mackensen, Roumanians
pour through the Transylvanian passes. The
Serbians have occupied the Banat and the Bacska.
Temesvar and Zombor are in their hands. The
Czechs are advancing towards Kassa and, after
having robbed our land, they even want to rob the
country of its coat of arms. They have stolen our
three hills surmounted by a double cross and have
assigned it as arms to Upper Hungary, which they
have named Slovensko.

To-day Linder is going to sign in Belgrade the
death-bearing armistice conditions. In Arad, Jaszi
is distributing our possessions to the Roumanians.
Kdrolyi is intriguing to undermine the power of

THE CROWN PRINCE OTTO

(de jure KING OF HUNGARY).

(To face p. 122.)

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 123

Mackensen, who, at the head of forty to fifty
thousand men, is the only armed hope remaining in
the midst of destruction. A deputation of magnates,
all, without exception, patriotic, faithful lords, has,
inconceivably, arrived at Eckhardsau, to ask the
King for his resignation. It is more than one can
bear.

The country is going through the horrors of decom-
position while still alive ; its counterfeit head is
rotting and its members falling off. And there is no
silence in our distracting grief; the great decay
is accompanied by revolting continuous applause.
Those who cause the ruin applaud themselves. In the
press, in their speeches, on their posters, in their
writings : their applause drowns the groans of agony.
The day begins with this abject applause, for it
appears in the morning papers, and in the evening
it follows us home and haunts our dreams ; it tears
our self-respect to shreds, for it is a perpetual
reminder of our own impotence. The press with its
foreign soul, which has enmeshed public opinion
completely, now prostitutes the soul and language of
Hungary; it has betrayed and sold us; it applauds
our degradation, jeers and throws dirt at the nation
which has given its partisans a home.

The chief writer of Budapest's Jewish literature,
Alexander Brody, has written an article in an
evening paper about the German Emperor, of whom
he used to speak, not so long ago, when he was still
in power, as if he were a demi-god. Now he starts as
follows : " One of the world's greatest criminals,
Wilhelm Hohenzollern, has escaped from his
country, and in Holland has begged his way into
the castle of Count Bentinck. There he slept last
night with about ten others, a trifling part of his
accursed race, with his always smart red-faced
(because always drunk) son, the wife of the latter,
Cecilia, and with the Mother-Empress, that shapeless
female of the human species." And he ends up:
" Moaning, sick, uncomfortable, the escaped Kaiser
lies on his bed. And for the present the ' poor old
man ' only trembles for his life ; they may spit into
his face, they may put him on his bended knees —
nothing matters so long as his life is granted."

He who now writes like this is the master of those

124 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

radical journalists who form the major part of the
present government. That is the spirit which rules
over the forum to-day. That is the tone which is
assumed by those who claim to speak for the nation,
which for nearly a thousand years has enjoyed the
reputation of being the most chivalrous nation of
Europe.

This article, however, roused Hungarian society
even from its present torpor. Only the meanest kick
the unfortunate. The paper received several
thousand letters of protest, and many subscribers
returned their copies. But what is the good of that ?
The paper takes no notice of protests, and the shame
of the cowardly notice, like many other disgraceful
actions committed in our name, will recoil upon us,
and we shall have to bear its disgrace.

How long must we suffer this ? Good, gracious
God, how long will it last ?

There is no place we can look to for consolation.
From the frontiers, narrowing round us every day,
fugitive Hungarians are pouring in. On all the
roads of the land despoiled and homeless people are
in flight. Carts and coaches, pedestrians and herds
of cattle mix on the highway, and the trains roll
along, dragging cattle trucks filled with homeless
humanity. Villages, whole towns in flight . . .

Maddened, with weeping eyes, half Hungary is
escaping towards the capital which has betrayed it.
And the heart-breaking wave of humanity is no longer
an unknown crowd : familiar names are mentioned,
and one perceives familiar faces. They are coming
by day and by night, those who have no hearth, no
clothes, not a scrap of food ; and instead of their
clean homes they have to beg for quarters in low
inns, for fantastic prices, even if it is but for a single
night . . .

Rain poured down in the street. A cold wind
blew at the corners as I walked with a little parcel
under my arm towards a small hotel on the
boulevards. I got the news this morning : some
dear, good people have arrived there, robbed of
everything they possessed. The hotel was ill-
ventilated and dirty. The lift did not work, and I
climbed painfully up the dark stairs. Muddy foot-
steps had left their mark on the dirty, crumpled

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 125

carpet. And the whole place was pervaded with a
stench made up of kitchen smells and the pungent
odour of some insecticide.

In the dusk of the third floor's corridor I could
not distinguish the numbers of the rooms. I opened
a door at haphazard. The air of the room met me
like a filthy, corrupt breath. A Polish Jew in his
gabardine was standing near the window and,
swaying from the hip, was explaining something
with an air of importance to a clean-shaven co-
religionary, dressed in the English style. A few men
stood in the middle of the room, and foreign bank-
notes tied in bundles lay on the table. They seemed
to be Russian roubles. One man threw a newspaper
over the table and came towards me. "What do you
want?" he asked, rather embarrassed, though he
spoke threateningly.

" I made a mistake," I said, and banged the door.

Behind the next door I found the friends for whom
I was looking. The wintry darkness was lit up by
an electric light near the bed, on which a pale little
boy was lying. The other child was huddled up in
a chair, swinging his legs wearily. Their father stood
with his back to me, between the two wings of the
curtain, and was gazing through the window into
the November rain. The mother was sitting motion-
less near the little invalid ; her two hands lay open
in her lap, as if she had dropped everything. When
she recognised me she did not say a word, but just
nodded, and tears came to her eyes. Her husband
turned back from the window. His face was a
picture of rebelling despair. He clenched his fists,
and, while he spoke, walked restlessly up and down
the room.

" The Roumanians have taken everything we
possessed; nothing is left, though we have worked
hard all our lives. They robbed us in our very
presence. We had to look on and could do nothing to
prevent it. Then they drove us out of the house
with this sick child."

" What is the matter with it ?"

" Typhus, and yet they showed no mercy."

The sick boy tossed his head from one side to the
other and groaned in his sleep. His groans are not
the only ones that the shabby gray walls had heard

126 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

this year. Rooms that are never unoccupied, rooms
like great stuffy cupboards that are crammed with
humanity. Their complements arrive and are
crammed into them, awaiting with trembling heart
the hour when some new arrivals, able to pay more,
will crowd them out again. Up and out on to the
road again, to drag with them the horrible vision of
their lost land, their destroyed home, through the
great town which has squandered without mercy
that which was theirs and now has no pity for them.

But there is also another drawer in the cupboard :
that other room, the man in his gabardine, the clean
shaven one, the foreign money on the table . . . No,
these don't suffer. These have come to take posses-
sion of what is left of Hungary.

Through the influence of Trotski, Jews from
Hungary who were prisoners of war, became in
Russia the dreaded tyrants of lesser towns, the heads
of directorates. The Soviet now sends these people
back as its agents. Will the government prevent
them from coming ? Will it arrest them ? Probably
not. Many believe that during his stay in Switzer-
land Karolyi came to an agreement with the
Bolsheviki and now abets the world-revolutionary
aims of the Russian terror. Sinister tales circulate
under the walls of the houses of Pest. What madness !
An agricultural country like Hungary is no soil for
that seed. And yet ... A few days ago an
alarming rumour spread. In vain did the govern-
ment attempt to suppress it. The news leaked out
that as soon as it had come to power the government
received a wireless message from the Russian
Workers' and Soldiers' Council, who sent their
fraternal greetings and promised that the Russian
Soviet would send help and food if only the Hun-
garian proletariat would join it in its war against
the Capitalism of the Allies. For, said the wireless :
" The freeing of the toiling masses is possible only
through a proletarian world-revolution. Unite,
Hungarian proletarians ! Long live the world-
revolution ! Long live the dictatorship of the pro-
letariat ! Long live the world's Soviet-republic ! "

This message, kindled by the fire of class hatred,
spread its sparks over the Russian swamps, over the
Carpathians, and fell glowing into Karolyi 's nefarious

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 127

camp. Nobody trod on it to extinguish it, it was
kept alive, in secret, among them. No wonder they
are uneasy.

November Hth.

The days are getting shorter and shorter, and
darkness comes earlier every day.

The lamp was lit on my table. Count Emil
Dessewffy was telling me about his journey to Eck-
hardsau. Now and then he fixed his strong single-
eyeglass into his orbit, then again he toyed with it
between his long, thin fingers, as if it were a shining
coin. He was obviously nervous; and he kept cross-
ing and uncrossing his legs.

" Prince Nicolas Eszterhazy, Baron Wlassics,
Count Emil Szechenyi and I went there. The
Cardinal Primate declined at the last moment."

" How could you bring yourselves to such a step ?"

"Our intention was to check Karolyi's machina-
tions, to obtain the resignation of the King, and to
persuade his Majesty to stand aside temporarily. At
first the King wouldn't listen to reason. He said he
had taken the oath to the Hungarian people ; if
others wanted to break their oath towards him, let
them arrange that with their conscience ; he was not
going to perjure himself. We explained to him that
as he had already transferred, alas, his supreme
command to Karolyi, he would safeguard the interests
of poor Hungary and of the dynasty better by stand-
ing aside during the period of transition, than by
hanging on obstinately to his formal right. By this
he might frustrate the attempt of those who are
fishing in troubled waters to force the nation to face
the fait accompli of a deposition by violence. The
King stamped his foot and declared several times
that whatever might happen he would not stand
aside. We explained the advantages of the step from
various points of view, and at last made him under-
stand that after the mistakes that had already been
made, no other solution was possible. Wlassics
edited the document, but we couldn't make a final
draft because no foolscap paper could be found in
the whole castle. We sent out for some paper.
Then there was no ink, and we had to search for a

128 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

pen. Time passed, and meanwhile the King went
out shooting ..."

" Went out shooting !" The whole tragedy seemed
to be becoming a burlesque.

" Yes, we were rather shocked," said Dessewffy.
" But later on we found that there was not a scrap
of food in the castle, and the King had to obtain
game so that the Queen and the children might not
starve. It is all very sad. Their clothes too were
left behind in Vienna. When they left Schonbrunn
they just threw a few things hurriedly into the car.
The children have no change of clothes. They even
had to sleep for several nights without bedclothes.
It's no good sending messages to Vienna : the
Government Council, which has taken them under
its protection, does not even answer."

I thought of the Austrian and Czech nobles, so
favoured by the Hapsburgs, of those, who, insisting
on their rights based on the Spanish etiquette of
older times, were mortally offended if at some festi-
vity at the Vienna Burg they could not stand in the
immediate vicinity of the Emperor, or were put by
mistake into a position somewhat inferior to their
rank. Where were they? Where was the ruler's
General Staff ? The generals covered with orders ?
Where was the bodyguard with its commander,
which " dies but never surrenders?" In the last
days of Schonbrunn they all had withdrawn like the
tide from the forsaken shore. " Nous Hions tout
seuls," the Queen had said.

" And then ?" I asked Count Dessewffy.

"After a time some paper was brought, two sheets
in all, and Szechenyi sat down to make a clean copy
of the document : he had the best handwriting of us
all."

Dessewffy showed me the original document. It
read :

" Since the day of my succession to the throne I
have always tried to free my people from the horrors
of this war — a war in the causation of which I had no
share whatever. I do not wish that my person
should be an obstacle to the prosperity of the
Hungarian people. Consequently I resign all partici-
pation in the direction of affairs of State and submit
in advance to the decision by which Hungary will

photo. Kosel, Vienna.

QUEEN ZITA.

(To face p. i.'S.J

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 129

fix its future form of government. Dated at
Eckhardsau, November 13th 1918.

Charles."

" The King still hesitated when the document lay
ready for signature on the table. And as he
wavered with the pen in his hand he looked the very
picture of despair. During the last few days the hair
on the sides of his head has turned gray. Suddenly
tears came into his eyes, and he fell sobbing on
Count Hunyadi's shoulder. Well, none of our eyes
were quite dry ..."

While Dessewffy talked on, I thought of a tale I
had heard long, long ago.

It was evening in a village far away. The
autumnal wind was rising, and the poplars round the
house were soughing like organ pipes in a dark
church. In the kitchen the maids were shelling peas.
The light of the fire played over their hands, and the
dry shells fell with a gentle rattle on the brick floor.
Katrin, the housekeeper, was telling a story . . .
" And the wicked knights went into the King's tent,
armed with halberds and maces, and said in a terrible
voice : ' Give up your crown or you shall die the
death.' The beautiful Queen folded her hands im-
ploringly, and the King took his crown off his
head ..." That was the story. The maids cried
over the poor king, and in their hearts approved of
him.

In stories it is the unfortunate who are always
right, in reality it is those on whom fortune smiles.

November 15th.

" Long live Michael Karolyi ! Elect him President
of the Republic! ..." Again a paper disease has
infected the houses' skin.

In the first year of the war Michael Karolyi had
betted that he would be the president of the
Hungarian Republic . . . Will he win his bet to-
morrow ? But whoever may win, Hungary will be
the loser.

Posters . . . new posters appear above the old
ones. A new shame covers the old, and that is all
that changes in our lives. Big flags float in the wind
on the boulevards. Flags are hoisted on the electric

180 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

lamp-posts, and above the house entrances the old
ones flap about. The government has ordered the
beflagging of every house in the country, and its
newspapers are preparing the mood of the morrow.
They announce in big type :

THE BED FLAG HAS BEEN HOISTED IN THE FRENCH

TRENCHES.

REVOLUTION HAS BROKEN OUT IN BELGIUM.

SWITZERLAND IS ON THE EVE OF A REVOLUTION.

I heard a little school-girl say to her friend :
" Karolyi is a great man. He makes the fashion,
now even the French are imitating us . . ."

" Long live . . ." shouted the walls and the shop
windows, but the people were silent. Why? Why
don't they tear down the disgraceful posters? Why
are they resigned, why do I alone protest? Or are
there more of us, only we don't know of each other ?
I looked carefully at the passing faces. Their eyes
passed indifferently over the posters. Nothing
mattered to them. I walked quickly, as if haunted,
a stranger among the soulless crowd.

I reached Karolyi 's palace. The one-storeyed
house, built in the Empire style, looked low under
its old roof among the high, newly erected buildings.
The row of windows was dark : Kdrolyi had already
moved into the Prime Minister's house. The first
floor was inhabited only by the tenant of half the
building, Count Armin Mikes, and I had come to see
his wife. Since the events of October I had not
been there.

The little side gate opened as I rang, noiselessly,
as if automatically, and the conciirge looked out of his
loge and disappeared. Nothing stirred. Under the
deep arch of the entrance my steps alone resounded ;
they echoed strangely, as if invisible hands were
dropping things behind me.

I stopped for an instant. The soul of the place
seemed to be whispering in the dark. On the right
side a corridor was visible through a glass-panelled
door, its walls covered with revolutionary pictures,
and at its end a side staircase led into Karolvi's
apartments. I shuddered, as one does when
one enters a house where a murder has been
committed. The traitors — perjured officers, Gal-

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 181

lileist students, deserters — congregated up there, in
the dark rooms, in the nights of October. Those
who sold us and, among themselves, sentenced Tisza
to death whispered and advised up there.

I went on. From the semi-obscurity of the huge
staircase, marble seemed to tumble down like a
frozen waterfall. Beyond, in the garden, the trees
whispered in the cold wind.

Countess Mikes' small drawing-room was light and
warm. I found a gathering of Transylvanians there,
and beyond the room the notorious house, the whole
town, seemed to have disappeared. My own suffer-
ings were forgotten in the recital of theirs, and I was
no longer alone in my grief, for all who were present
shared it with me. They helped to raise up hope,
because they knew what patriotism was, it is an
old legacy of theirs. The strength and the will
power which supported Hungary throughout her
most disastrous periods, when the Turks from the
south and the Germans from the west trod on
Hungary's soil, had their source in Transylvania.
When the fire of resistance was extinguished every-
where else, it went on burning among its inhabitants.
And so after every dark night our race has gone to
Transylvania to kindle anew the flame which has
lighted it back into the dying country.

Great, suffering Transylvania, what is thy reward
for this ?

There they sat, Transylvanian men and women,
the descendants of ancient princes, sufferers with
shaded eyes. And as I looked at them there ap-
peared behind their handsome faces the dreamlike
outlines of a bluish-green landscape. As if seen in
the crystal of an antique emerald ring, distant,
dreamy trees appeared : two pointed poplars reached
towards the sky : down below, among the meadows,
a willow-bordered brook flowed softly : wagons
rumbled on the winding road : a horseman came
slowly, with a sack across the saddle in front of him.
Beyond, the meadow rose to a velvety hillock, where
an ancient spire, a little village, a tiny Szekler village,
nestled . . .

A wanderer told me the tale this summer, when I
was in Transylvania. It happened during the war,
in 1916. It was when the alarm was raised for the

182 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

first time, and one day the cry passed through un-
defended Transylvania, " The Roumanians are
coming!" In mad haste it spread through the
counties, rushed along the electric wires, rang in the
bells: "Save yourselves!" One village carried the
next with it, Transylvania was fleeing.

In the village of Gelencze, on the bank of the
rippling brook, at the foot of the hillock, there was
silence. It was just like any other day; the people
were working in the fields. Meanwhile the Rou-
manians crept cautiously through the undefended
Transylvanian passes. One morning early, soon after
the break of day, like some awful sudden death, they
fell upon the people of Gelencze, there in their fields
in the midst of their peaceful work. The people were
helpless. Only one old Szekler raised his spade, and
fell with a shout among the rifles. They knocked
him down, but he did not die ; so they nailed him to
a plank and dragged him into the forest that he
might die there, alone. He was heard till nightfall,
struggling and cursing the Roumanians.

That is how Gelencze was informed of the invasion
of Transylvania. The alarm, the cry of warning,
had passed it by, had missed it on the way. The
telegraph wires carried the news, but they passed
over its head, and not a word, not a sound came to
bring warning. The Government, the County, the
District, forgot — Hungary forgot the little village.

A wanderer told me all this, there, just outside the
village of Gelencze, when it was still ours. And as
I listened to the sad story it became bigger and
deeper, so deep that the whole of Transylvania had
room in it . . . The hillock became the mass of
Transylvania's mountains, the brook became all
Transylvania's rivers, and the fate of the village was
Transylvania's fate.

" Do you remember how I promised you that
summer, down there, that I would write a book of
Transylvania, that I would trumpet the rights of
your land, your race ? I was to proclaim the wrongs
you have suffered and call to account those who
directed Hungary's fate and for ever forgot the
Hungarian folk in Transylvania. How they de-
livered you to the tender mercies of your foes, and
armed neither your soul nor your arm for resistance

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 188

... A forgotten village ! Do you remember ? I
said that that should be the title of my book. You
were nothing but a forgotten village to those who
wielded power in Hungary. The sufferings of Tran-
sylvania never caused them a moment's inconvenience
. . . And the present government surpasses them
all. As if it had decided on your destruction it now
sends out an old accomplice of the Roumanian
Irredenta to speak in the defence of the victim whom
he himself has condemned to death. Oscar Jaszi
deals to-day in Arad with Transylvania's fate."

Hate and disgust were depicted on the faces of the
Transylvanian women. That man of Galician origin,
the internationalist who wanted to make an eastern
Switzerland of our country, and who hated every-
thing that was Hungarian to such an extent that his
hatred made him forget the traditional caution of his
race and exclaim in a fury when speaking of us,
" If they don't obey, let them be exterminated " —
he is sent there to negotiate in the name of the
Hungarian race ! The very spirit in which he con-
ducted the negotiations showed his eagerness to
revenge himself on the nation which had given him
hospitality : he renounced what was not his, gave up
rights which were ours, and sold Transylvania to
Manin's Roumanian National Council, which he and
Karolyi had themselves created during the October
days. In Arad the Roumanians speak already of
national sovereignty ! They claim a Roumanian
supremacy and twenty-six Hungarian counties !
They demand that the Hungarian Popular Govern-
ment shall disarm the police, disband the Hungarian
National Guards, punish all energetic officers,
but . . . that it shall provide arms for the Rou-
manian National Guards and pay for its men and
officers out of the Hungarian taxpayer's pocket.
Jdszi and the revolutionary Government delegates
have promised all this. Meanwhile the Roumanians
are dragging out the negotiations, and their voices
become more and more sharp and exacting, for do
they not know that every hour takes the royal
Roumanian troops deeper into the heart of undefended
Transylvania ?

And while at the county hall of Arad the traitors
are at work, the main column of Mackensen's always

184 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

victorious army is rolling over the bridge across the
Maros. Endless rows of motor columns pass. Behind
them comes an unceasing flow of army service corps
wagons, covered ammunition wagons, lorries, carts
and waggonets. Hours and days pass, and they are
still going on, orderly, gray, grave. They do not rob,
they do not pillage, they just go on, from the foot
of the Balkan Mountains, from the frontiers of
Transylvania, through Hungary. On foot, on horse-
back, on wagons, in close columns, on they go,
silently, homewards.

With them goes hope, and Karolyi watches with
an anxious eye : if he turned back, if he lifted his
fist . . . And Roumanian heads in sheepskin caps
appear above the crests of the mountains, look after
the Germans, and their feet stamp on Transylvania's
heart.

My bitterness overflowed and I burst out, " We
shall take it back !"

The Transylvanian women pressed my hand.

"We shall take it back," said one of them; "I
do not know how, but I feel it will be so."

As I came out of the house I saw my brother Bela
come towards me. He said hurriedly, " I met Emma
Ritook, who also is in despair. She asked me to tell
you that she must speak to you." That again
reminded me that probably there were many of us,
only we did not know of each other . . . My mother,
my brothers and sisters, Countess Zichy, the Tran-
sylvanian women, Emma Ritook, they are faces I
can see, voices I can hear, but beyond them there
must be many women scattered in the great silent
multitude, left to themselves, who weep over the past
and fear the future . . .

When the electric tram stopped I stepped forward
to get off. Somebody knocked me in the back. My
feet missed the steps and I fell, face first, into the
road. I looked back. It was a fat young man, in
brand-new field uniform. His characteristic nose
fell like a soft bag over his lips. He jumped over me
without saying a word, nor did he attempt to help
me. He was in a hurry ... I just caught sight of
his two fleshy ears under his cap as he rushed on.

That is typical of the streets of Budapest to-day;
in fact that is the only reason why I mention it. Un-
fortunately I sprained my ankle.

CHAPTER IX

November 16th.

I am ill after my fall yesterday. An icy wind blows
at my window. Loud voices rise from the street.

Presently my mother looked out and said, " The
saddlers and leather-workers are assembling; they've
got red tickets in their hats."

Hours passed by. Suddenly I heard a loud
buzzing overhead and an aeroplane flew through the
grey air over the streets. Parliament at this moment
is proclaiming the Republic — Karolyi's National
Council is announcing that all Hungary shall be
governed by the Republic of Pest. Some handbills
were brought up to me from the street ... " Vic-
torious Revolution . . . Kingship is dead, long live
the independent Hungarian Republic!"

I buried my head in my pillow, unable to say a
word. There seemed to be a little mill in my chest
and another in my head, and both went round and
round madly, grinding me to powder. Then I became
aware that there was a newspaper on my table — the
smell of fresh bad printer's ink betrayed its
presence. It contained an account of what had hap-
pened ; everything passed off in an orderly way and
nobody had prevented it. Another opportunity
missed, another day of hope gone ! The House of
Commons, the Lords, met, resigned themselves with-
out protest, and the newspaper announces : " This is
a red-letter day in Hungary's history ..."

Those who had been present told me afterwards
that early in the day the trade unions proceeded from
their meeting place to the House of Parliament.

186 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

They carried red flags, big placards, and a black
coffin marked "Kingship is dead." The brass bands
of the workmen and of the postal workers blared,
bands of gypsies and choral societies gave voice.
Red insignia everywhere. The nation's colours had
disappeared even from the caps of the national
guards and they too sported red labels with " Long
live the Hungarian Republic." The only two Hungar-
ian flags, and small ones at that, were placed on the
front of the House of Parliament. Over the porch of
the central entrance a huge red flag floated in the
breeze as if Internationalism from its newly
conquered home were putting its tongue out in
derision at the crowd, which it had beguiled so far
by means of cockades of the national colours and
with white chrysanthemums. Opposite, on the
buildings of the High Court and the Ministry of
Agriculture, red drapery was displayed all along the
first storey. It looked just as if a gaping wound,
inflicted with a giant axe, had cut them in twain.

The shops were closed. Trams were not running.
Traffic had stopped like a breath withheld, ready to
cough itself again into the streets of the town. A
cordon of sailors lined up in front of the House :
rather a painful surprise for the government, this.
Heltai had come back from Pressburg with his men
in a special train : surely the Republic was not
going to be proclaimed without him ! So the defence
of Upper Hungary is now suspended for the time
being while Heltai adorns himself with the national
colours : he entered Pressburg under the red flag.
There are rumours that his sailors are connected with
certain robberies. In Pest it is murmured that he
knows something about Tisza's murder.

Five aeroplanes circled over the square, the
crowd kept increasing, and then a giant advertise-
ment on a long stretched canvas was brought out on
poles from a side street. The wind blew it up like a
sail and made fun of its inscription : " This morning
in Parliament Square we shall proclaim Count
Michael Karolyi President of the Republic!"

It was ten o'clock. The Speaker's bell rang. And
the Hungarian House of Commons, to its eternal
disgrace, without a word of protest, dissolved itself
in impotence. In the other wing of the building the

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 137

Lords had met at the same time. Only thirty-two
were present. They too had forgotten the old classical
cry : " Moriamur pro rege nostra I " Only Baron
Julius Wlassics, the president, spoke. He did not
pronounce the dissolution of the Lords. He said as
little as possible, and ended his address with the
words : " Our constitution decrees that the dissolu-
tion of the House of Commons as part of our two-
chamber legislature will naturally render the further
constitutional functions of the House of Lords im-
possible, consequently I hereby suspend the sitting
of the House of Lords."

This was the last act of an institution which was
born over a thousand years ago at Pusztaszer, had
become the dignified Diet of Buda, the heroic National
Assembly of Pressburg, Francis Deak's parliament.
And under the cupola rose the voice of that which
was begotten by yesterday's treason, murder and
destruction, and will undoubtedly engender anarchy.

" Honoured National Assembly ..." John Hock,
the notorious priest, the President of the so-called
National Assembly, raised his voice. Nobody can
tell for whom he spoke. National Assemblies are
elected bodies, and those who were there had been
elected by nobody.

In the newspapers the speech was given in long
columns of thick type. My eyes passed over them, I
saw only the speaker in his black cassock, hiding
behind the black columns, his diabolical face drawn
between his shoulders. A guilty priest, a guilty
Hungarian, who has betrayed both his God and his
country. Once in his youth he was the adulated
preacher of the crowd. Then his downfall began.
The gifted but morally weak man with a corrupt soul
got into debt and became the political tool of his
creditors . . . That brought him into Karolyi's
camp.

His accomplices, who like to compare their little re-
bellion made in the Hotel Astoria romantically to the
great French Revolution, call Karolyi their Mirabeau
and have dubbed John Hock the Abbe Sieyes. Do
they call their ladies, Countess Karolyi, Baroness
Hatvany, Mrs. Jaszi, Laura Polanyi, Rosa
Schwimmer, conforming to this precedent, sans-
culottes and tricoteuses? . . . There they are, all

188 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

of them, in the big hall under the cupola, pantingly
enjoying the hour of their triumph. And John Hock
goes on with his speech. I see him before me,
as I have seen him so often in the street and occas-
ionally in the little office of the manager of the Urania
scientific theatre, whither he took the manuscript of
his play Christ and whither he went to talk politics,
speaking in mysterious, dark prophecies. His head
always reminded me of the characteristic old illus-
trations of Mephistopheles in Faust. The little black
velvet cap with the peacock's feather would suit him
to perfection. On his unkempt, domed skull the hair
is short and looks more like bristles than hair. In
his crafty, wicked eyes there is something of the
look of those animals that live underground. His
ill-shaved face is blue and is always unwashed. His
cassock is covered from neck to foot with grease-
spots ; now and then he fumbles with his indescribably
dirty hands in the depths of his pockets. He has to
stoop down to reach their bottom. Then he pro-
duces a dented snuff-box, and cocking his little
finger with grotesque grace, stretches his thumb and
index finger into the box. His filthy fingers lift the
snuff to his nostrils, brown with continuous snuffing.
Then he leans his head back and shuts his eyes, in
expectant ecstasy.

So he stood on the platform in the hall, filled with
applause, after having proclaimed the republic and
having proposed that : " the holidays of royal para-
phernalia should be abolished and that the glorious
days of the revolution and the republic, the 31st of
October and the 16th of November, should for all
times be declared National holidays." Then he read
out a declaration, imposed on Karolyi by Jaszi,
Kunfi, Keri and Landler, " in the name of the
Hungarian nation and by the will of the people ..."
by which it was decided that Hungary was a Popular
Republic, independent and separate from any other
country, the supreme power being provisionally in
the hands of the popular government, headed by
Michael Karolyi and supported by the National
Council. It declared that the popular government
must urgently legislate and adopt general, secret,
equal, direct suffrage, including women in the
electorate, for elections for the National Assembly,

FATHER JOHN HOCK,

PRESIDENT OF THE NATIONAL COUNCIL,

OPENING THE REVOLUTIONARY NATIONAL ASSEMBLY

AFTER THE DISSOLUTION OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS

AND THE LORDS.

tto face p. 138.J

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 189

Communal and Legal councils ; decree the freedom of
the press, trial by jury, freedom of assembly,
and take the necessary steps for the agricultural
population to obtain possession of the land.

The public in the hall shouted its unanimous assent
after every point.

Then Karolyi rose to speak, to speak with that
frightful voice which is the natural consequence of his
infirmity. He proclaimed the deposition of the
Hapsburgs, declaimed Wilson's sacred principles,
the League of Nations, the right of peoples to decide
their own fate, of eternal peace, and wound up in a
pathetic stutter : " only through sufferings, only
through the sea of blood caused by the war, could
the peoples of Europe and the people of Hungary
understand that there was only one possible policy :
the policy of pacificism . . . The policy of pacificism
was no more a restricted local policy, but the policy
of the world . . . The Hungarian nation, the Hun-
garian state and the Hungarian race must cling to this
world-policy, because only such nations will prosper,
only such nations will progress, as can adapt them-
selves to, and adopt, the world-policy which is ex-
pressed in the single word Pacificism."

The hour was tragical and I had suffered much,
but I could not help laughing. Never did pitiable
blabber say anything more stupid than this, nor
anything more wicked, for while he is proclaiming
pacificism, militarism armed to the teeth is invading
Hungary from all sides. Is it mere stupidity or the
last service to a horrible treason? Whatever it be,
after this it is useless to analyse Karolyi's mentality.

The Mirabeau of the Astoria was followed by the
spokesman of the Social Democratic Party : Sigmund
Kunfi-Kunstatter, the Minister for Public Welfare.
He is said to be one of Lenin's emissaries. His face
is like a vulture's, his eyes are cunning and inquisi-
tive. After John Hock's rhetoric and Karolyi's dis-
graceful stutter, this cashiered Jewish schoolmaster,
who has changed his religion three times for
mercenary reasons but has remained faithful to his
race, spoke with fiendish ingenuity. He mixed truths
with Utopias, promised and threatened, and in the
certitude of his victory tore asunder the veil that hid
the future.

140 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

"By proclaiming this day a free, popular republic,"
said Kunfi, " we have not only achieved great poli-
tical progress, but we have started on a road of
which the past revolution and this day are not the
end but only important milestones . . . Political
freedom, the republic, the most radical political
democracy, all these are only means which shall
enable the great struggle, the fight between poverty
and wealth, to start easier and under better
auspices ..."

This is the battle cry of class-war, and till the war
comes Kunfi offers as a narcotic social reforms : the
levelling of poverty and wealth, land for the soldiers
back from the front. And he promises that he will
force the entailed estates, big capital and great
industry, to give up everything that "justice" and
the will of the people claim, and that in such a way
that it will not interfere with the continuity of
economic life.

This programme, which is not an end but only a
landmark, expresses as yet Kautsky's ideas. But
then, suddenly, it is no longer Kautsky; it is Lenin
and Liebknecht who speak through this represen-
tative of their creed.

" Political democracy is only a tool for us," said
Kunfi; "this political freedom is valuable to us only
because we believe and hope that by its means we
shall be able to carry through the great social trans-
formation just as bloodlessly, and with as few
victims, as we have managed to achieve the
Hungarian Revolution."

" Long live the social revolution," shouted the
gallery.

In his next words Kunfi answered the shout and in
the exhilaration of this triumph gave himself away :

" Our revolutionary work is not over yet ! After
reforming our institutions we shall have to alter
mankind ! "

So he confessed that it was not the people who
wanted his institutions, but that his institutions
wanted the people. And as he went on he admitted
that the men of the future were not to be
Hungarians. " Every place in this country must be
filled by individuals who are inspired by the spirit
of the new revolution, of this new Hungary, of this

SIGISMUND KUNFI alias KUNSTATTER,

LENIN'S EMISSARY. PEOPLES COMMISSARY FOR EDUCATION.

(To face f. 140.)

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 141

new world." . . . His words died away in a last
sentence which, if it is understood by the nation,
ought to rouse it to desperate resistance, for it is the
proclamation of world-Bolshevism : fi Every slave-
nation stands this day with reddening cheeks on the
stage of the world, and one after the other the
peoples will rise with red flags and will sing in a
powerful symphony the hymn of the world's free-
dom . . ."

It is to our everlasting shame that no single
Hungarian rose to choke these words. In the Hall
of Hungary's parliament Lenin's agent could unfurl
at his ease the flag of Bolshevism, could blow the
clarion of social revolution and announce the advent
of a world-revolution, while outside, in Parliament
Square, Lovaszy and Bokanyi, accompanied by
J&szi, informed the people that the National Council
had proclaimed the republic. On the staircase,
Michael Karolyi made another oration. Down in the
square, Landler, Welter, Preusz and other Jews
glorified the republic — there was not a single Hun-
garian among them. That was the secret of the
whole revolution. Above : the mask, Michael
Karolyi ; below : the foreign race which has pro-
claimed its mastery.

And bands of Hungarian workmen and gypsies
played the National Anthem and the Marseillaise,
and Gallileists sang the Internationale. Humiliated,
with bitter anger, I read in the newspapers of
hundreds of thousands of people, furious cheers, and
the frenzied happiness of the multitude. Thus is the
news spread over the country, while those who were
present say that the people were shivering in the
icy north wind that blew across the square, that they
took everything with indifference, and only cheered
when ordered to do so by their leaders.

Only when the National Anthem was played and
a few Gallileists refused to uncover did the crowd
knock their hats off. That was all that was done for
the sake of Hungary's honour. Nobody proclaimed
Michael Karolyi the president of the republic. The
Socialists would not have it. Is he of no more use ?
Do they not need him any more ? As a compensation,
Kunfi ordered the National Guards to carry him
shoulder high. So Karolyi was carried between the

142 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

ranks of the commandeered trade unions across the
square. The white canvasses with the inscription :
" Let us proclaim K&rolyi President of the Republic,"
were rolled up in silence.

The workmen went home and said among them-
selves that now everything would be all right. There
will be good times, and things will be cheap. The
rabble, however, blackguarded the king and cursed
the " gentle-folk." At the head of one of their groups
a shabby drunken woman walked with unsteady
steps. Shaking her unkempt head she put her arms
round the neck of a young fellow and dragged him
along. After a time she let her companion go,
chose another, and hugged and dragged him along
while she danced some immodest steps.

Some peasant proprietors who had come there
accidentally, walked in silence towards the city, their
stout boots striking the cobbles firmly. In all this
throng they alone represented the people of great
Hungary.

A friend of mine followed them, to see what they
would do. At last one of them, an old peasant, who
seemed to have thought it over, stopped and turned
to the others, measuring his words :

" This republic is a fine thing ; but now I should
like to know who is going to be King?"

• •••••••

November 17 th.

How long and terrible the night can be ! Clocks
strike, one after the other; one gently, another
hesitatingly, and the fine old alabaster clock is
hoarse, and its chest rattles between every stroke.
Down in the street a carriage races past at a gallop,
then a single shot rings out in the silence. The shot
must have been fired in the street behind our house
. . . Then everything relapses into silence for hours.
The floor creaks, as if somebody is walking bare-
footed towards my bed, though nothing moves. How
often did the clock strike ? I waited impatiently for
the sound, and yet forgot to count the strokes. I lit
the candle. Not even half the night is over, and it
has lasted such an age. Then that hopeless, helpless
despair came over me again. I don't want to think.
It does no good. Yet in spite of myself something

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 143

forces itself into my mind, leans over me, like a
ghost. It is yesterday. It comes stealthily over the
threshold, towards me. I shut my eyes in vain : I
can see it though it is dark. I see the day with all
its shame and cowardice. I can see those who have
wrought our ruin triumph and applaud in the ex-
hilaration of their success : "Long live the Republic !"
My sprained ankle smarts suddenly. The man who
knocked me off the tram is conjured up : his head
sails towards me through the air, as though borne by
huge protruding ears. His nose projects enormously,
and his mouth opens wide and snouts "Long live the
Republic !" The big hall under the cupola of the
House of Parliament was full of mouths like this,
with soft, flabby lips, and the curly thick lips of
women. It was these who proclaimed the republic
for Hungary. And we submitted, suffered it, and
held our peace.

I try to calm myself, to restrain myself. The
clocks strike again. Then silence once more,
spreading like a thread which a spider draws out.
The silence becomes longer, longer ... I can stand
it no more — if only something would make a noise !
I sit up, shivering, and strike the pillow with my
fist. That does not mend matters. A subdued
moan resounds through the room, a pitiable, miser-
able little sound which comes from my heart . . .

Do others suffer as much as I do ? I have spoken
to nobody, have seen nobody. I don't know what
they think. I have no one with whom to share my
pain. Maybe that is the reason why it weighs so
heavily upon me. I try to console myself. Things
cannot go on like this. Like everything else it will
pass. The revolution was made because the Jews
were afraid of pogroms by the returning soldiers.
The republic was made because the revolution was
afraid of the counter-revolution. It is an accumula-
tion of narcotics. But no narcotic lasts for ever.
The only question is, what part of the victim is to
be amputated while it lasts ?

At last a square of light appeared at one side of
the room. At first it was gray, then it became blue,
and finally it turned into daylight. So there was a
new day again; it has come with empty hands and
who knows what it will take with it ?

144 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

In the afternoon Emma Ritook opened my door.
"What happened to you?" she asked as she came to
my bedside.

" A hero of the revolution knocked me off the
tram."

" How do you know that he was a hero of the
revolution ?"

" By his ears . . . And then, he wore a brand-
new uniform."

My friend was infinitely sad this day. Since we
had last met, her credulous Hungarian nature had
gone through an awful time. Despair and rebellion
sounded in all her words. Years ago, when she
attended for a term the lectures at Berlin University,
she became acquainted with two Jews from
Hungary. They met in the philosophy class. They
were friends of her youth, and now these very people
have made the rebellion of the Astoria Hotel against
her country. She complained :

" They said that we were even incapable of
arranging that by ourselves, that it needed Jews to
obtain Hungary's independence for the Hungarians.
I answered that we did not do it because it was un-
necessary, that history would have brought us inde-
pendence of her own accord. But they declared that
humanity was sick and would not recover till a world
revolution eliminated from this globe the last
machine, the last book, the last sculpture, and the
last violin too. This revolution must sweep away
everything, so that nothing remains but man and
the soil, because humanity is in need of a new soul,
to begin everything from the very beginning."

" Tell them in my name that they are speaking
for a race which has grown old, which suffers from
senile decay and would like to be re-born. We are
young, we have not yet exhausted our vitality,
and innumerable possibilities are in store for us.
Only a degenerate race can seek rejuvenation through
destruction. Besides, if they want to re-create by
these means a world torn from its past, it will not be
enough to destroy the last book, the last statue and
the last violin ; they must destroy as well the last man
who remembers."

"I shan't be able to tell them," she answered,
" because I shan't see them again. Now it is not a

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 145

question of philosophy, it is a question of my
country. And that parts us for ever."

" Is that the reason why you sent me a message
that you had a spiritual need to meet me?"

" We must do something. The men do nothing.
We ought to organise the women. Unconsciously
they are waiting for it. In the Club of Hungarian
Ladies there are many who are of our way of
thinking."

"There too? ..."

The Club of Hungarian Ladies was founded a few
years ago by a few aristocratic ladies inspired by
Countess Michael Karolyi. For that reason I never
joined it. Under the publicly proclaimed object of
intellectual intercourse I suspected the ultimate
political purpose. I had been right. In case of the
admittance of women to the franchise, this club was
required to furnish Michael Karolyi with a ready
camp among intellectual women. The events of the
last two weeks wrecked this plan, because the truth
about Karolyi has begun to leak out. At one of
their meetings the nationalist ladies, in opposition
to the socialist, feminist and radical Jewish adher-
ents of Countess Karolyi, had declared by a great
majority for the territorial integrity of Hungary and
had carried Emma Ritook's resolution to address a
protest to the women of the civilised world.
Countess Karolyi, who was present, could not stand
aside, so she promised that the government would
bear the expenses of printing it and would see that
the greatest possible publicity should be given to it
abroad — on the sole condition that her husband
should be allowed to have cognisance of the docu-
ment. The members accepted the proposal, which
seemed to forbode no danger to* the protest, as it was
to fight for the nation's right and it would have been
folly to imagine that the government was opposed
to that. They cheered Countess Karolyi and decided
unanimously that although I did not belong to the
club I should be asked to write the preface to the
memorandum.

I accepted the commission. The interest of my
country was at stake and I would have accepted the
invitation whatever the source whence it came.
Emma Ritook brought the document back with

146 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

her . . . Karolyi had looked through it and had
struck out everything that might have been of any
use to our cause. So that was the reason for
Countess Karolyi 's offer ... A sieve that shall
stop even the smallest national movement. We are
cornered, and when we would cry for help the
government puts its hand over our mouths. Official-
dom holds down our hands when we would help our-
selves.

" Put this carefully away," I said to my friend,
looking at the mangled document. " One day this
may be another proof of his treason."

Various handwritings alternated on the margin,
besides the considerable cuts that had been made in
the text.

" Jaszi has read it, and Biro . . . This is
Karolyi's handwriting; he even signed his name to
it."

This was the first time I had seen his handwriting.
Loosely formed characters, words run together,
others only half finished, the lines slanting towards
the corner of the page, capital letters in the middle
of sentences and innumerable mistakes in spelling.
It looked just like him . . .

"What shall we do now ?" asked my friend. "We
have worked in vain. The government will publish
none but the revised document and it will stop any
other from being sent abroad."

" I shall find some way," I answered ; " but I will
never permit my patriotism to be censored by
Michael Karolyi."

"Refuse it," said my mother; "it is better it
should not appear at all than appear in this form."

In the evening I wrote a letter to Count Emil
Dessewffy, to whom I had mentioned the memoran-
dum, asking him to use his social connections, or
the services of the ever-increasing Territorial
Defence League, to get it abroad in its original form.
I wrote in pencil, at some length, and poured all my
bitterness into the letter. I criticised men and
events without mercy. I called Karolyi and his
friends traitors and the leaders of the Social Demo-
crats the advance guard of Bolshevist world-rule.

I felt relieved when I had sent the letter. Then, I
don't know why, I began to feel rather nervous

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 147

about it. That letter might land me in prison.
Nonsense. How could it get into wrong hands ?

November 18th.

To-night the ground shook in this branded town.
Mackensen's motor columns were passing through
Budapest. They went, without stopping, dark, thun-
dering, betrayed, disappointed, out into the wintry
night . . . My sister-in-law told me she had seen
them. Big waterproofs covered the clattering
motors and only their lamps betrayed that there was
life in them. Not a man was visible. Like the
phantoms of war they came from distant battlefields.

They went on for hours and only once was their
progress stopped. One lorry pulled up for an instant,
a man climbed out from under the waterproof, took
a little box, waved his hand, and disappeared in the
dark. He must have been a Hungarian soldier whom
they had brought with them, goodness only knows
whence. And the waving of the solitary hand was
the only greeting and good-bye that our German
comrades in arms received from Hungary's capital.
The gray ghostly mass restarted and the others
followed . . .

We followed them in our minds, as the eyes of a ship-
wrecked crew on a sinking raft follow the ship which
disappears over the horizon without bringing help.

It has happened . . . they are gone, and in their
track follow those whom now nobody can stop . . .
And yet, the 1st Home-defence regiment has
arrived with its full equipment, and the regiments
of Debreczen and Pecs are coming too. Another has
come from Albania and more come from Ukraine,
from France and from Italy. Through Innsbruck
alone more than half a million Hungarian troops
have rushed homeward. They are disarmed, dis-
banded— are no more. Meanwhile through the pass
of Ojtoz a Roumanian force consisting of sixteen
frontier guards has invaded Hungarian territory.
They looked round, gave the sign, and were followed
by a battalion. They arm and enlist the Transylvan-
ian Roumanians, and the land is lost to us.

Last week a small detachment, a few Serbian
troopers, rode into Mohacs.

148 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

Mohacs . . . Once upon a time the Hungarian
nation, with its king and its bishops, bled to death
there, resisting the terrific onslaught of the Turks.
The brook Csepel ran red with Hungarian blood,
and the land was covered with Hungarian dead as
far as the eye could see. Now a handful of Serbian
cavalry ride over the mournful, grandiose graves and
tread the deathbed of the King. The field is peace-
fully green, the water is clean, and there are no
corpses on the grass. And yet, to-day Mohacs is a
greater cemetery of Hungary than it was on the day
of the great death, for to-day there are none left
ready to die for her.

What a nightmare it all is ! Down there the
commander of the Serbian troops says : "I have
been for seven years with my soldiers, and when we
marched through Serbia we passed before our own
houses, and not a single man entered his own home,
but on they went, according to orders . . . The
Serbian army has been at war since 1912, and yet it
passed in front of its home, its little fields, its
women, its children, went on and never stopped."
They come, they come for conquest, and our men do
not defend what is their own. How they must hate
us, our land and our race which has sunk so low !
How we have been poisoned by those who ought to
lead us ! With narcotic lies they have inoculated us
and planted the plague in our souls.

If only one could get away from these maddening
thoughts, could tear them out of one's brain and get
a moment's rest. But it cannot be done. They
cling to us obstinately. These winter days in bed
are terrible, and awful are the long, sleepless nights.
Sometimes I think that people don't go mad here
because they are already all lunatics.

November 19th.

Snow is falling. The roofs are white and shine
against the background of the gray sky. Scanty,
economical fires burn in our grates : the Serbians
have occupied the coal-fields of Pecs, the Roumanians
those of Petrozseny, so Hungary has no longer any
coal, and the Czechs stop the supplies from
Germany. In the gas-stove the flame is small and

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 149

gives no heat. The new order diminishes the supply
of electricity, and the globes have to be taken out of
the chandelier. Only one is allowed in the room,
and it sends its light sideways into a corner. I
hobbled over to my mother. The partial light left
dark recesses in the corners, and made the place
unhomely, sad.

The table in the dining-room seemed to have
changed too. In the silver vases there are still some
evergreen twigs from our summer home, but flowers
there are no longer. Everything is getting so expen-
sive. Our fare diminishes every day too, but we pre-
tend not to notice it. Every day sees the disappear-
ance of something we were accustomed to. Things
we used to take as granted have become luxuries.
Already during the long years of war things were
not always what they seemed : coffee was not
coffee, nor were the tea, the sugar, or even the
bread above suspicion. We got accustomed to sub-
stitutes, but now even these have disappeared. In
the shops the shelves are empty, and the new stocks
fail to appear. Those who can, buy and hoard.
Germany and Austria have stopped sending us the
products of their industries. We tighten our belts
and get thinner and poorer every day.

Across the street one window is still lit up, though
it is getting late. As I look up I can see a man
making a selection of his clothes. He lifts up a
coat, holds it under the lamp, puts it aside, then
takes it up again ; now he inspects a waist-coat,
some linen. A woman comes in and they talk for a
few moments. Then they throw an overcoat on the
table and hide the rest in the bed, under the mat-
tresses. They make a selection of boots too. The
woman puts one pair with the overcoat, and they
hide the others in the cupboard, behind some books.

Choosing and hiding of this kind goes on to-day
in every house in the country.

The popular Government has issued a decree,
striving to satisfy the demands of the disarmed troops
by requisition. Its confidential agents are to visit
the people in their homes and requisition clothes,
linen and boots, without any compensation. Those
who hide anything will have the whole of their supply
with the exception of a single suit, confiscated and

L

150 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

will be punished with a fine of 2,000 crowns or six
months' imprisonment.

This is a curious order, for it affects principally
those who have suffered most from the high prices
of the war and the exactions of the profiteers, namely
the middle-classes, whose poor, shabby, outworn
clothes are the only remaining outward sign of their
higher cultural position, and whose only means of
clothing their children consists in utilizing every pos-
sible rag. Moreover there is a new element embodied
in this order, for by it the authorities have taken the
first step towards disposing of private property
without due compensation. They lay claim to
search homes, and thus the thin end of the wedge has
been driven into the sacred rights of privacy and
private property.

Suddenly shots were fired somewhere near the
hospital. On the other side of the road, in the
lighted room, the woman raised her head, and seeing
that she had forgotten to lower the blinds, she
hastened to do so, in order to hide the theft that she
and her husband were committing in their own home,
for themselves, on their own poor little hoard of
worn-out clothes.

Even as I looked I was astonished at my own
feelings. In my heart I approved of those who tried
to evade the order : and yet, my ideas of honesty
had not changed — it was the honesty of the law
which had altered. Only three weeks ago it pro-
tected us, now it is a means of attack, and we, perse-
cuted humanity, are only acting in our own defence
when we conspire for its defeat.

The sound of footsteps in the street roused me, for
it is a rare thing after the doors of the houses are
shut. The footsteps went by rapidly, as if in a
flurry. I listened for a time, wondering whether some
devilry were afoot — but no, nowadays it is only
those who walk slowly, steadily, that mean mischief.

November 20th.

Our road leads through a mist and nobody can see
the end of it. Some day, when we look back upon
the past, many things may appear simple and clear
which now, while we are living through them, seem

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 151

mysterious and incomprehensible. Events come
fast, crowding one on the other without rhyme or
reason. Common sense is of no use, for our fate is
woven by maniacs. We have occasional bright
moments, little flickers which the storm extinguishes.
If we see clearly for an instant, darkness falls before
we can find our way, and in its gloom, fate deals us
such blows that we become giddy and lose our bear-
ings. Nothing helps. Everything is new and strange ;
in a present like this the past is no guide. One
cannot acquire the habit of dying ! — and Hungary is
struggling in agony in the hands of her murderers.

To-day the lamp flared up in an unexpected way,
for I heard news which staggered me, stopped the
beating of my heart and left me speechless. I heard
the familiar step of my brother Geza passing through
the drawing-room to my mother's room, and rushed
after him with a feverish desire to hear and to know.
Perhaps he might be the bearer of hopeful news, as
he used to be during the war ; then, whenever he
came to see mother, there had been a bright spot in
our gloom. But now he sat in a state of collapse in
the tall green armchair, and fury distorted his face.

u All these scoundrels are traitors. Lieut .-Colonel
Julier has told me how damnably they have be-
trayed the country. They are leading it to destruc-
tion." He banged the table with his clenched fist.
"Do you know that the armistice of Belgrade was
superfluous? The Common High Command had
arranged with General Diaz, who was the delegate of
the Allies, for an armistice for us too as from the 4th
of November, leaving the frontiers of Hungary un-
touched and fixing the pre-war frontiers as the line
of demarcation. There was to be no enemy occu-
pation. And on the 6th of November Michael
Karolyi, in Belgrade, opened the flood-gates on us."

There was a weary silence in the room for a while.
It was so terrible, so monstrous, that, though my
opinion of Karolyi and his gang was low enough, I
could scarcely believe it.

" Perhaps they — perhaps Karolyi didn't know the
conditions of Diaz's armistice?"

"They did; it was in Karolyi's pocket before he
went to Belgrade," my brother said. " They did it
for the sake of power, for the doubtful honour that

152 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

the conclusion of peace should be in their names.
Franchet d'Esperay could not understand why they
came. Then he gave them their medicine : ' If you
want it, have it !' says he."

Everything seemed to be collapsing round us, even
that which had till now remained standing, and it
was as though the weight of it fell on us and buried
us under its ruin. It seemed incomprehensible that
the lamp still stood there, where it had been before,
and the chairs, the couch, the cupboards . . . Then
I saw my mother's hands as they clasped one
another spasmodically in her lap. I heard her voice,
which sounded as if it came struggling up among the
ruins, with infinite pain :

" If the curse of an old woman carries any weight,
I curse them !"

CHAPTER X.

November 21st.

To-day the newspapers are full of the complaints of
Karolyi's government. The government has sent
protesting telegrams to the Allies, the Czechs, the
Roumanians. It appeals to the armistice concluded
with the Allied armies, to the Wilsonian principles,
to world-saving pacifism. It clamours for justice,
help, food, and coal. And Karolyi threatens that
" if the Allies do not want to see the formation of
' green ' forces — he does not mention the ' red ' be-
cause he has already formed those — M if the Allies
do not wish that this part of Europe should be given
up to plunder, incendiarism and robbery, it is the
eleventh hour ..."

But the Allies are well aware that Karolyi's rule
has already achieved all this, and they don't trouble
to answer. On the other hand Kramarz, with whom
Karolyi had conspired against the interests of his
country during the war answers in the name of the
Czechs, haughtily, derisively : " The Allies have de-
cided that the territories inhabited by the Slovaks
shall form part of the Czecho-Slovak Republic, and
not of the Hungarian state. Consequently Hungary
cannot conclude an armistice for the Slovak parts, as
these have already been incorporated into Czecho-
slovakia." That is his answer, and the King of
Roumania's answer is an appeal to his army :
" Soldiers. The long expected hour has come. The
Allies have crossed the Danube and it is time that
we should rise to arms . . . Our brethren in

154 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

Bukovina and Transylvania call us to the last battle.
Victory is ours. Forward ! God is with us."

The armistice of Belgrade makes all our enemies
see red. Karolyi 's government has opened the door
to the Serbians, and the rest of them are breaking it
in for themselves; they come aflame with hatred,
and come incessantly.

I feel like death, and giddy with rage, when I
read Kdrolyi's speeches. " Confidence is due to the
government," says he — and he defends the Social-
ists : " Let nobody presume to say that they are
unpatriotic, that the fate of their country is not dear
to their hearts ..." and the radicals: "In Arad,
Minister Jaszi has fought to the last gasp for the
integrity of Hungarian territory ..." In short, he
defends everybody who does not defend the country.

Among the parties which support the government
differences become more manifest every day. They
have practically formed two distinct sections, on one
side the guilty, misguided Hungarians, on the other,
the Socialists and Radicals, the foreign race. The
latter are the stronger because they are better
organised, and know what they want. Michael
Karolyi is entirely under their influence, caught in
the meshes of a net that is being drawn rapidly to-
wards the extremist side.

Unity in politics only exists as long as it is a
question of attaining power. The power, once at-
tained, itself serves to divide the victors — swollen
with pride and insolence. That is the moment to
smash them.

" It would be premature," Count Dessewffy told
me, when I met him to-day in the street. I had only
a short talk with him, for he was due at a meeting.
They are forming an agrarian party, and hope to
organise the peasant proprietors of the country.

" I have just remembered," he added with a laugh;
" only think of it. Karolyi means to send you on a
political errand to Italy ..."

" Does he always choose with such discernment ?"
I replied, and I could not help laughing myself.
" Let him get me a passport and I will use my Italian
connections — on two conditions."

"What are they?"

" Firstly, that I travel at my own expense, so that

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 155

I needn't accept a penny from them ; secondly, that
I do not go in the interest of their republic and their
government, but exclusively in the interest of my
country. But that, I fear, won't suit them."

As I walked on I reflected on what I had heard.
Dessewffy had information of the country's mood,
and he had said :

" The peasantry and the provincial towns do not
take to the idea of this disguised communist republic,
suggested by Pest. There are considerable parts of
the country which are restrained with difficulty from
openly espousing the cause of monarchy."

" Don't hold them down, let them raise their voice
and sweep the board of this scum!" I had cried.
But Dessewffy only repeated : "It would be pre-
mature. Let this crowd die off first."

I ran into a ladder standing across the footpath;
a man was sitting on top of it, scraping the wall
diligently. Dirt has effaced the last traces of such
inscriptions as " By appointment to the Imperial
and Royal Court," which October 31st had torn
down in its fury. Now new work is being done on
the shop-signs, and those that bear names like
Hapsburg, Berlin, Hohenzollern, Hindenburg, and
Vienna, are taken down. The cafes are in a tearing
hurry to alter the names they bore before the war,
and the Judaized town sycophantically re-christens
itself, plastering its places of amusement with labels
such as : Paris Salon, French Cafe, English Park and
American Bar.

I feel the utmost contempt for them, and I'm sure
that the foreign invaders, whom fate will bring here,
will feel the same towards them. A people which
denies, or tolerates that others should deny in its
name, its past, tramples on its own honour. For
days the government has been announcing the arrival
of French troops. The town is being prepared for
their reception, and we have to sit down quietly under
this hideous farce and suffer it.

One of Karolyi's papers writes to-day : " The first
French soldiers will probably arrive to-morrow in
Budapest, and the youngest republic greets with love
the champions of Liberty, Fraternity and Equality.
Instead of stiff, haughty German swashbucklers,
charming, good-humoured French officers; instead of

156 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

the clumsy German soldiers with their heavy boots,
our streets will be filled with the petted poilus . . .
Beside the Hungarian inscriptions we ought to put
up French inscriptions everywhere on our public
institutions . . . tradespeople should put on their
shops : ' Ici on parle francais.1 German translations
on the bills of fare should be omitted ..."

A government which prints such shame in its news-
papers, a press which can find a single compositor to
set it, a public which will stand it, must surely have
reached the lowest depths of humiliation.

Flags of the national colours float festively over-
head. And the government calls in the French troops
of occupation, and offers their commander the most
beautiful spot in the country, the royal castle, as a
residence, because, it says : " They are not enemies,
but gladly welcomed guests . . ."

Every drop of blood in me is boiling with shame
and helpless rage, and my mind goes back to a long
past page of memory — 1871. An early morning in
Paris. In close formation, headed by its flags, the
victorious German army enters Paris. Along its
route the windows are closed, flags of mourning float
from the houses, and the still-burning street-lamps
are shrouded in crepe; the people, conscious of its
dignity even in the moment of its humiliation, observes
a gloomy silence in the streets. No order has been
given, no instructions have been issued, yet, men,
women and children, all turn their heads aside, and
the eyes of the victors fail to meet the tear-dimmed
eyes, burning with hate, of the vanquished . . .

November 22nd,

The sky has descended to the very roofs. Snow
falls continually and deepens in the streets. But
the Office of Public Health appeals in vain for work-
men at twenty crowns a day to remove the snow from
the streets. They roar with laughter as they read
it, and go on to draw their unemployment dole, while
still the snow falls and falls, obstructing the doors
of houses, lying knee-deep in the quiet side-streets.

Near the principal railway station it is like wading
in a dusty, white, ploughed field, and even in the
covered interior of the station one walks on soft

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 157

ground, for there dirt and decaying garbage accum-
ulate in heaps. Nobody does any cleaning nowadays.
There is the unemployment dole !

To-day even the refreshment room is invaded by
an insufferable stench, and there are vermin creeping
on the walls. The bread given to the wounded is un-
eatable, and the tea is just slop-water. There is no
fire in the stove, and the cold is biting; even during
the war the place was never so miserable as it is
now. There are fewer wounded, and the place is
filled with able-bodied soldiers passing through the
town. They come from distant battle-fields, ragged
and dirty, and often they only get here to learn that
there is no home for them to go to. Nowhere !
Serbians, Roumanians and Czechs have occupied the
ancient homes of Hungarian peasants.

A Transylvanian Hussar sat on a bench and cursed
loudly, sobbing now and then like a child. An old
peasant from the Banat, a wounded old soldier, knelt
there with tears pouring from his eyes. He was a
descendant of those Saxons who had settled in
Hungary six hundred years ago, and he exclaimed
in his archaic German: "The Serbians have come to
us! Oh, our poor country, poor country!" and the
sergeant of the medical corps in his red-cockaded cap
swore loudly at him.

Then a woman came through the door, dragging
two little children by the hand. She asked for bread,
they had been three days without food. "I shall go
to Karolyi," she cried, " he shall see that justice is
done ! My husband is an official in the Banat. The
Serbians have arrested him. They beat him till he
fainted and then locked him up. There are many like
that. Those who do not swear allegiance to them
are cudgelled and locked up. All the Hungarian
administration has disappeared . . . The police have
been disarmed too. Then they requisition and don't
pay. There are no newspapers — they are confiscated.
They call us ' dogs of Hungarians ' and say that our
land is now in Serbia. There is no post — all the
letters addressed to Hungarians are opened, and if
they contain money it is taken."

A soldier came close up and listened with open
mouth.

"Do you come from the Banat?" the woman

158 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

asked. "Then don't you go home ! The Serbians are
enlisting our men and taking them to forced labour.
Nobody comes back from that."

The man looked at her for a while vacantly, then
muttered helplessly : " But surely, now there is
peace . . ."

Night began to fall. The big chandelier hung
unlighted from the ceiling of the dirty hall, save for
an isolated side-branch here and there, which
scattered an ugly patchy glare in the twilight. On
a bench a blind soldier lay on his back; he smiled
continually in a queer way, as if the smile were frozen
on his face, and his cap was tilted over his sightless
eyes.

" You hail from the Great Plain ?" I asked him.

"I come from Szalonta ..." he grumbled
sleepily.

Aiid I imagined the poor young fellow, in the
stifling summer heat of the Plain, stretched at the
foot of a stack for his mid-day rest, shading his eyes
from the glaring rays of the sun with his little round
hat. But now no sunshine will ever hurt his eyes
again, and the soil of a thousand Hungarian harvests
is being torn from us. Poor fellow ! Does he know
that he has sacrificed his young eyes for nought ?

A man of the Army Medical Corps came in and
told us that some wounded had arrived in the shed.
My sister Vera and I took tea and bread. As I went
along I overheard a conversation among some
soldiers near the wall. Said one : "I put my knife
into him with a will ; the point came out at his back.
The other one escaped." " I did one in too," said a
deeper voice. I thought I must be dreaming. I
stopped, but could not make out what else was said,
as they began to talk in thieves' jargon. "I'll
report them . . ." I thought — but I only thought
that for a moment, for I saw the sergeant with the
red ribbon on his arm, and the pince-nez on his nose,
going up to them and shaking hands . . . No,
one can't report anyone nowadays. As I went on,
the talk became louder behind me. They mentioned
a name, but it meant nothing to me ; at that moment
it was a mere sound, and it was not till much later
that I remembered that I had heard it before — Bel a
Kun. He had been a communist agitator in Russia,

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 159

who, with several others, had been sent to Hungary
by Trotski to work in his interest. It is said that
they brought money with them, a lot of money, and
it is rumoured that they had something to do with
the events of October. More followed them, and
though the government knows all about them, still
it allows them to cross the border. Trotski,
Liebknecht, Rosa Luxemburg, and then this lot —
Nets are spread broadcast and tunnels burrowed
under-ground. The suburbs of Budapest are haunted
by ugly, red-eyed monsters. To-day they still hide
in the dark, slink along the walls with drawn-in
claws. But to-morrow — who knows ?

November 23rd.

The dark wall at the station and the voices I heard
there followed me into the night, lingered in my
thoughts, and were still there in the morning when
I woke.

In the evening I mentioned the incident to my
mother, and she too had heard of the man called
B61a Kun. His real name was Berele Kohn, the son
of a Galician Jew who came over the frontier with a
pack on his back. He himself had risen to be a
journalist and the secretary of the Socialist party in
Kolozsvar, from which job he went to the Work-
man's Benevolent Society. There he stole. The war
saved him from prosecution. He was called up, and
sent to the Russian front, where he soon managed to
surrender. Through his international racial con-
nections he got to Moscow, where he fell in with
Trotski, and from then onward carried on his propa-
ganda among prisoners. He became the leader in
Russia of the Jewish Communists from Hungary,
edited a Hungarian paper called " The Social Revo-
lution," and finally joined a Bolshevist directorate
in one of the smaller towns and played his part in
the atrocities committed there.

" I heard," my mother said, " that he came back
with a lot of Russian money. Karolyi's government
does not interfere with him in any way."

"Of course; Karolyi is said to be in communica-
tion with Trotski through Diener-Denes and
Landler," I replied.

160 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

Karolyi went to Switzerland in the autumn of
1917 with Diener-Denes and Jaszi, who introduced
him to Henri Guilbeaux, an extreme syndicalist
and defeatist editor, who used his newspaper to work
for the same moral dissolution which was carried to
power in Russia by Lenin and Trotski. It is said
that it was this Guilbeaux who converted Karolyi to
the ideas which Bela Kun has now come to represent
among us. Later came the congratulatory wire of
the Soviet's Workers' and Soldiers' Council, the
destructive work of the Radical and Socialist
ministers, the confirmation of Pogany's Soldiers'
Council and of his system of confidential shop-
stewards and the unrestricted freedom of communist
agitators . . . These are signs of his guilt, and they
are a dark augury for the future.

This is a new milestone which fills us with ap-
prehension, another one of those measures which are
meant to undermine the existing Social order.

The great French Revolution was fatally influenced
from the day that the people and the rabble of Paris
stormed the Arsenal and plundered it. In Budapest
no force is required. The Police Commissioner him-
self has instructed the police and the people's guards
to confiscate all arms and ammunition from those
who possess no permit — and nowadays permits are
only given to workmen and the mob.

That is another breach in the power of resistance
of the middle classes and in the sanctity of the home.
Henceforth the people's guards have the right to
search for arms. The citizens are helpless, and I
hear that everywhere people are giving up their shot-
guns and revolvers.

We are a pack of spell-bound sleep-walkers. The
wizard glares at us with his big, oriental eyes and
pronounces his spell, which varies according to the
times : Democracy, Socialism. Yesterday the magic
word was Liberalism, to-morrow it may be
Communism.

........

November 2J^th.

Nights are sleepless nowadays, yet I cannot work.
As if every word of beauty had been engulfed by the
mire through which I wade in day time, I cannot

BE LA KUN (KOHN).

(To face -p. 160.)

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 161

form a single idea. In the dreary desert of my brain
nothing wanders but horrors : the morning brings
them, and they are not banished by the end of the
day.

I wrote some letters last night, and this morning
I sent out for stamps. The maid put them on the
writing table before me.

What is this ? — Printed across the portrait of the
King, of the Queen, across the picture of the house of
Parliament, there is the black surcharge : "Re-
public." Printed over the beautiful little head of
the Queen, " Republic " : the word runs across St.
Stephen's crown on the King's head !

A thought that has tortured me many times since
the 16th of November once again wrings my heart :
The crown, our crown . . .

It is not a jewel, it is not an ornament, it is not
pomp, it is Hungary itself. Kingdoms have come
and gone, but there was no people in this world to
whom its crown meant so much as our crown meant
to us. The Hungarian crown is every Hungarian
soul, every clod of its soil, every Hungarian harvest.
With it is torn from the country's head not kingship
alone, but all that we have been, all that we may
ever be. From century to century the ancient
symbol wrought in gold has been preserved in an
iron-bound chest up there in the religious gloom of
the castle of Buda ; within the last thousand years it
has only appeared in the light of day fifty-three
times, borne on the heads of fifty-three Kings — over
the Hungarian land. And once more, when a
thousand years had passed, on the day of the
Millenium . . . Exposed to the public view, it lay
on the altar of the Coronation Church. The people
came, I saw them with my own eyes — gray-haired
peasants, workmen, lords — and bent the knee in
front of it as if before a holy thing. And I saw it on
the head of King Charles on a December day, under
the ancient walls of regal Buda, amidst the unfurled
banners of sixty-three counties, amidst deafening
cheers, amidst the sound of our great, clear,
national anthem.

Traitors and sans-patries have torn St. Stephen's
crown from its place with sacrilegious hands. That
crown was not only a King's head-dress. Like a

162 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

golden hoop it welded together the giant range of
the Carpathians, Transylvania, the blue gulf of
Adria, Croatia and Slavonia — the whole realm of the
Great Plain, the country which formed the most per-
fect geographical unit in Europe. And now that the
golden hoop holds it together no longer, that which
has been united since the beginning of time falls to
pieces and to ruins.

I was gripped by a maddening fear and began to
tremble with apprehension for the crown, as if it were
something more living than life itself. I felt that
we only existed as long as it existed, that its destruc-
tion would make our destruction inevitable. What
do they plot, these present despots of ours, who hate
everything that connects us with our past ? It is not
Karolyi who will stop them : as far as he is concerned
they can do what they like with the crown.

A few days ago Count Ambr6zy, the Keeper of the
Crown Jewels, went to Michael Karolyi's house and
asked for admittance. Karolyi was lunching with
Count Pejacsevich when the butler announced that
the Keeper of the Crown Jewels was waiting.

" Let him wait," said Karolyi. " I am lunching,"
and continued his meal undisturbed. After a time
he was told again that Count Ambrozy wanted to see
him urgently, as he had to leave town. Karolyi, to
whom Keri, Jaszi and Pogany are admitted at all
hours, sent a message to the first grandee of Hungary,
to wait. He lit his cigar and sipped his coffee. About
half an hour later the Keeper of the Crown Jewels
sent another message.

" If he cannot wait, let him go," said Karolyi.
Count Pejacsevich implored him. At last he gave
in. " All right, I'll settle with him in two minutes."

He went out, cigar in mouth, and two minutes
later was back again. " Settled," he said laughing.
" Ambrozy came to ask me what should be done with
the crown. I told him : take it to a bank, or put it
into your pocket, I don't care . . ."

And I seemed to see again the mystic dusk of the
Coronation Church, its pillars and arches, and there
in front of the altar, set on purple velvet, the pale
gold of the Crown ... I see the gray head of an
aged peasant whose sharp Turanian features seem as
if cut out with a chisel from the gloom of the church ;

k -3

K g

p-l rt

CO 0

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 163

the head bows, and his horny hand makes the sign of
the cross on his breast.

November 25th.

My mother brought a porcelain figure into the
room to-day. " It is broken," she said, and put the
Sevres shepherd and his tiny broken hand on the
table. Its beauty filled me for a moment with
extraordinary rapture : doubtless it appeared so
lovely to me because nowadays everything we see is
so very ugly and depressing.

" Of course I know it's going to stay here with
you for the winter," my mother said with a slight
reproach in her voice, reminding me of the many
small commissions I forgot from time to time.

" I'll take it at once . . ."I said.

"There is no need for that; there is plenty of
time if you are otherwise engaged."

At that moment I felt I had no other task in the
whole world but her little porcelain figure. I said
goodbye and went.

It was getting dark. Here and there the sparsely
subdued glimmer of the gas-lamps made a pretence
of lighting the streets ; dust-bins full of garbage stood
in front of the houses, but nobody could be found to
cart them away. The air was saturated with an
acid, unwholesome smell, which fostered the epidemic
that had raged in the town for weeks, creeping in
through filthy entrances, climbing the dirty stairs,
and, in the chill of fireless houses, laying its hand on
the heart of the inhabitants.

When I reached the little street I wanted it was
practically in darkness. Only the shop windows cast
square patches of yellow light on the footpath. I
entered a little shop in one of whose mean windows
some old china was displayed. The shelves, the
tables, every available space was filled with broken
china, and the repairer sat among the debris, with his
hat on his head and in his winter coat, looking for
all the world like a picture by a Dutch master. He
had noble features, and his white beard covered his
chest, and on his first finger he wore an old ring with
a coat of arms . . . One day when I had gone there
he had told me that he came of a county family. He

164 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

had owned land, and a nice house with a pillared
court, under the shade of old trees ; he used to drive
a four-in-hand and to collect china as a hobby.
Somehow the land, the house, the horses disap-
peared ; so did his collection, and the only thing that
was left to him was the art of repairing broken
porcelain by which he now eked out a sort of living.

When I had finished my business with him I did
not go straight home. One street after another
seemed to call to me, and I walked on thinking sadly
of that old Hungarian's fate. Shop after shop I
passed, all with Jewish names — marine stores,
crockery-shops, tallow-chandlers, small bazaars. A
few years ago their owners had lived in Galicia, and
all of a sudden they had appeared in the streets of
Pest selling boot-laces. They had never shouldered
a hod, never carried bricks, never followed the
plough, but made money without hard work, by
buying and selling; now they had their shop, the
cradle of millions. They start their careers in the
narrow streets in which our own folk end theirs.

Somehow I had wandered into the crowded
quarters of Budapest's ghetto. These streets bad
been fixed by nobody as the abode of the invading
Jews. The times have passed long ago when a Jew
was not allowed to stay a night either in Buda or in
Pest, and when he could own neither house nor shop.
In fifty years they have conquered the town, and
yet they have formed for themselves a little ghetto
of their very own. They have invaded whole streets,
occupying tenement-houses, in which they can live
amongst themselves. The newly built streets and
houses soon became filthy, and the entrances
vomited the same odour which I have smelt in the
ghettoes of Amsterdam, Rome and Venice.

As I looked up I felt as if I were in a foreign town
whose houses were silently conspiring in the dark
above the lighted shops. I had never noticed it
before, but there seemed to be here a secret, antag-
onistic life which had nothing in common with ours,
from which we were excluded. The mask was
dropped and the character of the streets became
visible. The sense of security of this foreign race had
increased to such an extent that it forgot to hide
itself. It had been dissembling for a good while,

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 165

though, and we had lived here, and had heard and
seen nothing. We did not trouble about the course
of events, and while they clasped hands fanatically,
from the gin shops at the village end, from tenement-
houses, editorial offices, shops, banks and palaces,
over five continents, we forsaken Hungarians could
not hold together even in our own little country.

Some of us begin to see clearly to-day, though
what is happening now happened yesterday too — then
in secretive darkness, now in open daylight. The
immigrants have effaced the features of our race from
the land, have dug out our souls from our national
affairs and substituted their faces, their soul. This
evil work has been going on for a long time.

The people who came from foreign lands were
foreign to us only, but not to the people of the
ghetto. They whispered things we did not hear,
went to the ghetto of some other town, whispered
again, and again went on and on. Trotski had been
in Budapest — he had lived here years ago. Others
came too, people whose co-religionists alone knew
what they were after. We only saw worms that
cringed, we never listened to what they said to each
other.

I felt as if the whole quarter were speaking, as if
every house, every street in it were quoting from the
ancient book of its inhabitants : "A people which
have eyes to see, and see not ; they have ears to hear
and hear not."

My wandering eyes were suddenly arrested by the
sight of three men. One had the features of a negro,
the second a heavy, fat face, and the third was quite
small, with red eyelids and white eyelashes. Their
heads were close together. When I stopped in front
of a shop window and pretended to look at its con-
tents they stopped talking, and I saw by the reflection
in the window that they looked at me, nodded at one
another and moved on. Two others, clad in gabar-
dines, came towards me. They wore fur caps and
gesticulated violently with dirty hands raised to the
level of their shoulders. One was speaking; the
other listened with his eyes fixed on the ground and
with dirty fingers caught hold of the lock dangling
from the side of his head and drew it out straight to
his chin. He stood like that for a time, reflectively,

M

166 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

and occasionally mumbled a word. Then, noticing
that I was looking at him, he stopped in the middle
of a word and let his lock go ; it curled up to his ear
like a spring. Then they too went on.

King Street swarmed around me. Unkempt, fat
women stood in the doorways, silk dresses rustled
on the pathway, and the smell of filth mingled with
that of cheap scent. Children shrieked. From the
entrances of restaurants with Hebrew names the reek
of garlic spread into the street. The doors of small
shops opened and closed continually, and the articles
suspended on them swung about ; chains and watches
rattled against the panes, stockings and ribbons
fluttered to and fro, and the medley of badly lit
windows displayed old clothes, confectionery,
plucked geese, jewellery, boots. A woman passed,
pushing along a perambulator laden with soap. On
the street corner a bandy-legged little monster in a
gabardine sold figs and blinked with his dull eyes at
the passers-by. A red-bearded man stopped near
him. They spoke fast and their lips moved as if they
had gulped down some burning hot mouthfuls of
something. As I approached them the red-bearded
one turned abruptly round and slipped into a gold-
smith's shop. I looked after him ... A quaint
old watch was hanging in the shop-window. I won-
dered what they wanted for it.

The chains hanging from the entrance door tinkled
as I went in. A shaded lamp hung from the smoky
ceiling low above the glazed counter, in which rings
and ear-rings were displayed on velvet cushions.
Several people were standing in a corner, but as soon
as they saw me they retired to the back of the shop.
Only a fat flabby girl remained, and as she asked me
what I wanted she fingered her untidy black hair,
and scratched herself. Meanwhile she watched the
door, and when it opened bent quickly over the
counter and pointed with her grimy thumb over her
shoulder. A well-dressed man in a fur coat, and with
a typical face, passed behind me and joined the
others. Then a sailor came in and he too was called
in to join the group. Many voices whispered mys-
teriously in the room at the back of the shop. I
listened attentively, straining my ears to hear some-
thing, one sentence, of all this talk which was not

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 167

meant for us and was only mentioned among them-
selves— but I could not understand a word . . .

"I am afraid it won't do," I said to the girl, and
hurried out of the shop in disgust.

I walked fast, almost running through the crowd,
as if I were escaping the meshes of a conspiracy
which floated in the air but which one could not
grasp, because as soon as one touched it it fell to
pieces like slime.

The whole quarter was on the look-out for some
prey. Its streets were haunted by some premeditated
crime. In its houses a greedy monster, which
has never shut its eyes for a thousand years, kept
vigil.

Away from here, into the fresh air ! I was haunted
by the thought of the room in the little shop, the
whispering Jews, Russian money on the table ; of the
sergeant with his golden pince-nez, who had mentioned
the name of Bela Kun to the soldiers; of the faces
of Jaszi, Kunfi and Louis Hatvany ; of the bandy-
legged monster at the street corner, the man with
the red beard and the flabby girl . . . They are all
after the same thing and are helping each other all
they can, while we have lost the power of wanting
anything at all ... .

That night I wrote an appeal to the women of
Hungary. Women ! sleep not, or your children will
have no place to lay their heads . . .

........

November 26th.

In the afternoon I walked towards the boulevards.

Countess Louis Batthyany had telephoned that
she wanted to see me. I made my way through a
dense crowd, for the town is overrun by the constant
influx of refugees and of thousands of home-coming
soldiers. On the boulevards people thronged; there
hardly seemed to be enough room for them. The
human tide overflowed into the by-streets, pushed,
pressed, swarmed and accumulated in front of the
windows of newspaper offices like a knotted muscle.
In the office window of an evening newspaper were
some photographs, and under one of them was an
inscription, " The members of the Soldiers' Council."
There were too many people for me to get near, so

168 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

that I could only see it at a distance as I passed
— the faces, exhibited in glory, of those who were
guilty of the rebellion of October, and who may one
day be called to account.

"What do you think of that?" a voice asked
among the loiterers. "The Minister for War has had
Heltai arrested for embezzlement, robbery and
murder." " What ? the ex-commander of the
town ? " " That's him . . . and now his sailors
are coming in armoured cars with machine-guns to
rescue him. There's going to be trouble." The news
spread at once. " Have you heard it ?" " It is not
true?" "But it is!" There was a panic. And the
people in the streets carried it on with them : " The
sailors are coming ! They have left Pressburg, they
have left the Czechs ..."

Crowded electric trams passed, so crammed with
people that the pressure inside nearly broke the cars'
sides; outside people were hanging on everywhere.
I saw some soldiers coming along, when suddenly one
of them tumbled forward, tripped over his own foot
and fell, face downward, on the pavement. Nobody
troubled about him and even his companions went on
indifferently. With a remnant of war-time charity
I stooped over him, thinking that perhaps he had an
artificial leg, or was suffering from an epileptic fit.
When I took hold of his arm to help him to get up
again, however, I found that he was drunk and
vomiting. As I started back I heard his companions
roar with laughter.

The crowd carried me on, but the incident was
like a thorn thrust into one's heart. Soldiers,
Hungarian soldiers ! There had been a time when
my eyes filled with tears at the sight of them. How
proud I had felt of them, how I had respected them,
I had loved them as being the personified courage of
my race. What are they now . . . ?

When I arrived at my friend's house I found the
talk turning on Michael Karolyi, to whom several of
those present were related. I asked them if they
knew the conditions of the armistice concluded with
Diaz, that they had safeguarded the frontiers of the
country, which the Belgrade treaty had sacrificed ?
The news was so mad, so impossible, that doubt
showed in every eye.

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 169

"I know it for certain," I said; "a member of the
armistice commission, Lieut .-Colonel Julier, told my
brother so."

Anger succeeded consternation on every face.

" Get me the text," Count Julius Batthyany
shouted, " and I will have the two documents posted
up, side by side, and within twenty-four hours the
whole government will collapse."

His beautiful mother looked at him doubtfully :

"Do you imagine that there is so much liberty left
in this town ? The posters would be torn to shreds
before they could be stuck on the walls."

M They promised us the freedom of the press and
of opinions, and we get nothing but lies."

" Let us organise against them. That is the only
way to defeat their lies," said Countess Batthyany,
M it was with that intent that I asked you to come."

"You are thinking of the women?"

"Yes . . ."

" I have thought of them too," I said. "There are
several of us who think the same. We must find
some common-place programme to hide our real
purpose : women alone can rebuild the lost faith."

" Work out the programme and take the leader-
ship of the movement."

" I don't want to be anything but a common
soldier," I answered; "I am only an author and
know nothing of these things."

" For all that you will have to do it. Your lead
will be followed. I want to work too."

I shook my head. I was ready to do anything, but
did not feel the vocation for leadership.

" We will try too," said Count Batthyany.
" Somehow we must succeed in getting rid of this
crowd."

"We will talk it all over," said his mother.

So she is with us too, I pondered when leaving.
She, the aunt of both Count Michael and Countess
Kdrolyi ! How many of us felt the same thing ! It
seemed to be floating in the air, and waiting for
someone among us to put it into words.

The street had changed while I had been in the
house. No lamps were burning, the trams were not
running, and the snow was falling heavily. Had a
strike broken out suddenly ? Was the supply of coal

170 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

exhausted ? Or was it because of Heltai's sailors ?

The little side-streets gaped dismally in the dark.
A ramshackle cab trotted through the snow.

"How much to Stonemason Street?" I asked.

" Sixty crowns," the driver answered from his
seat.

" Not so long ago it would have been two
crowns ..."

He drove on, cursing me, and I went on, ploughing
my way through the snow. There was an uncanny
silence about the place. Out in the country the
silence of the woods and meadows is that of rest,
while here in town silence seems to be the preliminary
of some hidden attack. That was what it felt like
now. Against my will I was looking behind me all
the time, and I hurried as fast as I could across the
entrances of the alleys.

The bright, clean streets, policemen, protection,
security of the past — where have they all gone ?

Civilisation was only a scaffolding which was
covered with paper posters so that we should not see
that there was no building behind it, and it has
collapsed at a single blow. It is a wreck, and wolves
prowl over the abandoned ground. The town has
slipped suddenly back to the times when nobody who
started on an errand at night knew if he would ever
see home again.

At the next corner a cab turned out into the boule-
vard and I felt a little safer. But I did not enjoy the
sight of the cab for very long. Two soldiers
emerged from a doorway and ran after it, shouting
loudly. The driver made signs that he had pas-
sengers, but stopped out of fear that they might
shoot him. The soldiers didn't trouble to discuss
the matter, but simply opened the door of the cab,
kicked the passenger out of it, and took his place.
The cab, as if driving into a white veil, disappeared
rapidly in the falling snow. The street became
lonely and quiet. Only the snow glittered, and even
as the flakes drifted into my face I decided that after
all in these days it was wiser to walk . . .

CHAPTER XI.

November 27th.

After all this humiliation, shameful submission and
silence entire districts of the country are raising
their voices in protest.

The Szeklers in Transylvania have risen; the flag
of the Szekler's corps has been unfurled, and Count
Stephen Bethlen has organised a Szekler National
Council. Transylvania is graven on his heart and he
has remained faithful to himself. He has
always sacrificed everything to the good of the
country. It is encouraging to hear his name in
these times when everybody thinks only of himself.
And after Transylvania, Upper Hungary raises its
voice, the towns of Zips, Zemplen and our faithful
brethren the Slovaks, whom neither gold nor the lash
will persuade that they belong to the Czechs. The
Bunyevats swear to stick to their fatherland and so
do the Catholic Serbians ; and far away in the North
the Ruthenians, Rakoczi's own folk, 'that gens
fidelissima et carissima, protest violently — they, who
live precariously in the depths of the Carpathians, on
the road by which the Galician Jews invade us. I
know their poor little villages, pounced upon by the
army of leeches in gabardines, bloodthirsty, insati-
able, on its westward march. That is the road by
which, for decades, the Polish and Russian Jews
have come to us ; they cut off their payes, side-locks,
in Kassa, throw off their gabardines in Miskolocz and
become barons and millionaires in Budapest.

Successive Hungarian Governments have left the
Ruthenians of the frontier undefended against this
invading horde, and yet these pious people have

172 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

remained, for all their poverty, patient and faithful
to us. And now they stand by our side, desperately ;
they don't ask for autonomy, they want no special
privileges, they just want to remain one with us,
because we have never harmed them. Neither the
propaganda of the Ukrainians and Russian Imperial-
ists, nor the schismatical attempts at their conversion,
nor anything else has had any effect on them. They
are clamouring for Hungarian schools, while a
foreign race speaking in the name of Budapest denies
them their very nationality; and their Bishop,
Andrew Szabo, sends the following message in their
name : " There is no need of a declaration of loyalty
on the part of Hungary's Ruthenians, because this
people has never faltered."

But this does not suit Mr. J&szi, the Minister for
Nationalities. He wants to transform our great
geographical unit into a sort of Eastern Switzerland,
and he has invented a new name, Ruszka-Krajna,
for the green counties of whispering woods, the
ancient part of Hungary inhabited by the Ruthenians.

There he stands, in the midst of a poisoned town,
the son of Russo-Polish Jews, declaiming, with all
the destructive vigour of his race, separatist theories
against associations made by nature itself, forgetting
that, while in Switzerland the extreme branches of
three races join in a common summit, in Hungary
the peoples' streams flow into a common basin, the
strength and soul of which must always be the
Hungarian people.

And while he holds forth, and declares that in a
single moment he is going to efface the history of a
thousand years, these thousand years of Hungarian
history shout from every side in desperate protest.
Sz6klers, Slovaks, Ruthenians, Germans and Catholic
Serbians clamour like suffering brethren, appealing
to each other over the indifference shown by a
muzzled land. The voices of their anguish come like
a storm down the mountains and join over the Great
Plain under the November sky in a harmony that
knows no discord. And the winds on their myriad
wings carry the sad appeal on and on, and sow it as a
seed for the future from which, one day, we shall
gather a rich harvest of revenge.

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 178

November 28th.

The protests from our outposts have died away
and the tragic ray of light has been swallowed up in
the general gloom. As long as the despoilers of the
nation are in power it will always be like that. The
Government has given millions to the Transylvanian
Roumanians and has supplied them with a profusion
of arms, taken from Hungarian soldiers, while it
leaves the Hungarians and Szeklers in sweating
terror, defenceless in the midst of an enemy that
clamours for their lives.

Karolyi's Government supports everybody who is
against us. To-day, for instance, while I was on duty
at the railway station, I saw special trains being put
together with feverish haste. Roumanian agitators
are calling together in Gyulafehervar a Roumanian
National assembly which intends, it is said, to
declare for the separation of many purely Hungarian
counties of Transylvania. And to facilitate the
business the Hungarian Government puts special
trains at the disposal of our enemies ! The whole
thing is as though someone were grinning maliciously
over a body writhing in agony.

There was great activity at the station to-day.
The old refreshment shed of the Red Cross has been
transformed into a refreshment room for returning
soldiers. We who had for many years worked there
with the Red Cross offered our services in vain.
White bread, which we had not seen for a long time,
and sausages, were distributed to the soldiers by
Jewesses who wore neither hat nor cap and looked
unkempt and untidy. They had been sent by the
Social Democratic party, and care for the soldiers
was only a secondary part of their duty : they dis-
tributed handbills and talked propaganda to the re-
turning men. Notwithstanding our Red Cross and
our papers one of the women came up to us and
asked us to leave the place, as they had been put in
charge of it.

With my sister and a friend we went back to the
other refreshment room. " We have been kicked
out," I reported. We were now told that the
Government, after having dismissed those who had
directed the work of the Red Cross during the war,

174 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

had appointed Countess Michael Karolyi to the
head of the Red Cross — as Delegate of the Govern-
ment. This position had always been filled gratu-
itously by grey-haired noblemen, but now Countess
Karolyi voted herself a salary of eighty thousand
crowns and had it paid out to her for a year in
advance.

"One of her assistants has already been here," said
someone belonging to the Red Cross. " She made a
great fuss and declared that Countess Karolyi would
turn out all the ladies who had formerly done the
work."

"It will be a noble sight," I said; " I shall stay
and see it through."

At this moment the sergeant with the red ribbon
came in. Two soldiers with fixed bayonets followed
him. They came straight up to me. " We have
found some suspicious leaflets on the platform,
royalist muck ..."

" I don't know anything about any leaflets," I
answered, delighted to hear that some had at last
made their appearance.

" The scent leads here," the sergeant said threat-
eningly, "it is said they are distributed here."

"Search me," I said, and turned out the pockets
of my white apron. But I was too happy to
dissemble : I laughed heartily.

• •••••••

November 29th.

I stood in front of the cashier's little glass cage,
leaning my elbows on the cool marble slab. There
were only a few people coming and going in the big
offices of the bank ; a few servant girls sat about with
their deposit-books in their hands.

" How's business in these days ?" I asked the
cashier as he pushed my money over the counter.

" We have never been like this before. War-time
was a perfect golden age in comparison." He leant
toward me and spoke in a whisper. " The Jews are
exploiting the country and the Government shame-
lessly. The salary of a minister used to be twelve
thousand crowns. The ministers of the popular
Government have allotted themselves two hundred
thousand and have had it paid out for a year in

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 175

advance. For overtime, they take one hundred and
sixty crowns an hour. The number of Ministers and
Government delegates increases every day. There
are forty Secretaries of State running about
Budapest. Every radical journalist wants to be at
least a Secretary of State. Treasury notes are
printed as fast as posters. It is said that the popular
Government has spent three milliards in a month —
twice as much as the most expensive month of the
war. This peace is an expensive thing, and one can't
say that the republic is exactly cheap. We are racing
towards bankruptcy. Many people are taking their
money to Switzerland ..."

M What I possess shall remain here. If the country
is ruined, we Hungarians will be ruined with it, at
any rate."

"It is wise to take precautions however," the
cashier said. "It is rumoured that all gold and
silver is to be commandeered."

On my way home his last words kept coming to
my mind. Among our old family papers there is a
little scrap of a document dated 1848, addressed to
my grandfather, Charles Tormay; it is a receipt for
the silver he had delivered to the mint to cover the
issue of Kossuth's banknotes. My father once told
me how on a certain day all the silver was heaped up
on the dining-room table. He was a little boy at the
time, and asked how he would be able to stir the
sugar in his coffee if all the spoons were taken away ?
" With a wooden spoon," his mother said. My father
could not bear the idea of that, so he hung about the
silver till he managed to steal a little spoon. Every-
thing else was melted down, and that little spoon is
the only thing that remains of our old family silver.

They gave it, and we would give it, but not to this
crowd. I wouldn't eat with a wooden spoon for the
sake of the entire government.

November 30th.

A yellow fog has descended on the town. The
houses have disappeared in it, and the rooms are dark,
as if the windows were covered outside with mud-
coloured blinds. Though it is forenoon, the lamps
are burning in the houses, as if a corpse were laid out

176 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

in every room in the town. I never saw a fog like
this. It looks the very picture of our lives.

Fog . . . clinging, dense fog. People choke as
they walk, in an accursed land; they slip about in
the sticky, heavy mud, and can neither halt nor run.
A doomed city is our prison. The hearths are cold,
we have no light, and all the doors are shut. Streets
end in darkness, and at the street corners cold blasts
strike one, coming no one knows whence. One can-
not escape it. One has to go on, under dark windows,
through the fog, across deadly alleys. Nobody looks
out of the houses, and there is no sign of life about.
The air seems to be a sloppy glue closing suddenly
over one's mouth like a horrible, gigantic hand, and
stopping one's breath. We shudder with discomfort
and misery, and if we try to lay hold of something
solid, the walls recede before our groping hands, and
the doors move like ghosts. They are not locked,
just ajar, and they open noiselessly inward. Behind
them somebody stands and waits, waits with open
eyes in the dark, conscious of some awful news im-
pending : Hungary has lost something again . . .
In the next street, in all the streets about us, red
ferocious beasts are lurking with soft noiseless steps,
ready to pounce . . .

That is our present life. Fog, yellow, clinging fog,
in which the town, with all its streets and houses,
glides on mud towards a bottomless abyss.

Day by day more cockades of the national colours
disappear from the soldiers' caps, and as each one
disappears it leaves a wound : a spot of blood . . .
red buttons take their place. In one of the main
streets yesterday a red flag was displayed on a house.
In the northern suburbs communists meet in shady
little inns, and in the streets foreign-looking men
harangue chance crowds from dust-bins or the tops
of hand-carts. With sweeping gestures they declare :
" Everything is yours ! Take everything !"

These words are all over the town to-day, and
K&rolyi's Government says it all the time, in every
one of its declarations: "Everything is yours 1" It
says it to socialists, communists, radicals, Czechs,
Roumanians, Serbians . . .

Having begun with the Roumanians, Jaszi now
takes counsel with the Slovaks; and while the

o

O
H

OQ
I— t

p

O
O

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 177

Czechs' troops descend, unhindered, into the valley
of the Vag, and occupy town after town, the precious
springs of Postyen among others, Jaszi, Diener-
Denes and a fellow called Braun hand over to them
our thousand-year-old rights. Jaszi has already
presented them with five Hungarian counties and
offers a common administration for ten more. He
bargains, humbles himself, and libels our rule of a
thousand years. And even while he was shamefully
giving up everything, and stupidly betraying the
Government's hopeless inability to act, it turns out
that the whole of the negotiations were nothing but
a trap. After having surveyed the situation here,
Prag has informed Budapest officially : " No negoti-
ations whatever with the Hungarian Government
have been author sed by the Czecho-Slovak
Republic . . ."'

Such are our rulers. They sell us over and over
again every day. What I was told in whispers is
now admitted by the Government itself, because
Vlad, the leader of the Roumanian guards in Transyl-
vania, has given the show away. To display his
strength and power, he told the unfortunate Hungar-
ian inhabitants of Transylvania : " The Roumanian
guards have received from the Hungarian Govern-
ment ten million crowns and fifty-five thousand
infantry equipments." Now even the deaf can hear
what the Government does with the arms it has
filched from our soldiers, who, notwithstanding their
disbandment, were anxious to defend the soil of their
country. It gives the arms of Hungarian soldiers to
Roumanians, while it collects the weapons of
Hungarian citizens for the benefit of ruffians,
escaped convicts and vagabond deserters.

The eternally harassing question : what is going
on ? has ceased to worry me. Now I know that every-
thing that happens is barefaced treason, unlike any
thing that has ever happened in my people's history.
The clauses of a secret red treaty dictate every pur-
pose, every action, and its stipulations influence
everything that has happened in Hungary since the
31st of October.

December 1st.
Once upon a time December meant something

178 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

lovely, glittering, cold, white, and the warmth of
bright fires. Now its whiteness is death, its cold is
torture, and everywhere the fires are out.

The cold at night is awful. Its breath penetrates
into the rooms, and terrifies one. When the maid
told us this morning that there was no coal left in
the cellar, I could not believe her. I took a candle
and went down the winding staircase into the dark.
The coal dust crackled under my feet and the light
of the candle flickered to and fro on the cobwebbed
wall. The cellar was empty ; only a few logs of wood
were lying in a corner. It was some time before I
realised what that emptiness meant. I did not move,
but just stood rooted to the spot while my breath
steamed in the candle-light.

We had received our coal-permit eight months
before, and were sent by the coal-office to a big coal
merchant. Week after week passed and we got no
coal. I wrote, sent messages, went myself at last.
On the stairs of the building misery and cold were
thronging patiently, and sad-looking people were
loafing about in the office. I had to wait as though
in the anteroom of a minister. Now and then the
lady secretary called one of us by name. Jewesses
in fur coats and with diamond earrings were standing
behind me and laughing among themselves. They
had come after me, yet they were admitted before
me. Beside me a poor woman in a shawl was waiting
and a gentleman in a shabby coat which had seen
better days. The woman complained quietly : for
days she had been unable to cook because she had no
fuel. The gentleman, a judge in a high position,
said that his children could not get out of bed, but
had remained there for over a week, because their
rooms were so cold.

We waited patiently for hours. Noon passed.
The secretary looked at her watch and said aggres-
sively: "Too late, come to-morrow!"

" But here is my coal-permit ! I got it in April."
The spirit of rebellion rose in me. I felt for the
others too, for all of us who waited there,
Hungarians, who no longer had any voice in any-
thing.

The coal merchant, the secretary, both were Jews.
These people have usurped every office and they put

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 179

off from one day to another what is due to us, or
throw it at our heads as if it were a charity. To-
morrow ! With clenched fists I went the next day,
and the day after . . . Patient women, weeping old
grannies, pushing, angry men. The coal merchant
crossed the ante-room quickly, and imploring
voices tried to catch his attention. But he answered
back like a dictator deciding a question of grace :
"Wait your turn!"

Again I went, and befurred and bejewelled women
came down as I went up, gloating over their success.
I heard what they said — they had got what they
wanted; and everywhere it is the same. With the
impotence of a subdued race we go away empty-
handed, and there is no place where we can assert
our rights. They have the power, and they laugh in
our faces.

And the coal in our cellar has been used up and
we live in un warmed rooms.

December 2nd.

The morning was still dark when the ringing of a
bell broke in upon my dreams. It worried me,
floated over my head like the buzzing of a bluebottle,
stopped, and started again. I woke.

It was the telephone in the ante-room.

"The farmer? Oh yes, near our villa! Last
night burglars entered the villa . . . my sister's
too ! I understand ..."

At the police station I received but cold comfort.

" I don't see what good it can do to take your
complaints down," said a little man who seemed to
be a clerk. " Last night sixteen villas were pillaged
on one hill alone. As for the town, God alone knows
how many houses and shops have been visited by
burglars. We can't go into such matters. Where
could we find enough detectives, when those we have
already have other irons in the fire ?"

" They are searching for counter-revolutionists,"
said a gentleman, whose flat had been burgled last
night too. " Robbery is free in this country nowa-
days."

I was sent from the ground-floor to the second,
and thence to the ground-floor again. I wandered

180 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

through stuffy corridors from one untidy office,
smelling of ink, to another, and at last I was
promised that inquiries would be made.

Here too everything had changed. New men
had replaced the old Hungarian officials in the
police-force. They had got this into their hands too.

The north wind blew sharply across the bridge,
bringing a promise of snow. Like giants' brides, the
white hills of Buda stood up against the cold wintry
sky, and on them the bare trees cast shadows like
blue veins over the sunlit snow. Everything
glittered. For a moment the beauty of it thrust the
town, the trouble, and the burgled house into the
background. On the way I met my sister Mary.
She too was coming from the police station and had
two constables with her. The crown had been
removed from the cap of one of them, the other still
wore it.

" So you have not taken it off?" said I.

" Kings may come and kings may go, but the holy
crown will remain in its place," he answered.

"Are you very busy?" I asked, to change the
subject.

" It would not do for things to remain as they
are."

u After all, it was the adherence of the police that
settled the matter," I retorted.

The two men looked at each other, but said
nothing. Meanwhile we reached the house. The
snow on the roof glittered against the blue sky. On
the ground there were footmarks in the snow, which
led to the terrace. It was obvious that the burglars
had climbed the creepers on the wall and had
entered the house in that way. In nearly every room
a kitchen-knife was lying on the table with its handle
standing out beyond the edge, so as to be
easy to catch hold of, had the intruders been dis-
turbed. In the hall a lot of things were tied up in a
bundle.

" They intended to come back," said one of the
policemen.

The cupboards were open, and a lot of things had
been taken away, while the floor was littered with
things they had rejected when they were making
their choice. The red, white and green flag was torn

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 181

from its staff and bore the marks of heavy, muddy
boots. The big Bible, as if shot through the heart,
had a bullet hole through it.

" There are clues enough for me," I said to my
sister. " I have already found the culprits : the pro-
ducts of the revolution have been visiting us."
The constables looked at each other.
When I got home I told my mother what had
happened. She listened to me with a stern face, in
silence.

" They carried away whatever they could. They
even stripped the mattresses. They scribbled filth
on the walls."

" These times levy toll on everybody," said she.
" What about those who are driven from their
homes, whose houses are burnt down, who are
murdered ? If only fate will be satisfied with this
and ask no more from us, if this is all we have to
pay, we shall have no reason to complain." And she
did not mention the matter again.

The evening papers were brought in. One name
dominated them all : Gyulafehervar ... In the
town where John Huny&di, the Hungarian paladin
of Christendom against the Turks, lies buried, over
his grave, on the field at the foot of the castle, the
Roumanian Irredenta under the name of ° Roumanian
National Council " has carried a resolution : M Tran-
sylvania, the Banat and all the territories of Hungary
inhabited by Roumanians are united with Roumania 1"
. . . This happened in Gyulafehervar, and Karolyi's
Government sent the Roumanians by special train to
this assembly of treason ! He even armed a body-
guard for them, and has given them millions !

Once more life seems like the dream of a demented
brain. " Everything is yours," says the Govern-
ment, so that it may take what the robbers cannot
carry off. They share and share alike, and what care
they that in making their division they break our
hearts ? The Hungarian population of Transylvania,
abandoned, humiliated, betrayed, must tolerate that
its ancient land should be thrown by Budapest to an
uneducated, newly-risen Balkan state, whose shep-
herd folk, fleeing from the cruelty of its own prin-
ces, came to Hungary asking for hospitality, a few
hundred years ago. The Szeklers have lived for

N

182 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

fifteen hundred years in Transylvania, and the semi-
barbarous Roumanian people now laugh in the face
of the original inhabitants, and by right of robbery
declare that what was always ours is now their own.

The street is quiet. The town listens with a stony
heart. The stars alone tremble above the roofs as
if a great sob rose to them de profundis.

December 3rd.

I went to Buda, to the Castle Hill. We had a
meeting at five at Count Zichy's palace.

This house was built in the eighteenth century and
is one of Buda's finest palaces. Maria Theresa,
powdered and bewigged, once lived here, and her
presence still seems to linger about the walls. The
stone staircase rises loftily to the hall on the first
floor, whose low, decorated roof is supported by white
pillars. On the white walls glittered the gilt frames
of old pictures.

The lamp had not yet been lit, but a fire was
burning in the wide marble fireplace and shed its
light around from below. It shone back from the
beauty of ancient bronzes, ran over the walls, and
under its flickering touch far-off Chinese springtimes
came to life on the old porcelain, and then melted
again into the gloom, suddenly, as the flicker passed
by. The tall furniture stood haughty and clumsy,
conscious of the fact that it had always been there.

When the lamp was lit others came in, shivering,
and we all gathered round the fire like conspirators,
for we all suffered the same pangs, we all wanted the
same thing. We knew that the hour had come, that
we had to call out the women from behind their
locked doors. In the history of Hungary women have
not often appeared. They have never had to fight
for their rights, because there is no code in the world
which protects the rights of woman so well as ours
did — even in the darker centuries. They could live
quietly in those days, and the handsome narrow
faces of Hungarian women shone only in the mild
light of the home fire. Those were Hungary's happy
days. But when the land was afire and misery was
reaping its harvest, then the Hungarian women rose
to the occasion and stood in the fore-front of the

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 188

fight. Our country has never suffered greater distress
than now, and, as we sat there, we all knew that the
women would respond to our call and would sow the
seed of the counter-revolution. Not at meetings, not
in the market-place, but in their homes, in the souls
of their men exhausted by the hardships of war, men
who are down-hearted to-day but who, to-morrow,
will not dare to give the lie to the women who believe
in their courage . . .

I read the draft of the programme in which, hidden
among social and political reforms, I had attempted
to sum up the vital needs of the whole womanhood
of Christian Hungary.

M Let us set forth clearly what we want," said
Countess Raphael Zichy. All agreed, and at the head
of the programme we stated, clearly and tersely, the
Holy Trinity for which we meant to stand : a
Christian and patriotic policy, the integrity of the
country, and the sanctity of the family.

"I do not doubt the result," said Prince
Hohenlohe; "I have done much organising in Tran-
sylvania, and I know what women can do."

When we left and dispersed in the quiet streets of
Buda, I felt that I had entered on a new path,
which might become my path of destiny.

December l^th to 7th.

Henceforth life took on a new aspect. I shook off
the paralysis of despair which had made me a passive
sufferer of events. Till now, like a cripple deprived
of the power of movement, I had brooded deeply
over everything that came within my ken, but at last
I had become an actor in deadly earnest in the
tragedy, and I could waste no more time over details.

The day after the meeting in the Zichy Palace I
wrote letters, telephoned and called to my side a few
brave, energetic women. We had no time to waste,
and we decided that each of my guests should invite
to her own home her reliable women friends, and
that we should address them, so that they in their
turn might spread the idea of the organisation of
Christian Hungarian women. There was no other
solution, for the Press had ceased to be free. The
few Christian and middle-class papers which would

184 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

otherwise have been at our disposal had begun to be
terrorised by red soldiers. Our ideals had been con-
demned to death by the Social Democrats ; they had
declared war against patriotism and Christianity.
As for the integrity of Hungary's soil, they had
declared in their official paper that it was no business
of theirs . . .

We had perforce to return to the primitive means
of olden times. The idea was spread by word of
mouth, and we separated so as to be able to do more
work. Emma Ritook visited one end of the town
and I the other. Like the primitive Christians,
women gathered now here, now there. I visited
dingy lodgings, baronial halls, schoolrooms; through
dark streets, in the gloom of hostile alleys, I walked
in snow and wind day after day. Women understood
me, and their souls glowed with courage and
decision in these sad times of exhaustion and resigna-
tion. With very few exceptions they signed my
lists, those who did not had been forbidden to do so
by their husbands. Never once did I find among
them the cry of resignation "It is all over, effort is
useless." I respected them and was grateful to
them, for they were simple, great and faithful. And
while I thought of them in my wanderings from one
modest home to another, and tormented myself
about the misfortunes of our country, one scene for
ever kept passing before my eyes. Though the snow
was falling and it was dark I could see an eastern
city under a burning sky; a house with pillars, the
house of Pilate, and in the hall stood Our Lord in
bonds. In front of the house a crowd, mad with
hatred, clamoured: "Crucify Him, Crucify Him!"

That is what they are shouting against our fettered
country to-day. They drag it down among them-
selves, put a crown of thorns upon its head, smite it
and spit upon it. They load it with a heavy cross
and drive it unto the place called Golgotha. They
nail it to the cross, so that it shall be able to see
with its dying, bloodshot eyes, how they cast lots for
its vesture at its feet. Then they put it into a
sepulchre and roll a great stone before it, sealing the
stone and setting a watch so that it shall not be able
to rise . . .

His disciples and followers hid in despair and left

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 185

His grave alone — they had no more hope. But on
the third day, very early in the morning, women
went through the blue dawn to His grave. It was
women who saw His resurrection . . . The memory
of that beautiful, sacred vision must have remained
in their eyes. For thousands of years it has always
been women who have seen resurrection on earth.

Now, too, they see it, or would they follow me ?

I did not want to be their leader, but the idea
wanted it and ordained that I should be its apostle.
When I was tired, when I felt down-hearted and
doubt assailed me, whenever I felt unworthy of the
call, I always remembered that the love for one's
country and people which is put into one's soul is
the measure of what one is able to achieve. It will
succeed, it must succeed ; and my voice, broken with
much speaking, recovered before another meeting at
the other end of the town, and women who had heard
me already ran in front of me in the street, so that
when I reached the new meeting they were waiting
for me there, and listened to me again.

Late at night, dead tired, I struggle home, and flee
to my mother for rest. We sit for a long time in the
little green room, and she encourages me if I am
weary, and she always finds the word that heals.
Then, late, we go to sleep. The evening is long and
gives me rest. I speak of my wanderings — and what
I had felt dimly, as if in a haze, while my fatigue
lasted, revives with imperative insistence, and I can
think of nothing else.

To-day a new misfortune has overtaken Hungary.
The French Colonel Vyx, who has lately come to
Budapest as head of the Entente's military mission,
has sent a memorandum to the Hungarian Govern-
ment, which contains the price of the Czechs' high-
treason. The victorious Powers claim from Hungary
the evacuation of all Upper Hungary, because they
recognise the sovereignty of the Czecho-Slovak State
and consider its army as an allied army . . .

I could hardly stop myself from trembling : a wave
of utter sorrow and degradation passed over me. The
heralds of right and justice, the new saviours of the
world, regardless of the conditions of the armistice,

186 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

simply order us to deliver up our country's great out-
post, the Carpathians and eighteen of our most lovely
counties, to those who never owned them, who are
called the " allies " of the Entente although for many
years they had been the main support of Austria's
power, and its chief executioners. We Hungarians
could tell a tale about that. After our war of liber-
ation, they, as the secret agents of Austrian
absolutism, agents provocateurs, and hangmen
plenipotentiary, tortured Hungary's people more
cruelly than any conqueror has ever done. And
Venice and Lombardy could tell a tale too. There
the memory of imperial torturers, " gli shirr e
austriaci," still haunts the country, and most of
those were Czechs. It is they who are responsible
for the turn things have taken, and yet, as allied
forces of the Allies, they now participate in the
execution of the armistice which directs the occupa-
tion of the old Monarchy's territory !

At the beginning of November fifteen complete
Hungarian divisions came back from the front. If
they were still here ...

I was horrified and looked at my mother. She was
thinking of the same tihings as I did. And like people
who, sitting up with one whom they love and who
is dangerously ill, try to strengthen their faith in his
recovery by speaking of times when the patient was
strong and healthy, we two began to talk, in our
vigil of olden times, of lovely summers in the distant
highlands. When we were still children our parents
wanted us to get to know every part of our country,
and every holiday they found a cosy little nest for us
in some different county. Summers in the
Carpathians ; charming little spas, villages in the
forest, quiet, secluded little towns among the moun-
tains . . . The green fields of the Matra . . . the
Pressburg of Maria Theresa . . . the towns of the
Zips, and Kassa with its ancient cathedral . . . the
High Tatra reaching into the clouds . . . the
wilderness of Bereg . . . the forests of Marmaros
. . . and the heaving waters of the Tisza . . . Past
lovely summers — past with Hungary's soul.

But we shall take it back ! . . . And next day I
was up again and carried the word to the women and
poured my faith into their hearts.

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AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 187

The streets and squares are now darker than ever.
A new order has been published that shops are to be
closed at five, and so the shop-windows are dark after
that hour. I passed in front of a Kinematograph,
where big coloured posters near the entrance ■ feat-
ured" Tisza's death. An actor was made up as Tisza,
and an actress represented Countess Tisza : Denise
Almassy too was impersonated. The manager had had
the reel staged on the authentic spot of the murder.
Did he get the murderers to play their own parts,
I wonder ?

As I passed, I listened with disgust to the remarks
exchanged by people coming out from the perform-
ance. All Pest is whispering about a sailor who
boasts everywhere that it was he who killed Tisza.
It is also said that Countess Almassy, while dining
at the Hotel Ritz, recognised with horror one of
Tisza's murderers. She asked, "Who is that man?"
And somebody answered : " The President of the
Soldiers' Council, Joseph Pogany." But it was only
an invention, for Denise Almassy has never been in
town since the murder. All sorts of rumours get
about. It is said that at the War Office the Govern-
ment has paid out hundreds of thousands of crowns
to suspicious individuals who have rendered great
service to the revolution. The members of the first
Soldiers' Council have received considerable
amounts, nobody knows why. But Karolyi probably
knows, and if he cared to look into matters he might
find Tisza's murderers among them.

We live in a quagmire and around us Bolshevism
is organising more openly every day.

I went home along the banks of the Danube. A
small lighter towed a long raft down stream. A man
sat on the stairs of the embankment, and his head was
bowed between drawn-up knees. A child passed me,
its bare feet wrapped in bits of old carpet and the ends
of the strings with which they were tied up dragged
behind him in the mud. The shops were already
closed and the streets were in darkness. At the
edge of the footpath a queer little figure was alter-
nately stooping and standing up. As I got nearer I
saw that it was an old woman, clothed in an old-
fashioned cloak of beadwork and with a shabby
bonnet on her head, who was searching among the

188 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

garbage in the dust bins that stood by the side of the
street. A little basket hung on her arm, and she was
collecting putrid bits of food.

This town is haunted by strange sounds. Foreign
money rings, banknotes rustle, and one cannot see
who gives or takes. But the recipient sells his
services for the foreign money and then whispers
something broadcast in the streets. The cloaked
woman among the garbage boxes, the despairing
man on the stairs, and the child whose feet protrude
naked from scraps of carpet, they all hear it.

A crowd gathers, no one knows whence, and
soldiers and sailors appear. Suddenly someone
jumps up on a box and begins to make a speech.

" It is all the fault of the gentle-folk, the counts,
the priests and the bourgeois ! They ought to be
knocked on the head, every one of them ! "

CHAPTER XII.

December 8th.

My way took me through the garden of the old
Polytechnic. The place was black with people. In
the great hall of the ' Stork's Fort ' Szelders and
Transylvanian Hungarians were gathered together.
The streets poured forth their masses : the crush up
there must have been awful. I stopped against the
railings and looked at the passers-by, excited officers,
Szekler soldiers, sad, care-worn people — homeless,
every one of them. All their faces were of the
Hungarian type. These are the people of whom the
radical press of Budapest writes that they ought to
be expelled, because there is a scarcity of lodgings !

Would these papers dare to write such a thing of,
say, Englishmen, Frenchmen or Italians ? Can it
be imagined that we should expel from their own
capital these unfortunate people, while foreign
refugees, who could have returned home long ago,
have filled the houses? In the first year of the war
caravans of Galician Jews clad in gabardines fled
before the Russian invasion. They were Austrian
citizens, but the Hungarian capital received them
nevertheless. They stayed on and have enriched
themselves. And now, when homeless Hungarians
are coming back, the Budapest press of the
Hungarian Government shows them the door.

A big crowd of men came towards the garden, good
looking, shabbily dressed gentlemen, who might have
been officials who had refused to take the oath of
allegiance to the invading Roumanians or Czechs.
They reminded me of a declaration of the socialist
Minister for Public Welfare, Kunfi : " As we are
going to be a smaller country, we shall not be able

190 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

to support the many officials of old Hungary. These
will have to seek their living in America." We have
come to this ! The radical press of the immigrants
advocates the expulsion of the Hungarian refugees,
and the Minister of Public Welfare advises the native
Hungarian intellectuals to emigrate !

So there is no more room for us in our own country ?

It is a wicked, devilish game. Words are used as
keys to open the dark underground passages which
undermine our country. The War Minister of
Karolyi's Government says to the Hungarian army
" I never want to see a soldier again." The Minister
for Nationalities ruins our fellow nationals and hands
them over to the yoke of foreigners. The Minister
of Finance says : "I don't want to see a rich man ;
I shall impose such taxes in Hungary as the history
of the world has never known." The Prime Minister
declares that whoever invades Hungary, we shall
appeal to the judgment of the civilised world, but
we won't draw sword against the invader.

Just then some Transylvanian undergraduates
dragged a little cart into the middle of the garden.
A Transylvanian soldier was standing on it and he
shouted out what had been discussed up in the hall.

M We will rise to arms. We swear it by our
freedom, fifteen hundred years old !"

An officer swore in the name of the Szekler com-
mando : " Our bodies and our souls for the Szeklers'
Independence."

"We have had enough war!" shouted a Budapest
pacificist. He was expelled noisily from the place.
Angry cries followed him down the stairs, and then
a thousand voices shouted the curse : "May God for-
sake him who does not help the Szeklers in their
struggle !"

I raised my head. It seemed to me that at last
the town of silently suffering Hungarians had re-
gained her voice, that the Szeklers had given it back
to her ; and the cheers, rising, gigantic, in the garden,
spread over the streets like a great, solemn oath.

December 9th-llth.

A black tablet has been hung under the glass roof
of the railway station upon which the names of

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 191

towns have been written with chalk : Ruttka, Kassa,
Korosmezo, Kolozsvar, Arad, Orsova, Szeged-R6kus,
Pecs, Esszek. There are no more trains for these
from Budapest. Passengers wait in vain. No more
trains will come from the capital of Hungary. The
nerves are severed, the arteries are cut, life-blood is
cozing slowly out of them. Communication has
ceased; tracks are covered with snow and the signal
lamps are extinguished. Silence reigns in the distant
little stations, the silence of a shudder. Who knows
what may happen before the connection is renewed ?
Foreign rule occupies our towns, it spreads further
and further, always nearer to the centre . . .

And as each day passes, here in the isolated heart
of the country everything is getting more and more
antagonistic, dividing even those who have the power
in their hands. The proposed law of land reform
has lit a fire which shows up both extremes. Even
in Karolyi's party there is a split. The radicals and
socialists go hand in hand, and the Hungarians, not-
withstanding their miserable position, are opposed to
them.

It is said that the Government is tottering. By
means of the Soldiers' and Workers' Council the
power of the Socialists is increasing daily and they
now claim the portfolios of War and of the Interior
for themselves. Two Jews are their candidates.
They accuse Batthyany of reaction and attack the
Minister of War because he opposes the Soldiers'
Council system, desires to diminish the socialist local
guards, and recruits peasant guards in the country.
They accuse him of supporting royalist movements
and of forming officers' corps and emergency detach-
ments.

The Counter-revolutionists !

This word is now beginning to raise its head in
determination to break down any patriotic attempt,
to stand in the way of every honest endeavour. We
have reached the stage when it is counter-revolution
to complain of the foreign occupations, to speak of
the integrity or defence of the country's territory, or
to say : " Let us work that we may not starve. "

The so-called unemployed are more powerful than
those who work, and they are many. Their leader
is Bela Kun, and they have plenty of money.

192 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

Shirking work is one of the best means to-day of
earning one's bread and it is powerfully supported
by a Government which distributes millions under
the name of unemployment doles, while nobody will
sweep the streets ; snow and dirt grow in piles, and
the garbage rots in the doorways.

It happened yesterday that, after infinite pains,
I managed to obtain, at a fabulous price, a few sacks
of coal. The carter who brought it threw it down in
front of the cellar-trap. When I asked him to shovel
it in he swore vilely because it was getting dark and
he was not disposed to do it. He left it there, in
spite of any tip I could offer him. And so, with the
help of the little German maid, we had to do it our-
selves.

The other day I saw an officer dragging home a
cart of firewood. My sister brought potatoes home
in a Gladstone bag because nobody would carry
them for her at any price. The garbage of the
capital has been removed during the last few days
by some officials from the town hall ; no carter would
do the job, and so these officials thought it would not
be out of the way to ' earn,' besides their official
pay of ten to twenty crowns a day, an extra one
hundred and thirty crowns per diem.

While this sort of thing is going on there is a huge
crowd in front of the office which pays out the un-
employment dole. Lusty young men and ne'er-do-
weel domestic servants * spoon ' in the crowded,
disorderly queue. They get fifteen crowns daily, but
are not satisfied and demand thirty. The agitators
go even further and say persistently : " Everything
is yours." Nothing but hatred or indifference is left
now in the minds of the people.

I went to a funeral this afternoon. We buried a
young woman, a victim of the epidemic. We couldn't
find a cab to take us to the cemetery, so we all walked.
The priest was late, as he too was unable to find a
cab. The large, cold garden of the dead was getting
dark among the black cypresses when the coffin was
lowered into the grave. The grave-diggers had
waited a long time, and they became impatient and
grumbled furiously. We heard coarse words. One
of them looked at his watch. " It's too late," he
said, " we'll leave it till to-morrow." So they stuck

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 198

their spades into the mound of earth, took their hats
and left. Down in the open grave lay the coffin, and
the dismayed silence was broken by the fall of little
clods of earth upon it. We looked at each other
helplessly; nobody dared to speak.

" I won't leave her like this," said the widower,
and taking the spade in his shaking hands he covered
with earth the most precious thing that life had given
him. The lumps of earth showered noisily down on
to the coffin. For a moment we stood overawed, the
whole thing seemed so terrible, then we bent down
and helped with our naked hands.

And in the dark a heart-breaking sob raised a
human protest against all inhumanity . . .

December 12th.

A big red flag appeared in the streets this morning
and went slowly towards the Danube under a gray,
smoky sky. Street urchins ran beside it; the rabble
rushed on like dust before the wind. The people in
the street hugged the walls of the houses and again
the flag came in sight, approaching unsteadily,
followed by soldiers, at whose head an officer rode,
with drawn sword. His face struck me as if I had
been hit across the eyes by a twig. His ears projected
from both sides under the officer's cap, and his lips
formed a fleshy arc.

The face of the leader — the face of the people and
of the army. The face of the soldiers of our war of
liberation in 1848 was the face of Gorgei, of Kossuth,
of Petofi. The face of Hungary of the Great War was
the sad, resolute face of Stephen Tisza. The face
of the October revolution was Michael Karolyi . . .
And the face of this detachment with the red flag
was the officer heading it.

Behind him the infantry came in irregular forma-
tion, many of the soldiers smoking. Guns rumbled
after them ; two gunners sat jolting on one of the
guns, red ribbons floating from their caps. They
were smoking too . . . The crowd went on. A
battery of field artillery followed, and Hussars rode
at the end. One trooper signalled to a lady friend of
his who was passing, stopped his horse and had a

194 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

nice, comfortable chat with her from the saddle, then
he galloped after the rest.

Somebody said : " The whole garrison is here !
They are going to Buda." "What for?" Nobody
knew. Meanwhile the red flag was climbing up the
hillside towards the royal castle.

The city and the other quarters of the town knew
nothing of this procession. Nobody troubled about
it. The citizens of Budapest were apathetic and in-
different, and thought no more about it than did the
bridge which suffered the procession to cross it. Men
continued to live their precarious lives and everything
seemed to be the same as yesterday, but in the after-
noon came the news that this garrison had caused
the downfall of the War Minister ! The Soldiers'
Council and Joseph Pogany had ousted Albert Bartha.

It happened in the castle, on St. George's Square.
I heard of it from an eye-witness. The infantry stood
in a row, with machine-guns and the artillery
behind them. And while threats against Bartha
were shouted, the malicious face of Joseph Pogany-
Schwarz appeared in one of the windows of the
building occupied by the Soldiers' Council. The
officers on horseback saw him and shouted his name
and cheered him. Then the demonstrators cheered
Karolyi. Meanwhile a delegation of the garrison's
confidential men, led by Dr. M6r, a reserve officer,
went up to the Prime Minister and presented him
with a paper containing the demands of the garrison.

Karolyi received the delegation in deadly fear.

The soldiery down in the square turned their guns
and machine-guns on the War Office . . . That is
how they waited for an answer. As a matter of
fact most of the men did not care what happened.
It was the confidential men who told them how to
come here, and what to demand, and accordingly
they came and demanded : " Let Bartha resign and
be replaced by a civilian Minister of War who will
organise a democratic army. The staff-officers must
be dismissed from the War Office, and the proclama-
tion concerning the Soldiers' Council and the Con-
fidential Men, suppressed by Bartha, must be put
into execution at once. All the Minister's special
officers' detachments are to be disbanded." Finally
they demanded that the officers should in future be

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 196

elected by the ranks, and that rankers should be
qualified to become officers.

In the reception-room of the Prime Minister,
Karolyi addressed the deputation, submitted, pro-
mised everything and — gave up Bartha.

"I saw with pleasure," he said, "the many
thousands of soldiers, because it has afforded me the
evidence of my own eyes that the Hungarian Govern-
ment is not defenceless, but has a powerful army at
its back."

As a matter of fact, at that moment the powerful
army was not standing at his back but opposite him ;
an army that was good for nothing but to demonstrate
in Budapest, and whose heroism was directed against
his War Office, upon which its guns were trained.

Then the soldiers marched to the offices of the
Soldiers' Council and Pogany addressed them in
words full of vainglory :

" This demonstration has shown that there are
enough soldiers, and that the troops are in the hands
of the confidential men. It has shown," he shouted
in rapture, " that discipline can be maintained, but
only when it is the troops themselves who maintain
it . . ."

M Long live Pogany, the Minister of War . . ."
rose the cry under the red flag. And he, red with
the effort of shouting, roared the following threats :
" We won't allow Budapest's social-democratic army
to be disbanded, just because it is social-democratic !
We won't tolerate the formation of independent
peasants' detachments!"

" Long live the socialist army ! Down with the
peasants' detachments!" came the shout back from
the square.

This morning something else was lost up there in
the castle. Only a desperate effort made by secret
organisation can help us now. The army of Hungary
has passed entirely into the hands of Pogany-Schwarz,
and the soldiers, drunk with joy, are snooting in the
streets.

December 13th-15th.

The die was cast yesterday in the Castle, and the
red flag was hoisted.

196 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

It is now impossible to patch up the country's
misfortune. It is the Government which has patched
itself up. Albert Bartha, the patriotic Hungarian
soldier, has left, and so has Batthyany. The social-
ists had intended the Ministry of the Interior for the
communist Eugene Landler, but they did not succeed
in that. All the same, the victory of the socialists
is complete — they have got the War Office ! For the
present Karolyi is temporary Minister of War, but
it is obvious that a little Jewish electrician, the
social-democrat, William Bohm, stands behind him,
though not so long ago he was repairing the type-
writers and electric installations of the office.

" Good, you have come at last ; just repair my
machine !" the girl-clerks said to him when they saw
him in the passages of the War Office. " I am the
Minister of War," Bohm answered proudly, and sat
down at Bartha's desk. Already he calls himself
Hungary's Minister of War. Karolyi still masks him,
but the game is obvious. When Karolyi formed his
government on the 1st of November he started with
five Jewish Ministers, but as he was afraid of public
opinion he confessed to three only : Jaszi, Garami
and Kunfi, while in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs
Diener-Denes, and in the Ministry of Finance Paul
Szende were hidden behind his own name.

They advance with frightful rapidity. The powers
of destruction are putting into practice with ruthless
logic the pronouncement of Kunfi to the National
Assembly on the day the republic was proclaimed
under the cupola of the House of Parliament : " After
the institutions we shall have to change men ; we
must put into every place in this country men who
are inspired by the spirit of our new revolutionary
ideas."

It is clear now who these are, for the military
and civilian administrations are already filled with
people who used to work behind the counters of shops
or banks, or in editorial offices, and used to mock at
the unpractical Hungarian intellectuals who struggled
for starvation wages in the public offices. Now they
are taking their places, getting sudden rises in their
salaries, and pursuing a racial policy such as, alas !
the Hungarian race has never been able to pursue.

" We are wiping out a thousand years," is their

WILLIAM BOHM.

TYPEWRITER AGENT. PEOPLE'S COMMISSARY FOR

(1) HOME AFFAIRS; (2) WAR OFFICE. LATER A

COMMANDER OF THE RED ARMY, AND FINALLY

' AMBASSADOR ' AT VIENNA.

(To face f. iq6.)

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 197

cry, and they find fault with all the old institutions ;
but so far as they themselves are concerned, no
criticism is allowed.

"Do you know, we have now come to this," a
tradesman said to me in his shop, looking round
cautiously as he spoke, " that it is counter-revolution
to push a Galician Jew by accident in the street."

Now that we have retired from everything, and
Hungary's social life has been swallowed up in the
nation's poverty and mourning, the twin-type of the
war-millionaire, the revolution-millionaire, begins to
play his part. A new kind of public invades the
restaurants, the theatres and the places of amuse-
ment : plays, written by its writers, are played to
full houses; people in gabardines occupy the stalls,
while in the boxes orthodox Jewish women in wigs
chatter in Yiddish, and in the interval eat garlic-
scented sausages in the beautiful, noble foyer of the
Royal Opera, and throw greasy paper bags about.

In the restaurants of the Ritz and Hungaria Hotels
a new type of guests eat exclusively with their knives ;
their mentality is shown by the fact that the other
day when a few French officers left a restaurant,
they ordered the gipsy band to play the i Marseillaise,'
and rose to their feet. One of the officers turned
back and said : " Sale nation ..."

Invading conquerors sometimes deprive the con-
quered of freedom, weapons, and goods ; but our
conquerors deprive us of our honour as well.

Every day it becomes clearer to me that we shall
never be able to repel the devastators pouring in
over our frontiers till we have dealt with the devas-
tators in our midst, and have put them back into
their place. And — if we all work hand in hand —

Count Stephen Bethlen wants to weld all the
patriotic Hungarian parties into one.

We women are already great in numbers. Every
day we form new camps in different quarters of the
town. I address the women, and tell them that our
fortress is a triangle, the three advanced outworks
being our country, our faith, and our family. These
three outworks are threatened by Jewish socialist-
communism. Before the foe can storm the fort we
must strengthen the souls of the defenders so that the
offensive may collapse. Of all humanity, women will

198 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

be the heaviest losers if the war is lost and the
communists win, for women are to be common
property when once the home is broken up, and God
and country have been denied.

The testament of Peter the Great is the programme
of Panslavism. The communist declaration of Karl
Marx, the son of a rabbi, Mordechai by his real name,
is the programme of Pan Judaism. If it is realised,
Hungary perishes, and human culture will follow it
into its grave. We who fight on the soil of dis-
membered, trampled Hungary do not fight for our-
selves alone, but for every Christian woman in the
world. They know it not, and they stretch forth no
hand to help us, but look on while the nations to
which they belong ruin us. But the day may still
come when we shall be understood.

Those who heard my words followed me, and many
of them offered their help, though at that time it was
dangerous to make such an offer. I noticed more
than once that furtive steps followed me in the
streets, stopping when I stopped, and going on when
I started again. They accompanied me down dark
staircases, and when I looked back from a door I had
entered, someone was standing in the dark and
watching.

The Government knows about us, the police are
watching us, but in vain; the idea goes on and
spreads. Whenever I express it people recognise
it as their own. It cannot be stopped now.

December 16th.

Once upon a time ... Or was it not so long ago ?
Was it on a winter evening in my childhood that I
heard the story that once, up there in the Carpathi-
ans, a huge giant opened his jaws and tried to swallow
the world ? We were already between his teeth, and
all over the world folk said that that was the end of
us. Poor little Hungary was done for, Imperial
Austria would follow, and then it would be the turn
of Germany. It seemed as if our time had come. In
the shadow of the Alps, Italy waiting for her oppor-
tunity, drew her dagger from under her cloak, and
stabbed us in the back. Roumania was feverishly
tugging at her knife.

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 199

" Nothing can help the Central Powers now " . . .
The whole world said so, and thought us easy victims.

Then a miracle happened. It was on a certain day
in May, and on that spring morning the three allies
started an attack near Gorlice. "Mackensen, Mac-
kensen!" they shouted in victory, and the Tsar's
Russia, the most terrible enemy whom a people had
ever encountered, fell upon us.

Was it a long time ago? Was it in my childhood
that I heard the story, that, down in Transylvania,
like an echo of Gorlice, the name of Mackensen rose
again as a cry of victory above the Hungarian and
German armies ? And then, above the vast mirror
of the Danube's flood, a third time the name of
Mackensen resounded. For the third time he stood
at the head of the armies that were defending the
gates of Hungary.

Was it a long time ago ? Was it so long ago that
time has obliterated its memory ? It was yesterday !
It was on history's bloody page in the world-war,
while there was still hope, while our honour was still
bright.

And to-day when Mackensen came to Budapest to
negotiate with Karolyi for the repatriation of his
army, the red soldiers of Pogany-Schwarz, under the
leadership of Captain Gero-Grosz, with full knowledge
of the Government, dragged machine-guns to the
railway station and trained their muzzles on the line,
while an evening paper had its Kinema operator
ready. That is how Hungary's capital prepared for
the reception of Field-Marshal von Mackensen.

When he looked out of his carriage window and
saw the shameful spectacle of the railway station
fortified against him, his fine, sharp features were dis-
torted with rage. He took it in at a glance : he had
been trapped. Capt. Gero went up to him and told
him he was a prisoner. Then he informed him that
Karolyi wanted to negotiate with him and expected
him at the House of Parliament. Mackensen pro-
tested, refused to go, and desired that Karolyi or
his representative should come to the station. Capt.
Gero informed him that any refusal on his part
would have disastrous consequences for his army.

After fierce argument the Field-Marshal reluctantly
yielded, but declared that he would not leave his

200 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

carriage till the machine-guns and the kinematograph
apparatus were removed from the station. This was
conceded. When he got out his face was white with
anger and his chest heaved so that the decorations
on it shook. He walked with his head erect to the
closed car that was waiting for him.

The meeting between him and Karolyi took place
in the House of Parliament, in the Prime Minister's
room. A German friend of mine gave me the following
account of it, received directly from the Field-
Marshal's lips.

Karolyi received him standing and advanced a few
steps to meet him. Behind him the social democratic
secretary for War, the little Jewish electrician, was
making himself as small as possible. Mackensen re-
mained rigid, with both hands behind his back,
glaring at the two men. He listened without a word
to Karolyi, who, putting the responsibility on the
powers of the Entente, requested him to give up all
the arms of his army in conformity with the Belgrade
Armistice. The Field-Marshal declined and said
that as far as he was concerned, and according to
his instructions from Spa, the conditions of the
armistice concluded on the Western front were in
force. He also declared that he would not leave
Hungary till the last man of his army was over the
frontier.

Karolyi informed him that he could not leave in
any case, as he, with his whole army, was going to
be interned in Foth.

"I did not expect that!" said Mackensen. And
hard words were spoken between them. The
Hungarian Government, however, had left itself a
loophole. At first Karolyi threatened to intern the
whole army, but at length he conceded that disarma-
ment would be sufficient, and this Mackensen ac-
cepted only conditionally with the consent of the
German Government.

During the debate Karolyi stuttered more than
usual, and when this painful meeting came to an end
he proffered his hand hesitatingly to Mackensen.
The Field-Marshal measured him with contempt : "I
have had to do with many people in my life, but I
have never before met a man who was so devoid of
all honour as you are." Then, with a slight nod,

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 201

he turned his back on him. And the hand of Michael
Karolyi, which had already been contemptuously
ignored by the French General Franchet d'Esperay,
was left empty in the air.

It was thus that Mackensen became a prisoner of
Hungary.

Was it a long time ago ? Was it in my childhood
that I heard the story that once upon a time the
shout of M Mackensen, Mackensen!" resounded vic-
toriously at three gates of Hungary ?

December 17th-22nd.

We walk in the gutter of shame between two
close, high walls, whence there is no escape and no
rest. In this deadly atmosphere we sink deeper and
deeper at every turning.

Yesterday evening was even worse than usual. It
was late when I said good-night to my mother, and
I could get no sleep. Nations carry their misfortunes
in common, and that is why they can bear the worst,
but the shame which has now befallen us is so colossal
that it seems to belong to us alone. It isolates us from
humanity. I had been lying motionless in the dark
for a long time and could think of nothing but how
Karolyi had sinned against us. To-morrow the whole
world will know it and even our enemies will despise
us for it.

Our enemies ? . . . The face of a German soldier
seemed to stare at me from the dark. He was
wounded; a shell had torn off both his legs. He had
been brought from Transylvania about two years
ago. I had spoken to him in the German hut at the
railway station. And then there appeared another,
and, as in a mad feverish dream, they came, and
came, through the dark, pressing on in endless
array, covered with blood, lame, mutilated, all those
I had met in four and a half years' of war. One looked
hard and scornful, another reproachful, and all
stared at me pitilessly, and in my dream I could
hear their moans.

During the years of war, the German, in his in-
finite pride, clumsily, coarsely, often hurt us, as he
has hurt us before many times in history. His
dreams of annexations have often eliminated the

202 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

possibility of peace. His manner of waging war, the
work of his diplomacy, and, above all, the arrogance
he assumed in dealing with us, were often strange to
our mind. But we recognised his greatness, his
strength, his endurance and his honour, and I am
convinced that there is not a single Hungarian in
Hungary who does not repudiate, desperately and
indignantly, that which Karolyi has dared to do in
our name to Mackensen.

It was torture to lie still in bed. Why is there
nobody among us who will avenge this? Why is
there nobody who will wipe off the dirt before
it dries on us ? Innumerable eyes glared at me
through the dark from under German soldiers' caps,
and at last I could bear it no longer. I lit a candle
and tried to read. I took up a Hungarian book, for
I felt that at that moment it would be impossible to
read a book in any other tongue. When my mind
was troubled how often had I not found solace in
Arany, Vorosmarty and Petofi? They wept over
Austrian tyranny, over the failure of our war of
liberation, but for all their sufferings those were
pleasant times compared with the present. They
knew how to console the passing sufferings of their
age, and in that their age was fortunate — but we are
forsaken. In our great city of a million there is not
a single poet through whose verses we can express
our sorrows, who can give voice to our sufferings.

Anatole France poses as a socialist, and yet
throughout the whole war he stood for the national
ideals of France with the wholehearted fury of
revanche. Gabriele d'Annunzio, proclaimed a
traitor from the Capitol, led his nation off the right
path, yet there was beauty in his wild war-cry be-
cause it was inflamed by the love of his country and
his people. And while Anatole France and
d'Annunzio sang in beautiful strains the glory and
the victory of their nation, most of the poets of
Budapest were in the cafes talking philosophy and
pacifism, and more than one among them helped for-
ward the rebellion at the Astoria Hotel. There were
even some who proposed to the Council of Public
Works that one public square should be called after
Michael Karolyi, another in commemoration of the
" battle " on the bridge, after the 81st of October,

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 208

and the public park after a socialist newspaper ! Were
they misled ? Maybe, but where are they now, when
there can be no longer any misconception, when our
land and our people are trodden down by the crowd
they have joined ? If Hungarian politicians have
sunk into deplorable impotence, if there is not a
single soldier to draw his sword, why do not the
poets rouse the sleeping nation?

I crouched at my writing-table and in my grief
started to address a letter to them. About an hour
may have passed when suddenly I heard the creaking
of a door in our flat. Steps went through the
drawing-room. One was quick, the other hesitating.
The dear, quaint rhythm approached and I remem-
bered. Thus did my mother come to me when I was
a child, when I had bad dreams, and even before
she had reached my side all that was terrifying would
vanish.

She opened the door. She could no more sleep
than I could, so she sat down in the big arm-chair
near my writing-table and remained there in silence.
And I began to read to her what I had written.

" Our war was a war of self-defence. If anybody
denies it, let him look at our frontiers north, south
and east, if his tearful eyes can see so far. The war
we lost was a war of self-defence. We lost it terribly,
more terribly than fate had decreed. And now, the
pain is so burning, our sufferings are so immeasur-
able, that the human brain has become benumbed
and we are dropping from our hands that which we
ought to hold on to.

" Our people, with its thousand years of history,
stands exhausted, incapable of acting while the
moments of grace which fate has given us before
closing the most awful chapter of our history pass

" The sand is running out, and there is no hand
to stay it. Where is he who will seize the moment
and shout a message to our unarmed brethren
perishing amid the bayonets of Czechs, Roumanians
and Serbs ? Who will raise his voice so that it will
carry beyond the walls erected by war between the
peoples of the world, and bring faith, hope and love
to us once more ? Where is he ? And if his voice
does not carry far enough, why in this hour of our

204 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

trial have all the strings of our nation's lute been
slackened ? Why did our war produce no Petofi,
why is the burning pain of our defeat without Arany ?
The strains of soft chords carry further than the
declamations of loud-voiced orators.

" Have even the songs of our fighting bards for-
saken Hungary? Have the minstrels that remained
at home all bled to death ? The recital of our
sorrows should be piercing the hearts of five contin-
ents; strength and faith should be sung to our
sufferers at home, the bloodless nation should be
stirred up with wild inspiring songs, so that it may
not abandon hope. Poets are needed, poets whose
voices can hold together the Hungarian soil, poets
who will teach Hungarians to help each other.

" Let them come, I beseech them, let the poets
come who still feel Hungary's pain as their own, for
whom Hungary's death is the death of themselves.
For Pressburg weeps above the Danube, the people
of our northern counties have lost their homes,
faithful Zips calls broken-hearted to the Great Plain.
Kassa is ready to grasp Rakoczi's sword. Transyl-
vania shows her martyr's wounds while the proud
Szekler shakes off his shackles and the ancient land
that Hunyadi held is breaking its heart over the dis-
grace of Belgrade. Who can give us a word of com-
fort, who can strengthen us with faith in a better
future, in this hour of our agony, if not the poets of
the nation?

M And while I clamour in vain for them the
immortals rise from their tombs, the great army of
national spirits, planting a standard round which the
millions of Hungarians should rally : a torch to guide
them, a camp-fire to rest them, and the soft flames
of the hearth to comfort them in the night of great
deception.

" While our contemporaries fail to find a voice for
our sufferings, Petofi wanders among the ragged
mutilated heroes who have returned :

" Oh shame, oh bitter shame ! Once Clio's records told
Of fame no fairer than thy fair name's fame ;
Now thou'rt despised, and those who would of old
Cringe at thy feet, dare strike thee free and bold
Full in the face, and cover thee with shame.

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 205

Whate'er my fate, whatever its decree,

I shall forbear and suffer for thy sake ;

Though God's most bitter curse should fall on me,

Ne'er shall I rest, but goad and harass thee

Until I stir thy heart, or my heart break."

" Down there in the plain, Arany wandered after
sunset over the snow-covered land. He stopped at
the threshold of stately manors, under hamlets' tiny
windows, lit up by the brushwood fire from within.
And it is the soul of the plains that speaks from his
lips :

The Nation lives and shudders as its heart
With horror feels destruction's deadly grip . . ."

" And above all, alone, like the voice of a giant
choir, the voice of Vorosmarty exclaims :

For come it will, for come it must
The dawn of better days,
For which this land, with pious lips
Beseeches Thee and prays."

" Thus speaks the past to us while the lute of the
present is silent, while innumerable, homeless Hun-
garians wander aimlessly in the streets of the dis-
tracted country's epidemic-ridden capital, whose
streets are bedizened with flags fluttering in heart-
breaking irony.

" My poor, unfortunate town, is there nobody to
tell thee to put thy begrimed flags at half-mast?
Hast thou not a single minstrel to rouse thee ? Dost
thou not see thy disgraced streets trodden by the
fugitives of half thy country, by foreign armies, while
all around thee the country is dismembered ?

" So let the dead come with their lyre to raise the
quick, let the grave shout into the dwellings of the
living, let the past console the present. For the
songs of Hungary's poets of the past are all our
hope; for they alone hold the promise of Hungary's
future."

So far had I written. In the morning I telephoned
to the editor of the Pesti Hirlap and asked him if he
wanted an article. It was the first time in my life

206 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

that I had had to ask for space : up till now it was
the papers who had asked me for copy. The editor
accepted with thanks, so I sent him the manuscript ;
but I looked in vain for it in the paper next day, and
the day after. I telephoned again. The editor was
embarrassed, he apologised and said that he regretted
he was unable to publish the article as it was not in
accordance with the Government's views.

" Are the Government's views so anti-patriotic
then?" I asked.

"Please don't forget," said the editor nervously,
"that the present situation is terribly delicate; this
may be the last bourgeois government, and goodness
only knows how long it can hold its own."

" I hope not long. I would rather see destruction
declare itself openly. This downfall in disguise is
intolerable."

While we were speaking I heard a curious buzzing
in the telephone, as if something were wrong with
the apparatus. I wanted to speak to the editor of
another paper, but the exchange was unable to give
me the connection, though I tried for a long time.
Meanwhile I sent to the Pesti Hirlap for my manu-
script.

When it came at last I took it to the editor of the
Radical Az Ujsdg. That also was a new experience,
but I was determined that the article should appear
in print, and refused to give in. Again the editor
received my request courteously, and actually carried
out his promise next day ; the article appeared,
though in an obscure corner, and very indistinctly
set.

Some day, when peace and quiet have returned,
people will wonder how this could have happened
under a government which proclaimed the freedom
of the press, and at a time when the mouthpiece of
the Social Democrats could promise its readers over
their breakfast table that " the glorious revolution "
would sweep away " bourgeois " society, and could
accuse the Hungarian race of jingoism because it
would not renounce without protest territory it had
held for a thousand years — that a poor essay dealing
with Hungary's sufferings should nave had to per-
form such an Odyssey before a newspaper could be
found to publish it. It will perhaps seem just as

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 207

astonishing that I received in connection with it in-
numerable letters of thanks, and that a friend of mine
who had spent fifty-one months at the front, and who
had shown reckless courage, telephoned to me, say-
ing : " Tears came into our eyes when we read your
article. I take off my hat to you for having the
courage to speak out."

And while all these people, suffering greatly, were
grateful because I said what they all felt, our fore-
most actress, Theresa Csillag, was walking about the
town selling the shabby newspaper and, with her
inimitable, beautiful voice, reading to the very souls
of the passers-by the appeal : " Wake up !"

There are many of us, only we don't know each
other.

CHAPTER XIII.

December 23rd-2J^th.

Everyone I have spoken to within the last few days
has expressed anger and disgust over Mackensen's
arrest. Countess Raphael Zichy told me she met
Michael Karolyi accidentally, and told him straight
out what she thought about it.

" It was bound to happen," he answered cynically,
" the worst that can happen now is that I shall have
the reputation of having been the first ungentlemanly
prime minister of Hungary."

We met again in the Zichy Palace, the same group
as last time. We had intended talking about our
women's organization, but, somehow, we could not
avoid the subject of Mackensen.

" We must write to him in the name of the
women !" said I, and there was a chorus of approval.
I was entrusted with the writing of the letter, and
Prince Hohenlohe offered to translate it into German,
while the others promised to collect signatures.

I wrote it the same night : it gave me no trouble,
for it was already in my mind. I repudiated Karolyi's
base deed, scorned it, branded it in the name of
womenkind, and asked the Field Marshal to forgive
what had been done against the will of the nation.
We were helpless at present, but the day would come
when Hungary's people would raise up a statue of
him on the rocks of the Carpathians which he had
defended.

My mother was the first to sign my sheet. Then
I started for town, and in the evening brought home
with me many signatures. A message was waiting
for me at home to say that Countess Albert Apponyi

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 209

was going to Foth, and as she too had signed the
letter, she would take the message of Hungary's
womanhood to Mackensen for Christmas.

It was little enough, but we had no more to give.
The Field Marshal understood. He read the letter
at once and was deeply moved when he expressed
his thanks.

Thus came the eve of Holy Christmas.

Along the pavements grimy heaps of snow were
melting. Squashy black mud covered the streets, the
gas lamps flickered palely, and the shops were closed
at an early hour. The trams had stopped. The
town was needy and cold.

When, in accordance with our yearly custom, my
mother and I went to spend the holy evening with
my sister Mary, we saw armed drunken soldiers
loafing about the streets. All round us there was
firing going on, and the windows of the houses were
in darkness.

Everywhere in Hungary the windows are dark to-
day, and there is shooting among the houses of
peaceful people. Only the frontiers, the dangerously
receding frontiers, are quiet under the wintry sky.
Over the snow-covered fields of Transylvania a
Roumanian general is marching on Kolozsvar with
four thousand men. Yesterday his advance guards
entered the town of King Matthias Corvinus. I
wept when I heard it . . .

The French Lieut.-Colonel Vyx has sent another
memorandum. He has advanced the Entente's line
of demarcation once more, and has now pushed it
beyond Pressburg, Kassa, Kolozsvar, beyond many
lovely Hungarian towns. And the Czechs and
Serbians are still advancing . . .

Never has Hungary known a sadder Christmas
than this one. There are no lights on our Christmas
tree, it has been turned into a gallows tree and
bound to it stands our generation, wounded more
deeply than any Hungarian generation has ever been
wounded before.

Christmas Night.

An icy wind was blowing when my mother and I
came home through the unfriendly streets, and

210 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

volleys were being fired in the direction of one of the
barracks. We went out and came back amidst the
clatter of firearms, and between the two journeys
there was the picture of my sister's home, the usual
room, the dwarf pine tree, with spluttering, bad
candles, and, on the table, covered with white linen,
the children's presents. They at least enjoyed it.
The little boy thought that his brother's patched up
rocking horse was new, and that everything was
lovely. Poor children of a poor age, it is as well that
they don't know what our Christmasses were
like ! . . . A hundred candles, a noble, grand fir
tree reaching up to the ceiling. The smell of pure
wax mingling with the perfume of the fir, fresh from
the Vag valley, and every wish of the year was satis-
fied under that tree. Beyond that, I saw another
tree, then another, and another, many more . . .
Burning candles and green fir trees carried me back
into the years of the past : an avenue of shining
Christmas trees, the end of which is so far away that
in the depth of its perspective I can see myself quite
small. There, far away, I was a child, like those
who now count me among the old. Then all the old
folk were still with me, the dear old ones who stand
between us and death when we start life. There are
many of them, many defending rows, so that we
cannot see the end of the road ... As we advance,
one after another they disappear. My two grand-
mothers, my father . . . One defending row after
the other has fallen out, and now only my mother
and Uncle Geza, her brother, stand in front of
me ... I am coming to the front myself; like the
others before me, I am hiding the end of the road
from the children who are growing up . . .

When childhood has passed, the festivities of
Christmas are always damped by the quiet sadness
of memories. And this year it is not only the past
of individuals but the past of our country, our people
that haunts us. How lovely Christmas used to
be . . . Hungary's Christmas ! So naturally
lovely that we did not know . . .

Christmas bells ! When they called to midnight
mass their clanging mingled with the rattle of
machine-guns.

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 211

December 25th-30th.

In the good old times the last week of the year
used to be one uninterrupted holiday. This year it
is only a horrible part of the desperate road we have
to tread. The news spreads from one to the other :
to-morrow — the day after to-morrow — on New Year's
Eve at the latest — there is going to be great
slaughter in the town. Everything one sees is cruel,
rough and repellent. I have hidden from it these last
few days, and, near my mother, in the peace of my
home, once more I have had time to think.

The Government speaks of elections, and promises
this sham legal confirmation of its power for
January, as the Entente refuses to deal with it under
present conditions. Meanwhile the Social Democrats
are trying to win over the villages, so the reform of
the land-laws is again to the fore. They have always
been a poisonous wound in Hungarian life, and
should have been altered, justly, soberly, many a
year ago. Previous governments have postponed it
unscrupulously; the present government wants to
use it as a firebrand. Buza Barna, the Minister for
Agriculture, has promised so much land to those who
want it that he wouldn't be able to find it even if he
were to divide up all the entailed and private
estates ; and he has promised it for such an early
date that it is technically impossible to deal with
the matter in time.

The intention is obvious. After the Russian pat-
tern, they want to gain the peaceful peasants'
adherence to their revolutionary principles. So they
promise land to everybody. This lying promise has
spread with evil results : following the example of
the workers in the towns, the agricultural labourers
have now stopped work. They expect to till their
own plots in the spring, so why should they work for
others now ? No autumn sowing is being done, and
while the country is starving, maize, potatoes,
beetroot, swedes and vegetables worth millions re-
main in the fields unharvested. Agitators visit the
villages, inciting the people against private property
and landlords, and appealing to the servants and
labourers to take possession of the land.

As the Budapest Soldiers' Council rules over the

212 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

military administration, of the government by means
of its government delegates, so the Budapest
Workers' Council lords it over the civil administra-
tion through its Socialist ministers. The leaders of
the Soldiers' and the Workers' Councils are all of
the foreign race, and they never tire of advancing
their intentions of spoliation, wrapped in the Utopian
dreams of Bolshevism. The Workers' Council at its
last meeting in the New Town Hall settled the fate
of land reform by simply overthrowing it, by
declaring that the land was common property — that
all private property must cease. Then they settled
the question of taxes in a manner that effectually
rendered any further discussion unnecessary. They
proposed a hundred per cent, tax on all property
— i.e. confiscation.

These declarations and propositions are spreading
rapidly all over the country and preparing the minds
of the people for the second revolution, which
Zsigmond Kunfi, Lenin's emissary, threatens us
will break out if the middle classes show resistance
or dare to organise, or go so far as to attempt
to give satisfaction to the powers of the Entente,
who would prefer to deal with a middle class
government rather than with the present rulers
of Bolshevist tendencies. " There is need for a new
revolution," says he, " and it will come."

The Government made no provision for order,
coal or food during the Christmas holidays, but
promised a new revolution instead — and it is with
this promise that the terrible year makes its exit.

December 31st.

It was by accident that I went there. In front of
the Maria Theresa barracks the soldiers had erected
barricades of benches and seats on the pavement.
They laid their loaded rifles on the backs of the
seats, sat there and drew a bead on everybody who
approached. " Get away from here !" they shouted.
Now and then a shot rang out, but no damage was
done.

I went into a shop; it was already crowded, and
people were talking excitedly. Somebody said there
was to be a communist meeting in the barracks.

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 218

Bela Ktin was to come from the Francis Joseph bar-
racks, where he had incited the men to drive away
their officers, but the soldiers could not make up their
minds. Most of them watched the proceedings from
the windows and then somebody fired a shot down
into the yard, whence the fire was returned. There
was a lot of firing and Bela Kiin and his associates
disappeared in the confusion. The soldiers then be-
gan to maltreat their officers and broke into the
armoury, where about four thousand of them obtained
arms. They are coming now, and are going to occupy
the streets . . .

Four thousand men ! It was precisely that
number of Roumanians who occupied Kolozsvar,
but there were no four thousand Hungarians to face
them. By order of the Government L&szlo Fenyes
had disarmed and sent away the Szekler guards. It
was in vain that Fenyes was beaten later on by
desperate Transylvanian fists, for four thousand
Roumanians had meanwhile torn Kolozsvar from
the country . . .

I was brought back to the present by people
running past the shop. Someone shouted "The Com-
munists are coming!" A panic followed. Every-
body rushed into the street, and the shops' shutters
were drawn down quickly behind them. Red rags
appeared on houses, and the middle of the road
became as empty as if it had been swept clean. An
armed lorry passed.

"There! That one on the right, that's Bela
Ktin!" Hands pointed to a vulgar-looking, yellow-
skinned, dark-eyed, puffy-faced individual. His hat
was tilted to the nape of his neck and his overcoat
was open.

As I was going home by a round-about way I
pondered on the man I had seen. Where had I seen
his face before ? Suddenly I remembered. Shortly
after the October revolution a man was addressing
some disabled soldiers from the top of a garbage
box near the railway station. I had been astonished
at the time to see how this ghetto-Jew, who spoke
bad Hungarian and had only lately discarded the
gabardine, managed to get a hearing. I remembered
that clearly. He had a common fat face and his eyes

214 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

blinked while he preached against the existing
order. His blubbering mouth opened and closed as
if he were chewing the cud. He shouted in a hoarse,
lifeless voice. He grew warm, and as he spoke he
removed his hat frequently and wiped the perspiration
off his baldish head with the palm of his dirty hand.
I had wondered at the ugly foreign people who were
listened to now-a-days by our folk. People who
can't speak Hungarian set one Hungarian against
another.

There was no doubt whatever about it. The man
on the garbage box and the man whom the people
pointed out as Bela Kun were one and the same.

I heard later what had happened in the barracks.
There too Bela Kun made a revolutionary speech.
Before he started, two Jewish corporals had at-
tempted to prepare the soldiers, but the soldiers
threatened them and they were lucky to escape.
Then Bela Kun tried to speak. The soldiers arrested
him, boxed his ears, shoved him into the lock-up and
turned the key in the door. Everybody was pleased ;
the soldiers cheered their officers, and it seemed for
a moment that the soldiers of the Maria Theresa
barracks would stand their ground and beat
anarchy. Then Joseph Pogany arrived in a motor
car with his escort. He inquired excitedly what had
happened, cursed both officers and men, and hurried
to Bela Kun. They had a long conversation in the
lock-up, then Pogany solemnly released the Com-
munist and drove him off in his car. Meanwhile the
mutinous soldiers from the Francis Joseph barracks
arrived. It was quick work. When Pogany's motor
started with Bela Kun in it the soldiers were already
shouting with all their might " Long live Com-
munism !"

In the afternoon Countess Karolyi, escorted by
her husband's secretary, an officer called Jeszenszky,
visited the barracks. In the evening it was the talk
of the town that there was going to be a mutiny, and
that the citizens were going to be massacred at night.
Explosions were heard now and then in the dark,
and the rumour spread that the communists had
blown up a munition factory and the railway bridge.
They were all false ; it was only the soldiers out on a
spree. They fired the heavy guns, threw hand-

BELA KUN,

ANNOUNCING, FROM THE STEPS OF THE HOUSE OF

PARLIAMENT, THAT THE PROLETARIAT HAS TAKEN

OVER THE GOVERNMENT.

(To face f. 214.)

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 215

grenades, dragged machine-guns into the street and
fired them just to pass the time away.

Midnight drew nearer amid the clatter of fire-arms.
As at Christmas, we again gathered at my sister
Mary's. The New- Year's punch was standing ready
in long fluted glasses, and the children kept looking
at the clock.

I had a letter in my hand ; it had come from the
capital of Transylvania with the last Hungarian post,
behind it the barrier had crashed down. It was just
like getting news of the death of a relation during
the war, and after he had been buried receiving the
last letter from his hand. My heart bled, though I
did not know, and had never seen, the writer of the
epistle. I read it out aloud :

Kolozsvar, December 23rd, 1918.

" I have just read in the Sunday issue of Az Ujsag ' your
article 'Awake.' I cannot describe what I felt when I read
your lines, and yet I feel I must write to you. Every word
of your terrible, biting truth has engraved itself upon my
heart. It is this tone, this hard, bitter language, that we
need to-day ; we need it as much as a starving man needs a
bit of bread, as a drowning person needs something to cling
to. That is what we want : the proclamation of our con-
fidence, our self-respect, to a world in which every nation
boils with patriotism while we Hungarians, alone, proclaim
internationalism, humility, and resignation — far beyond the
necessities of our miserable condition.

It is true : our leaders don't feel Hungary's death — and,
what is worse, our poets are silent as if they too were in-
sensible to it. I cannot thank you enough that in this back-
boneless, collapsing, suicidal Hungarian world you have had
courage enough to throw it in our teeth. How many Hungar-
ians like you are there in the de -nationalised heart of our
country, and how many Hungarian writers besides you feel
there, what we feel here, when this evening brings us the
burden of the certainty that to-morrow, on Christmas Eve,
Roumanian troops will tread the streets of Kolozsvar ?

I write these lines from the unhappy soil of Transylvania
on the eve of the occupation of its capital. I beg of you
don't forsake us poor Hungarians in the future. Write for
us. We welcome your lines, your writings, as prisoners in
their dungeon welcome rays of sunshine. It is possible that
politically we shall fall to pieces, that the predatory nations
who fall upon us will tear us to shreds, but the meeting of

216 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

Gyulafehervar cannot make a law, the Government Council
of Nagy Szeben has not power enough, and the Roumanian
occupation cannot bring in an army big enough to tear from
our hearts that which was written there by your pen. As
long as the Hungarian spirit lives, there is hope for our
resurrection.

I remain, etc.,

Vegvahi.

We looked at each other. This letter came, not
from a single individual, but from Kolozsvar, from
the whole of unhappy, amputated Transylvania.

" WTiat will there be in a year's time ? What will
remain of Hungary?" Our prophecies were gloomy
indeed ; the crowning mercy of hope alone remained.
Then my brother-in-law said : "They can tear us to
pieces, but they'll never prevent us from getting
together again !"

I asked my mother what she thought.

" It is your affair now. I shall watch you."

The clock struck.

• •••••••

January 1st, 1919.

This year people dare not wish each other a happy
New Year. They murmur something, then cast their
eyes down with a strange expression, as if they were
looking into an open grave.

Kassa has been occupied by the Czechs 1 Under
the tower of its old cathedral, down in the crypt,
Rakoczi's skeleton hands are clenched and he asks :
"Is it for this that you brought my body back from
Turkey?" On the same day the Hungarian troops
left Pressburg at the instigation of the confidential
men of the Budapest Soldiers' Council. The local
Workers' Council thereupon assumed control, and
to-day, on New Year's day, the Italian Colonel
Ricardo Barecca entered the town at the head of a
Czech regiment. On the bank of the Danube, beside a
marble equestrian statue of Maria Theresa, two Hun-
garians stand with " Moriamur pro rege nostro " on
their lips : did they cast their eyes down in shame,
is it only the stones that still say this in Pressburg?
Meanwhile the Government informs the country
with pacificist satisfaction that : "in order to avoid
bloodshed the armed forces of the popular govern
ment have retired everywhere."

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 217

During the last few weeks the life of us Hungarians
has been like an attempt to climb out of a putrid
well into daylight. We have toiled painfully up-
wards, we have made desperate efforts to escape the
slimy horrors of the water, but in vain. The wall
of the well, like a slippery drain, grows higher above
our heads, the water rises behind us, and there is no
escape. Slimy stagnant water, beastliness, utter
beastliness.

Yesterday Mackensen was surrounded by French
Spahis in the castle of Foth. He is now guarded like
a criminal, and people are saying that Karolyi is re-
sponsible for this.

It is an old-established custom with us that on
New- Year's day the Prime Minister should make a
speech, retrospective and prospective. Michael
Karolyi delivered his speech this morning. He
accused the past and renounced the future, accused
the old system of being responsible for all our mis-
fortunes, and, as the only means of salvation, pro-
claimed his feeble-minded hobby : " We must seek
help for Hungary's cause in pacificism, for in that
name alone shall we conquer . . . Should pacificism
fail, then I say: finis Hungariae."

Pressburg, Kassa, Kolozsvar . . . pacificism failed
to save them. And the man who said on the 31st
of October : "I alone can save Hungary," cries to
the deceived millions on New Year's day : M finis
Hungarian.''''

This cowardly declaration roused me from
lethargy. I felt that from the moment when
Kdrolyi renounced his prey, our unhappy country
became our own, our very own. If it is over for him,
it must start anew for us. Henceforth I shall work
more, and more ardently.

In the afternoon we met at my Transylvanian
friend's house. But before I started from home
various people rang me up on the telephone, and
warned me not to go out because riots were expected.
Some made excuses for non-attendance, some said
they had been warned by the police, others had re-
ceived hints from Karolyi 's immediate sur-
roundings. Though it was scarcely four o'clock when I
left home, I found that the concierge had already
locked the front door of our house. Hardly anybody

218 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

was visible in the dead streets, shops and house-
doors were all shut. The houses looked repellingly,
selfishly down on me, and I had the unpleasant feeling
that if anything happened to me not one of them
would open its door to rescue me. I felt depressed
by a sense of expulsion and outlawry. He who has
never walked in the daytime through an empty
town, where there is no soul, no carriage abroad,
where all the houses are shut up, has never felt what
real loneliness is.

Only a few of us met in my friend's room : a few
women and a politician or two, dropped in at inter-
vals. We were all sad and depressed, and nobody
started a discussion. The only thing we decided
was that our organisation should be called the
National Association of Hungarian Women.

Before we parted my Transylvanian friend asked
me what our material resources were. I had not
thought of this, so was embarrassed, and felt rather
ridiculous . . . We hadn't got a penny ! . . . This
is the result of having an organisation presided over
by someone whose creative power is restricted to
the writing-table, someone who could imagine the
possession of untold treasures when her pockets were
empty. I could go off to distant countries while
sitting at home with my head between my hands. I
could create a scorching summer while the snow was
falling, and one flower was enough for me to make
a spring. I could build houses and harvest golden
crops, though I possessed no land, no bricks, no
garden and no fields.

My friend laughed and whispered : "Don't let it
out, but if you want anything tell me."

When I went home the town had regained its usual
aspect. The nightmare had departed, the doors were
open, the traffic had come back again into the empty
streets, and nobody could tell whence the false alarm
had come, whether the communists had meditated a
rising, or Bartha's scattered officers' corps had pro-
jected one. It's just one of our daily frights.

January 2nd-3rd.

Two peculiarities in the life and the manners of
old people have become clear to me lately.

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 219

In our generation it has never mattered much who
over-heard what one said. We are accustomed to
speak openly. The security in which we lived until
lately made our opinions free and gave our age its
undisciplined character. I have often noticed that
my mother and people of her age speak in lower
tones than we do, and more discreetly. They were
bred in times when there was always someone un-
wanted listening. The spy system of Austrian
absolutism taught them to be cautious. My mother
has often remarked : " You would talk of anything
before anybody." I used to think that this restraint
was the outcome of the educational principles of a
more refined age. But since the present illegal
government, afraid for its power, has taken to
watching us with spies and agents-provocateurs, I
have realised that the superior, reserved expression of
our elders is not merely the outcome of a more aris-
tocratic spirit pertaining to a world that has gone,
but that it had its ultimate source in self-defence.

In the same way another peculiarity of theirs has
become plain. They built their houses and made
their furniture in a different way from ours. When
I was a child I used to love hunting for secret
drawers in ancient furniture, and concealed rooms and
recesses in those cunningly built old houses. I remem-
ber that whenever I went through the abodes of past
ages, old castles, manors and houses, I used to take
a peculiar delight in their elaborate and intricate
construction. The secret hollow spaces in the walls
attracted me, and invisible cupboards — they con-
trasted so strangely with the smooth lines of our
modern houses. I realise now that all this was not
due to mere fancy. I realise that there is no pre-
caution of this sort taken in building a house which
does not spring from a wish for either attack or de-
fence. The hidden recesses designed by the old
architects, the secret drawers in old furniture, the
reticent, cautious speech of former generations, all
these were only protective against a danger which
threatened. In the last few weeks public security
has grown weaker and weaker, and the rumour has
been spreading with increasing persistence that the
present spendthrift government intends to lay its
hand on all gold and silver in private possession. I

320 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

often look round in despair at the smooth walls of
our house, which refuse all help. l£ is not possible
in these days to bury anything in the woods. The
leaves have fallen long ago, poaching soldiers are
roaming about everywhere, and the townspeople go
out to steal wood all over the place. It is only in
one's own home that one can hide anything.

I had a look at the cellar the other day, but its
concrete floor would only yield to a pick-axe, which
would make a noise, and leave tell-tale traces. The
attics are out of the question, for we have had to
remove even the few things we kept there : it is not
even possible to hang the washing in them, for there
are specialists of the burglar fraternity who operate
from the roofs of Budapest.

I spent sleepless nights pondering over the ques-
tion where we should put our silver when I brought
it home; I even thought of the hollow window
frames. If we took up the parquet flooring it would
give very little space and we could put only a few
things under it.

It was my mother who solved the problem, and we
decided that I should bring the plate chest home
from the bank. This was not quite as easy as it
sounds, for I didn't dare to do it by myself. A few
days before, we had sent my sister some curtains
and pictures in a hand-cart, and a small party of
soldiers had simply taken the bundle off the cart and
gone off with it. So I asked a cousin of mine to come
to my help. He donned his uniform and armed him-
self with a revolver, and under his martial escort I
drove through the town. Whenever soldiers or
sailors approached us a lump rose in my throat. So
many dear momentoes, so many old family things
were hidden in that box — practically all our
valuables were rattling in the ramshackle old cab !

I got home dead-tired. The day dragged to an
end, and when at last night fell and we could close
the shutters without raising suspicion, and the maids
had gone to bed, we three started to hide the things.
My mother wrapped them up and then tied long
strings to the handles of the ewers and salvers.
Meanwhile I hammered small nails into the top of
my bookcase, tied the strings on them and let down
the salvers behind the case, one after another. It

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 2*1

was an excellent plan : nothing was visible, either
from above or from below : the things dangled peace-
fully in mid-air. The tea-pots and ewers gave us
more trouble, but there again my mother had an
idea. In the drawing-room a large mirror hung in a
corner and there was a big space behind it; so we
hung the teapots and jugs by strings from two hooks
at the back of it.

A single electric bulb lit up the gloom of the room.
A chair was placed on the stove, my cousin, in full
uniform, stood on the chair, and my mother and I
handed the things, dangling from their strings, up to
him. He bent up and down as if he were decorating
a Christmas tree.

It was long after midnight when we had finished,
and as I got into bed I remembered that evening when
I had seen the people in the opposite house hiding
their clothes, and I sympathised even more with
them now. In fact I approved of their action. The
state requisitions clothes ostensibly for the soldiers,
but the soldiers never get them. It is just robbery,
under the guise of Socialism, like everything else
nowadays : the collectors and distributors keep any-
thing worth keeping. Many a janitor and hall porter
appears suddenly in mackintoshes of British make,
or valuable fur-coats, and not a soul dares to say
anything. The second-hand clothes shops are full of
clothes that have been commandeered.

When it comes to commandeering the silver it will
be just the same. And as I went off to sleep I was
as pleased with the spaces behind the mirror and the
book-case as a smuggler with his cave.

January ]fih.

There are few people in the streets to-day. I left
home early, for this morning the police came and
told us that they were going to make a fresh ex-
amination of the villa where the burglary took place.
After much running about, however, we found that
the police had forgotten the whole affair, that no
inquiries had been made, and that the official papers,
as well as my own complaint, had been mislaid.
That is what usually happens nowadays.

222 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

There is great excitement in town : the workmen
are taking up a threatening attitude towards the
managements of the factories. The Ganz engineering
works were surrounded this morning by armed men,
the managers were dismissed, and new ones ap-
pointed— under the control of the shop-stewards.

When I reached the bottom of the hill I had to
wait a long time for a tram. Only one man was
waiting besides me at the stopping-place. He wore
a checkered pork-butcher's cap and a ragged, dirty
uniform, and in his button hole he displayed the
Socialist emblem, the red man with a hammer. The
stopping-place was at a lonely spot, and I felt un-
comfortable, for the man kept on looking at me.

I thought it as well to know with whom I had to
deal.

" Has there been an accident, that there is no
car?" I asked him.

" Maybe," he said abruptly. And then, as if irri-
tated by my presence, he got angry. " We shall put
things straight in no time," said he. " We've
settled with the Ganz works. The trams will come
next. But first of all we're going to socialize the
state railways, and shall dismiss the managements
of all the works and yards. In the provinces we
shall take things in hand too. Bela Klin and Com-
rade Vag have swept the coal-mines of Salgo
Tarjan."

" It was a sad sweep," said I. " The result was
eleven killed and about a hundred wounded. Do
you know that there was scarcely a house left
standing afterwards ?"

" The Communist workers behaved all right. It
was the rabble that plundered the town."

" I was told that Bela Kun set the armed workers
against the unarmed population. It is said that the
miners used dynamite to blow up the town. They
took possession of the depots, the railway station,
the post office. Roving gypsies couldn't have done
all that. It was a well organised rising."

The man looked down, smacking his leggings with
his cane. When he looked up again there was hatred
in his eyes.

" It's just as well that you gentle-folk should
understand that from now on that's how things will

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 223

be done. Everything has been yours long enough,
now let it be the people's."

" Don't you suppose that those you call gentle-
folk have risen from the people ? To rise in the
social scale one has to work, and it. is worth working
for. Only it is not often the work of a single life,
but of several generations, till at last one reaches the
goal. If from the start there is no possibility of
getting on in the world, it will mean that industry,
hard work and intelligence will be deprived of their
reward. Would you work without a prospect of a
pleasanter life ?"

" No," the man said hesitatingly. Then, as if
angered by his own back-sliding, he said rudely :
" They tell a different tale in the Unions."

" The Jewish leaders ..."

" Well, that's true, they are Jews, every one of
them," he admitted grudgingly. "Whose fault is it ?
The gentle-folk's, who would not mix with us. They
never troubled about us, and left us to the Jews."

"There you are right," I rejoined, and he took
off his cap when I got into the tram.

I came home feeling chilled, and met three men
on the stair-case, two soldiers and one in civilian
clothes. The maid who opened the door informed me
that they had come to commandeer lodgings.

14 Did you let them in ? Why did you not tell
them that we already had a certified lodger?"

M It was no good. They pushed me aside and
came in. Poor, dear old lady. They were so rude
to her. They went everywhere, looked at every-
thing, and told her she would not be allowed more
than two rooms."

Naturally my mother was upset. A dentist with
four children had put in a claim for three of our
rooms with the common use of the kitchen and bath-
room. If I remember rightly his name was Pollak
and he had lived till then in the ghetto.

I flew into a rage. I had never heard of any
lodgings being commandeered for Transylvanian
refugees : they are expelled, while Galician refugees
of Austrian nationality are planted in our midst.
What are they afraid of? What are they fleeing
from, that they thrust their way into the homes of
Christians ?

M4 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

"I'll arrange it all, don't you worry," I said to
my mother. " We haven't come to that yet ..."

January 5th.

It was my mother herself who took in the invita-
tion, and the man who brought it made her promise
solemnly that she would deliver it into my own hands
alone.

I knew what it was about, and early in the after-
noon I started on my errand. It was five o'clock
before I entered the door of the house owned by the
Franciscans. Some gentlemen were on the staircase
before me. We met in the rooms of Stephen
Zsembery, a former deputy. All the leaders and
principal members of the anti-revolutionary parties
were present with the exception of Count Julius
Andrassy, who had mysteriously disappeared, and
Count Apponyi, who has retired from politics. Count
Stephen Bethlen proposed the union of all parties,
as the only means of saving the country. At first he
was supported, then objections were raised and —
when we broke up it was decided to meet again
soon, in order to come to some final decision.

I was sad when I went home. On the way I re-
membered a story I had once written of how an inn
stood on the plain, on the great military road.
Warriors passed in great numbers, on their way to
recover Buda from the Turks. They hailed from all
the corners of the earth. There were only two
Hungarians in the inn, but they could not get on
with each other : they quarrelled, came to blows,
killed each other. Over their bleeding corpses their
greatest foe said happily : " That is a good job : if
they had not killed each other, we never could have
got the better of them."

These two Hungarians have had many names
in the course of the centuries. Once they were called
Ujlaki and Gara, at another time Kuruc and
Labanc ; then G6rgey and Kossuth, quite lately Tisza
and Andrassy. And to-day our perennial ghost
seemed to have walked during our labours.

JEterna Hungaria . . .

CHAPTER XIV.

January 6th.

That ghost has been haunting us too long : it must
be laid. Ever since I met this ever-recurring cause
of our nation's defeat in the Franciscans' house, my
language to the women has assumed a graver tone.

Those who have allowed the country to go to rack
and ruin have not changed, and so a new future
must be built up in the minds of the children. To
succeed our own much tried generation we must
raise up a new one which understands and holds in
horror that bane of our nation, party strife, born of
everlasting jealousy. We must start with the
children, and see that in future no man says to his
brother: "Why should it be thine? Why not
mine?" Or : " If it cannot be mine, let it be rather
our neighbour's child than thine ..."

The women understand me. Our numbers grow
more and more.

Cold rain was falling, slanting in the wind, as I
crossed the town on foot, on my way to meet the
leaders of the various organisations of Protestant
women. The streets were emptier than usual, and as
I approached the House of Parliament I began to
feel rather nervous. The friendless streets, like the
lairs of cut-throats, opened darkly into the ill-lit
square. I had had enough of walking and wanted to
get into a tram, but as usually happens nowadays,
especially when one is in a hurry, the traffic had
come to a standstill and no car appeared. Several
people were waiting at the stopping-place where a
constable, armed with a rifle, was standing on the
edge of the pavement. I looked at my watch. The
tram was due at five and it was already a quarter
past. The constable cursed : " We might loaf here

226 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

till midnight," said he, and shifting his rifle on his
shoulder he started to walk off.

" Can I go with you ? " I asked him. The
man nodded and, taking two steps to his one, I
walked along with him. " People will think you are
locking me up," I laughed.

" We are going away from the police-station," he
laughed back. "Asa matter of fact it is wise of you
not to walk alone here. People are often attacked.
But it won't last. The old order will be restored. We
shall soon rid the country of this Galician ministry."
He began to complain bitterly, cursing the Govern-
ment and all the various councils : " They ought all
to be hanged, every one of them."

" Do tell me, how did you come to join the
revolution ?"

" I ? A few bribed scoundrels misled us. We didn't
know what we were doing."

When I left him I thought that the news that the
police are drifting over to the counter-revolution must
be true. It could hardly be otherwise, seeing that
they are all brave, Hungarian, country-bred lads.

When I reached the meeting of the leading Pro-
testant ladies I told them that so long as the various
Christian creeds were righting separately we should
obtain nothing, but that if they joined hands they
might still save the country, and they all decided to
put all self-interest aside and to save whatever might
still be saved. I felt that the unity which political
parties were trying vainly to attain did already exist
in the women's souls.

January 7th^l0th.

This wretched town is continually being convulsed
by riots, and between the riots it howls and destroys,
starves and robs. Its streets are peopled with
Communist demonstrators who march about under the
red flag. From the opposite direction comes a crowd
of patriotic youths under the national flag, and the
two crowds go for each other, tear off each other's
emblems and break each other's heads. And while
the crowd is openly turbulent, astonishing things
happen in secret.

Mackensen has been surrounded by Spahis in Foth.

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 227

At dawn some French officers entered his room, made
him a prisoner, and gave him half-an-hour in which to
make his preparations, and then, before the sun rose,
and without attracting attention, took him with his
escort by car to Godollo. It is said that they are
going to send him somewhere south. Karolyi's
Government, although it is alleged that the arrest
was made by the Government's request, has lodged
a protest with the French. The organ of the Free-
masons, Vildg, remarked cynically that : " in the
noise of great catastrophies the voice of little indi-
vidual tragedies is lost ..." Any tragedy is
individual for them when it happens to gentile races,
but whatever touches their race becomes a public
calamity.

At noon another rumour spread over the town.
Balthasar Lang, one of the props of the War Office,
an old friend of mine, has been arrested.

Better news had been reaching us for some time.
Counties in the north had begun to organise, and far
from the treasonable Soldiers' Council, home-defence
committees had been formed. The men folk of the
north-western counties had stood to arms and op-
posed the advancing Czechs at Vagselye, but it had
not come to a battle. As soon as the enemy heard
that armed resistance was awaiting him, he turned
in his tracks and retreated.

Hope rose. It would have been so easy for the
armed Hungarian population to expel the intruders
who refused to face a battle. Baron Lang
was one of the organisers of this plan. It is said
that the president of one of these home-defence com-
mittees, Szmrecsanyi, spent the night before his de-
parture at Lang's house, and that with traditional
Hungarian carelessness he left his motor waiting all
night in front of the house, so that the secret police
of the Soldiers' Council got wind of his visit and
reported the matter, and the Soldiers' Council insisted
on action being taken. At the time, Count Alexander
Festetich, Karolyi's brother-in-law, had been put at
the head of the War Office to screen the little Jewish
electrician who really ran the show, and this weak
nobleman was obliged to have Lang arrested. He
ordered him to appear before him, and had him de-
tained on the spot.

228 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

It was the fate of one man only, but it affected so
many . . .

The head of the Soldiers' Council, Pogany, and the
leaders of the Social Democratic party had long ago
decided the fate of any formal resistance ; they
anxiously watched the organisation of measures for
the country's defence. The Social Democrats had
made it a special point that none but they should
have any armed forces at their disposal. Karolyi and
Festetich did not stand in their way in this matter,
and the military administration withdrew all arms
and munitions from the contingents which had risen
patriotically in the country's defence. The trains
carrying provisions for them were stopped by Pogany
when ready to start ; the troops fed themselves for a
time at their own expense; but the Soldiers' Council
of Pest would not have this either and sent a number
of its agitators among them.

Suddenly, discipline began to slacken among the
ranks; the soldiers dismissed their officers, raised the
red flag, and withdrew without the slightest reason
and left the country open to the invading Czechs,
who became intoxicated with their easy success.
After six thousand Hungarian soldiers had surren-
dered in Pressburg to one of their regiments, they
crossed the Ipoly river at their ease and occupied
the coal mines of Salgo Tar j an. A detachment of
forty men, without firing a shot, planted the Czech
flag on the walls of the impregnable fort of
Komarom . . .

These days have pierced the heart of the nation.

Now it is reported that the Czechs will not stop at
the bend of the Danube. The only cowards of the
World War, the perpetual traitors, are preparing to
occupy Budapest, and nowhere do the bayonets of
Hungarian soldiers advance, while Hungary melts
away. They scatter without order, under the influ-
ence of that terrible eastern eye, which hypnotises
our people and lures the unhappy nation to disgrace.

January 11th.

The sky is dark and threatening. On the great
national road which runs from the Carpathians to
the heart of the country the bayonets of Czech

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 229

soldiers are advancing on the capital, and now for
the first time Bolshevist posters have appeared on
the walls of Budapest. " The Hungarian Com-
munist Party will hold a mass-meeting ..." It
was under the shadow of these ill-omened signs that,
this morning, we unfurled the flag of the National
Association of Hungarian Women.

In a house on the bank of the Danube, in the rooms
of the Christian Socialist Party, lent for the occasion,
we gathered together without informing the police.
The elite of both the Catholic and the Protestant
world of women was present. Among those who
attended we observed with astonishment some of
Karolyi's closest relations, who were asking their
acquaintances why we had met and what we were
driving at. Some uneasiness was shown, and to
prevent it spreading Countess Raphael Zichy took
the chair at once and opened the meeting. With a
brevity which admitted of no interruption she com-
municated the purpose of the association and in-
formed us of the agreement between the Protestant
and Catholic camps.

Consternation was visible among the relations of
Karolyi. Words of discord arose, obviously meant
to destroy the unity which was a threat against the
Government. When the president called on me to
speak I felt that our cause was at stake, and heart
and head alike were possessed with the same inspira-
tion. I forgot that I was a stranger in the world of
politics, that I had not prepared my speech, that I
had never spoken at a great public meeting before;
I only knew that our cause must prevail ; and all my
love for, all my despair over, our people cried out
from my very soul, in my words.

" I see on the soil of Hungary two churches,
Catholic and Protestant, and over them the Christian
sky of Hungary stretches in eternal majesty. The
soil on which they stand, the sky that is above
them, are our country, our faith. Let these form the
bond between us, my sisters ..."

Till that moment I did not know what marvellous
wings words possessed, but now I was carried away
by my own words, and they carried the others with
me to a point where our souls met.

"... We cannot walk separate paths, we who

280 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

seek to walk the path marked out by Christ ! Let us
love one another and walk hand in hand, Christian
women ! Hand in hand !"

Eternal love and gratitude filled my heart at this
moment, and my voice had more than mere words
in it : " That which has never before happened in our
country shall happen now — we, Protestant and
Catholic women, shall be united this day, we whose
sole desire it is that Hungary shall be Hungarian
and Christian."

The objections of the ladies belonging to
Karolyi's party were lost in the general acclamation,
and the National Association of Hungarian women
emerged from the obscurity of weeks of struggle and
came out into the open as the counter-revolution of
the women, in defence of their faith, their country
and their homes.

January 12th.

The papers that used to be Conservative published
the news of our association and its manifesto, but
made no comments on them.

I told Joseph Veszi, the editor-in-chief of the
Pester Lloyd, that we were on the defensive and
did not intend to attack. His sense of justice inspired
him to say : "I shall publish your appeal, and I
think it is natural that you should organise on a
Christian and national basis, because Hungary was
ruined by Jews — not by the Jews — but by Jews.
Five hundred Jews ... I say so, though I am a Jew
myself."

I noted these words, not as a testimony to me,
but as an admission !

I have no doubt that there are many Jews who
think the same. But surely they do a great wrong
to their own people by not branding such among
them as " black sheep," especially at a time when
they alone have the right to speak and protest in the
interest of the country.

The Socialist press passed over the manifesto in
silence.

When I started out a wintry storm was howling over
the houses. Count Stephen Bethlen had convoked
another meeting for five o'clock in the House of the

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 281

Franciscans. Up in the dark sky black clouds raced
along like fearsome witches. Only a few street lamps
were alight, and the rattling of their panes in the
wind sounded as if their teeth were chattering. The
whole town was thronging to the first mass-meeting
of the communists. Above the' houses the eternal
flags were flapping wildly, their green and white
parts so begrimed that now only the red was showing
like a blotch of blood. In the dirty streets scraps of
paper and dirt were whirled about, and the wind
almost blew people off their legs.

When I came to the big mansion, which faces on to
two streets, armed soldiers were standing at the
entrance, with red cockades on their caps. They
stared hard at me, and when I got inside I was told
that there were soldiers at the other entrance too.

" They are watching us . . ."

Count Bethlen again raised the question of unity.

" Foreign bayonets are marching on the capital ;
don't let it be said that we couldn't agree until we
were under their very shadow."

Hours passed in hopeless, sterile discussion. All
the time I could not help thinking how the socialists
in the Workers' Council had by now practically
joined forces with the Communists, and that while
we were unable to come to an agreement they were
probably howling in unison at their general meeting
for the destruction of our country, faith and homes.

In all my life I was never more despondent. As
a last hope I got up and said that the Christian
women had already joined together, and that we
were now all in one camp and only waiting to be
able to join with the united parties.

" Long live the ladies!" shouted the whole room,
but again nothing happened, and the meeting dis-
persed without having come to any decision — just
like the time before.

When I left, the soldiers were no longer loafing
near the entrance. A rabble crowded the streets,
and an acquaintance whom I met said to me :

"Do you see this mob ? It has come from the mass-
meeting, where it has been listening to the Com-
munists' speeches."

The meeting started as a demonstration and ended
by becoming the occasion for the unfurling of the

282 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

Communist banner. At the request of Lieut. -Colonel
Vyx the police had handed over nine Russian
Bolshevik Jews to the French, and they had been
expelled. A part of the population of Budapest now
gets up a demonstration in favour of these nine
foreigners, though it made not the slightest protest
when Karolyi delivered several millions of Hungarians
to the Czechs, Serbians and Roumanians. Jewish
officers with red cockades organised the meeting,
and the people of the ghetto were thronging there
among disbanded soldiers, Galileist students, ap-
prentices, and crazy women. The whole place was
crammed with a human stream primed with hatred.
The galleries creaked under their weight, and in the
corridors a crowded-out throng shouted furiously.

On the platform the red phalanx of the Communist
leaders surrounded Bela Kun, who opened the
meeting and spoke of the revolution of the world's
proletariat and the counter-revolution of the
capitalist order, the two forces which, according to
his materialistic views, are righting a death struggle
in Europe to-day. He attacked the Government be-
cause it had delivered up the red " comrades " and
because it was hindering the westward advance of
the Soviet Republic. Then he referred with
enthusiasm to the struggle of the German Spartacists,
speaking of them almost reverently.

M Long live the Spartacists, we're Spartacists
too!" the soldiers shouted frantically: "we're all
Bolsheviks !"

"Our first duty is to arm!" shouted Bela Kun.
Then he bellowed into the hall : " Lenin makes an
appeal to you through me!" At the mention of
Lenin's name the whole gathering rose. Women
applauded like furies. "Lenin sends you this
message : ' change the war of imperialism into an in-
ternational class-war!'"

Somebody shouted "Death to the Bourgeoisie!"
and the whole hall took up the cry. Then there was
an interruption. The Red soldiery would not allow
Garbai, the Socialist leader, to speak. Bela Kun,
shouting from the top of the table, tried to make
order : " If a bourgeois came to speak here, I should
be the first to say 'throw him out of the window ;' but
Comrade Garbai has come from the other camp of

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 288

the Workers, with whom we have yet to join up in our
fight for freedom."

Comrade Garbai said something to the same effect :
" The Socialists and the Communists agree on every
point : their aims and their enemies are the same, but
the time has not yet come." •

Vago shouted in a hoarse voice : "The Communists
want no freedom of speech, no democracy; arm the
whole proletariat, disarm the bourgeoisie, proclaim
the Soviet Republic! ..."

I thought of the meeting of Hungarian gentlemen
I had just left.

The wind howled round me, the flags tore at their
staffs and fluttered wildly over the dark streets;
their folds became entangled and they struggled as
if desperate hands were wrung above the people's
heads.

January 13th.

I have been working the whole day long, at work
that is new to me. In the office of our Association I
have been racking my brain with details of organisa-
tion. I drew up handbills and wrote innumerable
letters, though I hate writing letters. In the evening
we met in the Zichy palace and decided that in any
event we would prepare a memorandum of protest
on the part of the women, so that it should be ready
when the missions of the Entente arrived. Count
Klebelsberg brought forward a draft, ready for
translation into foreign languages . . . Time passed,
and we started home.

Nowadays it is rare to get a cab, and if one hap-
pens to meet one one may well say one's prayers before
entering it. During the last spell of darkness a
soldier climbed on to the box of a cab in which*
were two ladies. He and the driver were accomplices.
The horses were whipped up and the cab was driven
at a mad gallop through lonely suburban streets,
towards the cemetery. Fortunately the ladies
jumped out, and so escaped ; but goodness knows
how that night would have ended for them if they
had not.

Countess Zichy sent me home in her own carriage.

284 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

Klebelsberg got out in the Inner town and I drove
on alone. When we reached the Rakoczi Road all the
street lamps were suddenly extinguished. The dark
street gaped and swallowed us up.

There was shooting everywhere, and the horses
became restless. I could feel that the coachman was
frightened : indeed the night seemed full of terror.
We arrived at a gallop at my house, and I saw that
my mother's window was open. Regardless of the
cold she was sitting at it waiting for me, and now
called down to the coachman : " There is a riot near
the Popular Theatre, don't go in that direction."

The man thanked her for the warning, and the
clatter of hoofs died away in the opposite direction,
turning so suddenly that it seemed the very horses
were aware of the danger.

January lJ^ih.

Our destiny has been decided for us in secret, in
whispers within the walls of Pest. And the houses
where this whispering has been going on have paid
the penalty : their grimy fronts are branded with
the mark of the beast. The very customs and manners
of the times are designed for the masses, and obtrude
themselves like prostitutes in the street. Modesty and
discretion no longer exist. It is probably for the
same reason that the world of art and letters now
produces only works meant for the masses. Epochs
are known by their arts. Our age has posters — and
viler, baser posters than those of to-day, whether on
paper or in the shape of men, have never existed.

As I stepped out into the street this morning it did
me good, after all the pasted-up horrors, to see the
posters of the League for the Defence of Territorial
Integrity, showing on a red background the split-up
map of Hungary. This map snowed the ancient
kingdom cut up into five pieces, and in the midst of
the provinces despoiled by Czecho-Slovakia, Yugo-
slavia, Roumania and Austria, there appeared the
tiny little land that remains to us, a land incapable
of existence, the plain deprived of its forests and its
mines. And underneath, as though the crippled
land, robbed of three million Hungarian sons, were

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 285

crying out, three words were printed : " No, no,
never ! "

The streets, the houses, the walls proclaimed it,
and after endless weeks I felt for the first time at
home again in this town, which had denied every-
thing that goes to make up my faith. Is Budapest
recovering its sanity ? My hope was suddenly torn
to shreds. Near a bare tree of the boulevard a well-
dressed young man bent down and scooped up some
mud with his hands; then ... he walked up to the
wall and flung it all over the poster.

The blood rushed to my head. "How dare you !"
I cried. The young man turned round. I shall never
forget his face ; it was drawn in Palestine two
thousand years ago.

" What are you talking about ? There's no such
thing as 'my country,'" he said vindictively.

Instinctively I looked round — was there nobody to
take this scoundrel by the throat ? But the passers-
by went on unheeding. I don't remember what I
said, but I don't think I have ever felt so angry
before. It was all so humiliating. I had never
realised so clearly, so frightfully, what it was they
wanted. No country ! They have none, so they
intend that we shall have none either.

Are the Jews going to outlive us too, because they
will not die for the land ? All my national instincts
rebelled. They shall not outlive us ! Their time will
come. They are only mortal, for they want a
country — they want our country. The life of peoples
is like the life of individuals. They have their child-
hood, their youth, their manhood and their old age.
Humanity has deprived the Jewish people of the
flowering time of youth and manhood. Their race
has aged unsatisfied while it has buried its contem-
poraries— Egyptians, Assyrians, Babylonians. It has
seen Athens, Rome, and Byzantium die, though it
was old when it stood at their cradles. Without con-
temporaries, alone, a stranger, it has remained
among us, and it cannot yet die, for it must await
its destiny. And now, even when the nations had
begun to deal kindly with it, it celebrates its wasted
flowering-time in a horrible dance of death.

The Wandering Jew paints his face young, and
indulges in orgies on the edge of the grave.

236 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

January 15th-27th.

At the corner of a street I met a couple, a girl and
a man. The fair face of the girl was familiar to me.
She wore her hair after the Bolshevik fashion and
her eyes stared curiously while she talked. Suddenly
I remembered her : it was Maria Goszthonyi. She
looked untidy, her boots were down at heel, her
skirt was ragged and she wore no gloves though
it was bitterly cold. Her companion had black
gloves and was dressed entirely in black, and as he
had black hair too he was a most mournful-looking
object. His narrow shoulders bent forward and his
back looked humped ; he hadn't really got a hump,
but his face gave one the impression of a hunchback
as well. He was remarkably pale, and only his big,
Jewish nose shone red in his face between his dark
eyes. How did a girl like this come to be in his
company ?

They had passed me while I was still thinking of
them and casually I noticed the name of the street I
was in, Visegrad Street. The editorial offices of the
Red News were in this street and it was a hotbed of
Communists, who gathered here for their meetings.

I had heard a lot about Maria Goszthonyi lately.
She had learned Russian within the last few years
and had translated several Communist works, and
under the influence of two Jewish friends, one of
them the son of a rich banker, had professed
Syndicalist principles. She had some trouble during
the war because in the hospital in which she worked
as a voluntary nurse she taught Communist doctrines
to the wounded soldiers. It is also said that
during the stormy days of October she made propa-
gandist speeches in one of the camps of Russian
prisoners. She had said one day to a friend of mine :
" We shall soon be fighting over barricades in these
streets." Since then she had often been seen with
Bela Kun at Communistic meetings. The last time
I had spoken to her she had been a mere child. Her
parents had brought her up in their castle, carefully
guarded, spoilt, and she seemed an artistically
inclined, bright young girl. Her mother is patriotic
and fond of music, and the best musicians used to
stay at their house; her father runs a model farm.

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 237

How could a girl like that fall into the company of
the Communists ? There are epidemics of a spiritual
nature too in this world ! The war itself was one
epidemic, and Bolshevism is another. There is a
serious spread of the disease at Berlin at present.
Its two most violent propagators have been killed,
Karl Liebknecht and Rosa Luxemburg, and because
the woman was the more gifted of the two and had
a greater gift for hatred, her destructive spirit was
more efficient than his. While Liebknecht organised
the German Spartacists he was the link between the
revolutionary Jews of Russia and Germany. These
two combined with the criminal classes and stirred up
the Berlin rabble against the townspeople, for they
wanted civil war, and to be masters of ruined
Germany. Now the rage of the mob has torn Rosa
Luxemburg to pieces, and Liebknecht, who egged on
others to face death while he hid under an assumed
name, ran when his turn came to show courage — and
was shot as he ran.

The Berlin papers said that neither of them knew
the limit where political strife ended and criminal
action began, but the Hungarian supporters of the
Government wrote : " The fate of these two is peril-
ously like to that of the Nazarene . . . This day
two saints, with the halo of martyrs, have been en-
shrined in the history of communism ..."

The whole existence, foundation, and teaching of
communism is based on class-hatred, which means
fratricide. Christ's teaching is love itself. There
is no bridge over the gulf separating the two. His
kingdom is not of this world, theirs is all of this
world and brushes aside all that is not of this world.
They take everything, He gave everything. The
Nazarene died for them too, and now they crucify
Him anew.

At the commemorative service organised by the
Communists, Bela Kun and his comrades insulted
the teachings of Christ. Foaming at the mouth, they
pointed towards the portraits of Rosa Luxemburg
and Liebknecht, carried about on poles, called on
the crowd for vengeance and vomited such hatred as
has never before been heard in this town. At first
Bela Kiin impressed the mob, then, all of a sudden,
it turned against him. He shouted from the plat-

288 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

form : " We too are threatened with their fate. But
we vow that even if we are drawn and quartered we
shall continue to walk along the road on which they
led."

Somebody in the crowd shouted : " Are you going
to walk when you've been drawn and quartered*?"
The crowd roared with laughter. It was no good
after that to shout "Comrades, don't weep!" for
nobody was weeping, and the speech, meant to pro-
duce revolutionary fury, burst like a soap-bubble
over the people's head.

To-day it bursts, to-day they laugh. But on the
quiet the Government is playing the Communists'
game. A short time ago a Communist agitator,
Tibor Szamuelly, was arrested on a charge of murder.
A Lieutenant-Colonel, back from captivity, deposed
that this man, who as a prisoner of war in Russia
had been one of Trotski's confidants, had ordered
the execution of a hundred and fifty Hungarian
officers because they refused to join the Red guards.
This Communist Szamuelly had not spent three days
in prison when, at the intervention of Karolyi, the
proceedings against him were quashed and he was
released.

Another chink in the screen behind which the
devilish work is being carried on.

CHAPTER XV.

January 25th-26th.

It almost seems as if the terrible eye of the magician
who has kept the town in bondage is beginning to
lose its power. The country tied to the stake is free-
ing its hands from its fetters and a great awakening
is stirring over the Plain.

News pours in. The Roumanians have retired be-
fore the Szekler bands, and on their retreat they are
robbing and destroying, but Kis-Sebes and Banffy-
Hunyad are ours again, and they are packing up in
Kolozsvar. The Hungarian forces have appealed to
the War Office for help. This is the moment to act,
for it is now easy to repel the invading foe. Transyl-
vanian Magyardom has declared a general strike.
All officials of state, post office, and telegraphs have
stopped work, and thirty-two thousand miners have
laid down their tools in sympathy with the patriotic
movement. It is so, although the Government says
that it is a victory for Social Democracy; but in
Transylvania it is not the Internationale which is
fighting, but a people patriotically defending its
very existence.

The position of the Roumanians is becoming
dangerous in Transylvania and their soldiers are
beginning to desert and go home. It is as though
the breeze of a new awakening is coming from over
the snow-clad mountains and is blowing to flame the
embers that have been smouldering all over the
country.

If only the Government were to help now ! But
the Government won't. It stamps out the flames,
strangles all words of patriotism and strikes the
weapons from Hungarian hands.

240 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

The Jewish electrician, who is Minister of War, in-
tends to leave the Hungarians of Transylvania to
their fate and denounces the patriotism of our last
reliable troops. When a detachment of the Buda-
pest chasseurs went to Salgo Tarjan he called it the
glorious army of Social Democracy, and when the
soldiers went off he said to them : "Go and defend
our coal, our water, so that we may live." Only
our coal, our water . . . there is no need to defend
the country.

Those who speak and act in our name to-day are
not Hungarians. This is a life and death struggle, a
desperate fight between a people bled to death and a
race that has been allowed to breed too freely — a new
kind of war. A short time ago our defeat seemed
certain : the Hungarian people made no resistance
because its faith had been killed, but now the faith
has revived. Its feeble flames had been carried
quietly back into the homes by women. And perhaps
the time has come at last when the men will want to
prove their bravery to those who expect them to be
brave.

• •••••••

January 27th-February 3rd.

It is a good time for prophets just now. When
life becomes unbearable and every moment a torture,
in despair men snatch at prophecies and look to the
future. Every day new prophets and prophetesses
appear. Their oracles are published by the news-
papers and spread by word of mouth. Fear longs to
be alleviated. Somebody says " It is possible ;" the
next repeats it as "I believe;" and with the third it
becomes " I know." The sufferers are not content
to stop there, however, but proceed to fix a time-
limit for the realisation of their predictions. At one
moment they are concerned with the impending
rising of the Communists, at another with the out-
break of the counter-revolution.

The beginning of the Red Revolution was pre-
dicted for to-day, but it has been postponed. Now it
is fixed for the 5th of February. People comfort
each other by saying that within two hours the
Spahis stationed in the neighbourhood can be
brought to town and that there is no need to be

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 241

alarmed. Others have reliable information that on
the 6th or the 9th our party will begin its long-
prepared offensive. In the streets the agents-
provocateurs of Pogany ask young men : " Are you
thinking of the 9th of February?" then add in a
whisper: "We meet to-night behind the Museum."
And while the surface bubbles in this fashion, both we
and they are doing really serious work in the depths
below.

The young people in town are ready and so are the
awakening Hungarians, the Szeklers and the Tran-
sylvanian Hungarians. Our liaisons with the
countryside are established. We have weapons and
determination and are exasperated beyond endur-
ance. But it is vital that all these organisations
should start action at the same moment, for we must
not waste our ammunition on sporadic shots ; it must
be a volley. One hour must strike for all of us.

There is great tension in the air. In Karolyi's
camp they are conscious of our surreptitious pre-
parations and Karolyi fears them more than the
constantly increasing agitation of the Communists.
The possibilities of our movement are more hateful
to him and cause him more anxiety than the activity
of Bela Kun, although the Communists are not par-
ticular what tools they use, and are now agitating
quite openly. Here in the capital they are making
use of a curious trick. From mid- January on, their
street orators have been advising the mob not to pay
any rent to the landlords on next quarter day, i.e.,
February 1st. Why should they ? Are not the
houses theirs ? Fortunately the majority of the
people kept their heads, and only about some
twenty tenants in the suburbs refused to pay rent, so
the riots and the projected Communist rising did
not come off, for the present at any rate.

" It has failed this time," said John Hock, the
President of the National Council, to one of my friends,
" but the Red terror is bound to come in Hungary !
It will last about two years, and then the old set,
whom we kicked out in October, will have to restore
order."

The recovery of Balassa Gyarmat from the Czechs
sounded like the clatter of a sword among the vague
prophecies and uncertainties of our present life. The

242 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

sword was drawn by Aladar Huszar and George
Pongracz, and at the cost of many heroic lives a
handful of brave railwaymen, artisans, and students,
and the peasants of nine villages, drove the Czechs
back over the Ipoly.

But this hope did not last. Under pretence of help-
ing, Pogany rushed down there and frustrated the
progress which the Czechs had failed to stop. -After
a flare-up, out goes the flame again. Hope was badly
wounded yesterday in Fehervar too, where there was
a county meeting at the County Hall, which, at the
proposal of Karolyi's own brother, passed a vote of
lack of confidence in the present Government,
demanded the re-establishment of the King and the
immediate convocation of the old parliament. For
those who were present this meant nothing but well-
intentioned waving of hats and shaking of fists, but
for the country, which was out for a real fight with
the forces of destruction, it was a tragedy; for it
gave the alarm to the Government, clinging to its
Si-got illegal power. To-morrow it will be thirsting
for vengeance, and I'm afraid that the preparation of
the counter-revolution will meet with new difficulties.

People talk bitterly of the Fehervar incident,
where the idea seems to prevail that a counter-
revolution ought to be started to the sound of bands,
with the waving of flags and the beating of the big
drum. If every remaining county of the country had
convoked, secretly, however illegally, a general
assembly for the same day, and all these had voted
against the Government, then the result would not
have been this miserable fiasco.

What has been the result ? Karolyi has com-
missioned Joseph Pogany to crush every attempt at
a counter-revolution, the country's Government dele-
gates have been dismissed, officials have had to take
the oath to the government or leave, and Karolyi's
brother has had to climb down. Thus ends the
affair so far as he is concerned, but for those who are
working at the dangerous task of drawing the whole
country into the meshes of the counter-revolution
and of making its outbreak simultaneous everywhere,
the consequences are disastrous. We shall have to
start anew and build up what had been wantonly
destroyed. One plan was that the county of Jasz-

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 248

Nagy-Kiin should proclaim a separate republic and
secede from Karolyi's republic. This would have
been the signal for the other counties to follow,
leaving Budapest to itself and refusing to supply it
with food, so that the starving town would have
driven out its degrading tyrants of its own accord.
But that is impossible now. A new way will have
to be found, and the task will be heavy, for our
enemies will be on the alert. At the last meeting of
the Soldiers' Council Pogany proclaimed : " The
revolution is in danger. Let the leaders and accom-
plices of the counter-revolution beware, for the well-
meaning patience of the Soldiers' and the Workers'
masses has been exhausted. As long as possible —
patience; when necessity requires it — machine guns."
And he gave orders to his secret police to search the
houses of those implicated.

Yesterday Countess Louis Batthyany mentioned
to me that she had written a confidential letter to
her brother, Count Julius Andrassy, in Switzer-
land, and my thoughts flew to this letter when I
heard this morning that houses were being searched in
the town. If it were found ! A Transylvanian friend
telephoned to me early this morning and said : "I
have had visitors, they will probably come to you
too. You'd better make preparations, because they're
very inquisitive; they even look up the chimney."
Again I heard that curious buzzing sound in the tele-
phone which has happened lately whenever I have
been called up. I myself can never get a connection
now-a-days, for though the exchange answers it
never connects me. I wrote and reported this, and
an electrician came and inspected the apparatus;
apparently everything was in order, yet when I
wanted to call up somebody the same thing happened
again.

The exchange cut off the connection while my
friend was speaking to me. I did not hesitate long.
I took my papers and recent correspondence and
burnt everything which could have betrayed our
purpose, my friends or myself. I often used to
wonder why precious letters and documents of
certain periods had disappeared. There are many
letters of Szecsenyi, Kossuth and Gorgei which
might well have been preserved for posterity. And

244 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

while I was burning the letters addressed to me, one
by one, and throwing their ashes into the stove so
that no trace might be left in the open fireplace, I
understood why the political correspondence of
dangerous times had disappeared. There are many
other details of Hungary's stormy past which have
become clear to me now. Among other things I under-
stand why we have so few diaries and memoirs. For
four hundred years our noblest spirits were watched
by Austrian spies; and while in other countries in-
numerable hands recorded freely the lives of their
great contemporaries, with us, at the best, only the
great political declarations have been preserved. It
was like this long ago, and now it is worse still, for
worse and more impudent spies are about us now
than the informers of the Austrian regime.

When I had just finished my sad task I heard the
bell in the ante-room. Then I remembered these
notes. I snatched them up from my writing-table
and hid them between my books. But it was only
my Transylvanian friend arriving. Her face, always
sad of late, wore a new expression. She looked round
my room: "Have they been here too?" she asked,
and then began to laugh. It was the laughter of a
mischievous child who has escaped detection. "They
found nothing at my place." she said laughing again.
" They came early in the morning, with soldiers. I
was still in bed, and they wanted to break in the
door. I shouted that I was dressing and that a
revolver was lying on my table, and meanwhile I
threw into a portmanteau whatever I could think of
— the list of names of the Szeklers' National Council,
the members' list of the National Association of
Hungarian Women, and their pamphlets — and
through an unguarded door the bag disappeared
from my room. I didn't mind the police coming in
then ; they searched everything — me too — but they
didn't find anything of importance."

In high spirits we went to the offices of the Associ-
ation, where we found the secretary at her table,
surrounded by a number of ladies. Practically every-
body whose house had been searched that morning
had come there and everybody had a different tale
to tell. When they were searching Countess
Batthyany's library a list of names fell out of a

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 245

volume, a list of the lady patronesses of a ball held
some years ago. They pocketed it promptly : it
contained the names they were hunting for.
" How about the letter to Count Andrassy ?"
" Fortunately the messenger came for it last
evening. I shouldn't have liked them to lay their
hands on that ..."

The little office was filled with the spirit of winning
gamblers. We concluded that the domiciliary visits
had been a failure. I went home with my mind at
rest. But that afternoon I had another visitor,
Count Emil Dessewffy, whose house had been
searched too.
"I'm glad you got over it without trouble," I said.
"Yes," said Dessewffy, "but," — and he took his
single eyeglass out of his eye, then replaced it sud-
denly— " but there has been a slight misfortune.
The searchers found nothing implicating anybody.
They took only one letter — yours !"

At first I did not know what letter he referred to.
Then I remembered. I had written to Dessewffy in
connection with the women's memorandum, when I
had been knocked off the tram and was ill, and in it
I had written about Kingship, about the crown. I
had passed judgment on men and events and had
mentioned and stigmatised Karolyi, Jaszi, Hock,
Kunfi, Pogany and the whole Social Democracy of
Budapest, as being the protagonists of Bolshevik
world-rule. I remembered that even when I sent
the letter it occurred to me that if it fell into the
wrong hands it would entail retaliation.

Dessewffy seemed more upset about it than I.
"Don't worry," I said, "at least they will know
what I think of them."

February 9th.

And they did know.

It happened quicker than I expected. From the
hands of the Police my letter passed into those of the
Socialist party's secretariat and thence to Joseph
Pogany. I got reliable information of the whole
thing — someone came to see me this morning. He
asked me never to mention his name, and told me to

246 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

be careful, as I was being watched and my telephone
conversations listened to.

In town more and more requisitions are being
made, and there have been many arrests, among
others one of the leaders of the Awakening
Hungarians, some officials of the War Office, the
organisers of the armed force of the Territorial's
Defence League, and Madame Sztankay, one of the
bravest women of the counter-revolution; all have
been sent to prison. The stone cast by the County
meeting of Fehervar has made wider and wider rings.
The Social Democrats are destroying with feverish
haste everything that has been built up by genera-
tions of Hungarians. Jaszi has dismissed the Rector
and the Dean of the University, while Kunfi attacks
the elementary and other schools. The teaching
of religion is abolished, patriotism is banished from
the schools, and the national anthem prohibited.
The books used for the teaching of history in the
schools are ' expurgated ' of everything that entitled
Hungarians to take a pride in their past, and while
this is going on the head of the Budapest communal
schools informs the teachers by circular that : "those
who cannot, or will not, conform to the spirit of
these times, must take the consequences and stand
aside." It has all been done suddenly : the events of
the last few days have urged the usurping powers to
furious haste, and they are employing every possible
shift to make sure of the future — for themselves.

Life becomes more and more difficult every day,
and more and more people are taking refuge abroad.
The rich Jews have long ago sent their treasures out
of the country and have gone into safety them-
selves. It is amusing and characteristic that
Countess Karolyi's pearls have emigrated too, and
it has even been said of Karolyi himself that, under
the pretence of furthering the peace negotiations, he
also would like to go to — safer climes. But the
powers of the Entente informed him that they had
no wish to negotiate with him.

The mined ground trembles — anywhere is safer
than here.

Count Ladislaus Szechenyi and his wife came to
take leave of me, and at this parting I was conscious
of the fate which they were escaping and which still

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 247

hangs over me. My heart was heavy; Countess
Szechenyi, who used to be Gladys Vanderbilt, had
been for years one of my dearest friends, and now
the town will seem empty without her. "I shall do
everything that is possible, out there, for
Hungary ..." she told me consolingly. I knew
she would, for, though she was foreign born, in the
hours of our greatest trials she was more patriotically
Hungarian than many of her companions who were
Hungarian by birth.

" God speed you, Gladys . . . shall we ever meet
again ?"

I got out of their carriage at a street corner and
we took leave in the street. It was raining, and I sud-
denly felt as if myriads of thin, cold, slimy cobwebs
were surrounding me and holding me captive, while
their carriage broke through the threads of rain and
disappeared before my eyes . . . They are gone . . .

I looked out of the window, and outside the snow
was now coming down in big flakes. It is falling
heavily, deep soft snow, for many, many miles
around, covering the roads which lead to happier
countries.

How I yearned for far-away things — roads, free
roads, beauty, music, peaceful nights, warm rooms !
... It lasted but an instant, and then I shook it
off ; I had to go to the other shore of the Danube,
where, in a dark house, behind drawn curtains, in
an unwarmed room, women were waiting for me to
address them.

Off I went, and behind me, just a step behind me,
there came the new law. From this day on, any
person attempting to change the republican form of
Government is liable to fifteen years' hard labour;
the instigators and leaders of such a movement will
go to penal servitude for life. But those who report
matters in time shall go free and be duly rewarded.

A white whirlwind swept over the frozen Danube.
I went on. The road was long . . . the law followed
and caught me not.

• ••••«••

February 10th.

The door of my room opened quietly, and the little
German maid looked in frightened.

248 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

"They've come again. I have tried to send them
away, but they won't go . . ."

This is quite the usual thing nowadays. I jumped
up from my writing-desk and went across the cold
drawing-room. There was no lamp in the ante-room,
and in the gloom I saw two soldiers and a civilian
near the door.

" What do you want ? Me ? From the Housing
Office ? But you have been over our flat before !"

They refused to be denied. Fortunately my
mother was out of the way and did not meet them
while they were looking over the place. When we
reached my room the civilian produced a note-book
and bent over it in the lamplight on the writing-
table. For some minutes he searched for something
in his book, then turned to me suddenly with sus-
picion in his eyes :

" Is this your room ?"

" Yes."

"We come from the police. We must search it."

An unpleasant tremor went through me.

" By what right ?" I was on the point of asking,
but I thought better of it. I remembered the hidden
silver. The best thing would be to show no oppos-
ition— " After all, if those are your orders ..." and
I handed him my keys. One went in this direction,
another in that, and I had to keep my eyes on the
hands and pockets of all three. Meanwhile I remem-
bered with extraordinary rapidity everything I had
forgotten to burn. In awful anguish I thought of
these notes, behind the books. What if they found
them ? I was thinking so intently about this that I
was afraid they might read my face. Suppose my
thoughts were to guide them ! . . . One of the
soldiers looked into the stove and at the same
moment I caught sight of the other extracting cigar-
ettes from a small box and stuffing them into his
pockets. The civilian sat down at the table and
pulled out a drawer.

" Do you know anything about the organisation
of the counter-revolution ?"

" Yes," I answered ... "I got it from the
columns of 'The People's Voice.'" (this is the
Socialist's own paper.)

The stupid round eyes of the man stared at me

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 249

and suddenly I began to feel dangerously gay. I
took heart and was almost grateful to them for being
so conveniently superficial. Why not give them all
my cigarettes ? What nonsense ! I pulled myself
together and straightened my face.

A bundle of letters lay on my table and the man
took them up one after the other. Then he turned
the pages of a little book which mother had been
reading yesterday, Albach's Heilige Anklange.
Suddenly I was seized with disgust. I wanted to be
rude. How dare these strangers touch my things
like this and obliterate the contact of beloved hands !
They come in, open the cupboards, fumble, search,
and all this in "the golden age of the people's
liberty," just because I am Hungarian.

When the three varlets left after searching in vain
I felt hopelessly tired. I opened the window and kept
it open all the evening just to air the room.

........

February llth^lSth.

Even in my dreams my worries pursue me. I
know it, because when I wake with a start I find
myself planning, planning, planning. Why can I
never rest in peace ?

How people's minds alter nowadays ! In October
it was all dazed depression. In November black
despair. In December something that was distantly
akin to hope. Then came the period of words, I
made speeches, spreading my own fire. Later the
order of the day was action. Now the sphere is more
restricted. We must do something, quickly,
unanimously, because if we don't act they will, and all
that the Hungarian politicians do is to hold
meetings, consult, think of their party, of them-
selves; even in this awful storm it is impossible to
create unity. Don't they feel how they have sinned
in the past against the nation? Don't they realise
that they owe it reparation ?

Count Stephen Bethlen's plan, the idea of a great,
national collaboration, has suffered shipwreck after
a lot of talk. Instead of unfurling the great flag of
unity the number of little flags has been increased by
one : the camp of Bethlen has been isolated from the
others.

250 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

The Hungarian people are snipping tiny flags from
the three national colours, while against them the
Internationalists hoist a single flag dipped in blood,
and round us, over all our frontiers, the Czechs,
Serbians and Roumanians pour in, each united under
its own single banner.

In this great, hopeless discord, the women, be it
said to their honour, have found a bond of union, not
only in the capital but in the country-side too. The
post-office refuses to forward our appeals, but they
are carried by hand by brave women, honest railway-
men, and engine drivers. Hidden in villages, terror-
ised towns, in hundreds and hundreds of families,
there flickers the little flame that we have lit . . .

It is this which angers and worries the usurpers.
The great eastern eye whose spell has been unable to
subdue us, watches us wickedly. Wherever we go,
it follows us, spies on us, threatens us. The other
day when I was at the house of a friend, armed
soldiers took possession of the staircase, a watch
was placed in her ante-room, and finally the place
was searched.

In our home too we get a queer lot of visitors.
Yesterday two soldiers wanted to come in. The
maid, whom I have forbidden to open the door to
anybody, asked them what they wanted. They en-
quired whether this was not an office, and whether
we had the telephone laid on. The girl answered
through the closed door that this was her ladyship
Madame Tormay's flat, not an office.

" There are no more ladyships," they shouted
back. The girl went away and left them there, and
for a long time they continued ringing and knocking
the door.

This morning when I went to say good morning to
my mother I found a young Jew in uniform standing
at the door of my room. We never discovered how
he got in.

" What do you want ?" I asked.

" I have come to requisition lodgings."

At this I lost all control over myself.

" Enough of that," I exclaimed. "Clear out!"

He looked at me rather frightened, and began to
stutter.

"There is not a day that you don't intrude here,"

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 251

I went on. " This is our home, all that is left to us.
Leave it alone !"

He collected his papers quickly and went away.
I had a presentiment afterwards that this young
man would give us trouble for having been shown
the door, so I went to my mother and told her what
had happened. She laughed and replied, " I showed
one the door the other day too." That decided me
to go to the Housing Office and to obtain, somehow
or other, protection for our house.

After a fight I managed to get on a tram. At this
time the Housing Office under the direction of the
Social Democrat Garbai had already taken up its
quarters in the House of Parliament, where the
Lords used to sit.

The beautiful marble staircase of the House of
Parliament was indescribably dirty. Its walls were
besmeared with coloured pencil scrawls, and red
inscriptions defiled the columns, such as " Long live
the republic!" " Long live Social Democracy!"
All their offices are like that. Public buildings sink
with incredible rapidity into this dirty state. I have
not been there myself but was told by people who
have that the royal castle, the so called national
palace, is as unswept and filthy as a railway station
in the Balkans. In the small drawing-room of Maria
Theresa cigarette ends and sausage skins litter the
floor. The beautiful old stoves are nearly burst with
the coal that is crammed into them, the walls around
them are stained with smoke, the valuable old tables
are covered with ink blotches, and at them our new
administrators sit in their shirt sleeves.

I stood hesitating for a moment in the bespattered
corridor of the House of Parliament. People rushed
past me, but nobody could give me any information,
so I knocked at a door haphazard and entered an un-
tidy office. A tall unkempt man was bending over a
writing-table, a fat one stood beside him, and there
were some others lounging about. They sent me
away, so I went into the next room, and found the
same type of people, who spoke to me just as sharply
and also sent me away. Corridors, ante-rooms,
offices, offices and offices again, and everywhere the
same type of face — as if they had all been cast in the
same mould.

252 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

I went on, though I now began to feel uncomfort-
able, and very lonely; I felt as though I had been
abandoned among these strangers. It was only then
that I realised what was happening in the public
offices of Hungary. My discomfort changed into
fear, and I began to run but could not find my way
out. My head began to reel, and I staggered out into
the corridor. The stairs were opposite me, and I
rushed down them and met a commissionaire at
the bottom. He was Hungarian, the only Hungarian
I had yet met in the whole place.

" Where is the Treasury ?" I asked him. I had a
friend in that office, which was the reason I was look-
ing for it.

The commissionaire looked at me in astonishment;
I must have looked rather queer.

"Yes? — there? . . . Thank you!" and I rushed
on. I passed through an ante-room and then I found
myself among friends.

" What has happened to you ? You are as white
as a sheet."

" I got lost among the many new offices. I was
sent from one room to another, and everywhere the
same faces glared at me. All the rooms of the House
of Lords are full of them. They have overrun every
inch of the House of Parliament. Our people are
nowhere. Good God, are those people in sole pos-
session everywhere ?"

" Everywhere ..." came the gloomy answer. I
buried my face in my hands, and wept bitterly.

• •••••••

February 15th-18th.

I have just heard the true reason why the Arch-
duke Joseph took the oath of allegiance to the
National Council. Michael Karolyi, Count Theodore
Batthyany and Kunfi went to him, and Karolyi
pledged his word that he would hand the command
of the army over to the Archduke if only he would
take the oath. At that time this would have meant
the saving of the nation : the armed forces in the hands
of Archduke Joseph. The Archduke made the sacri-
fice and took the oath. But those who have lied as
no men have ever lied in this world before, who have
cheated the country with the stories of their friend-

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 258

ship with the Entente and their loyalty to the King,
who have cheated the nation and the army with their
promises of a good peace — they cheated the Archduke
Joseph too. While they were taking his oath of
allegiance at the Town Hall the army which they
promised him was being shattered by Linder in front
of the House of Parliament.

All lies . . . But lies are like a bridge without
banks to support it, which must break down . . .

The friend who had warned me before of impend-
ing peril came again. He entered cautiously and
looked round continually while he was speaking.

" Look out," he said in a whisper. " Give up all
your activities, give up this organising ; you are being
watched with grave suspicion. It would be a pity if
they took you. I like your books : you will still be
able to go on writing beautiful things if you take
care. But you won't if you go on like this. There
are many of us who would dig you out of a grave
with their bare hands, but they will get you into one.
Joseph Pogany said yesterday ' We will settle
Cecile Tormay's little business.' "

I thanked him for the advice, knowing all the time
that I should not follow it. Destiny decides people's
fate when it puts patriotism into their hearts. The
more of it it gives, the harder their fate.

In the evening I overheard from my room a
curious conversation on the telephone. Our house-
keeper was telephoning to her fiance, who, she tells
me, is a chauffeur. She is a good-looking woman, and
in January she left our service over a question of
wages, but a short time later asked to be taken back,
although we could only raise her salary slightly. At
the time I didn't see anything very remarkable in
that; but since I have heard this conversation over
the telephone I have begun to wonder what her
reason for coming back could be. This is what she
said :

"Hello, hello, is that you? Back again? No
engine trouble ? Yes. In Kiskunhalas too ! . . .
And you took many arms, machine guns too ? Did
you catch them? Officers, you say?"

I was rather alarmed. So they had captured one
of the arsenals which the counter-revolution had
established in the country. I feared for the safety

254 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

of the others. Only later did I think of ourselves.
Who was this woman's fiance f Whose chauffeur was
he? My suspicions were aroused. But the time
when one can dismiss a servant is past, unless it be
the servant's good pleasure to go. I remembered
letters I had asked her to post, which never reached
their destination. I also remembered that whenever
I receive visitors she crosses the ante-room as if acci-
dentally. Is it accidental ? I must watch her . . .
As I stood pondering she came and stood in the door-
way with a letter in her hand.

"It's very confidential," she said, looking at me
rather queerly. "The man who brought it wanted
to deliver it into your own hands only."

" Some beggar, I suppose" ... I replied indiffer-
ently; but I could see that she did not believe me.

The envelope contained an invitation. To-
morrow afternoon Count Stephen Bethlen's party
will be formed at last.

• •••••••

February 19th.

We walked fast, in Indian file, through the rain-
swept streets. From the dilapidated gutters of the
houses the water poured here and there on to our
necks. The shop windows were empty. Soaked red
posters screamed from the walls : "To-morrow after-
noon we must all be in the streets."

"This means that we had better not," I said when,
opposite the Opera, we got into the finest street in
Budapest. The wooden pavement was full of holes
ankle-deep in water, for at night our respectable
citizens fetch wood from this pavement for their
fires.

Everything visible is bleak and shabby, and out-
side the town the whole country is in the same state.
The Czechs have annexed Pressburg, and they turned
the protest meeting of its inhabitants into a bath of
blood. A little boy climbed a lamp-post and tried
to stick up a tiny Hungarian flag. The Czech
soldiers shot him down as if he were a sparrow, and
little paper flag and little boy fell together on the
pavement. The embittered crowd then attacked the
soldiers with their bare hands; the soldiers called for
reinforcements and began a regular massacre from

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 255

street to street. When Colonel Baracca, the Italian
commander of the Czech garrison, attempted to get
his men back to the barracks they broke his head
with the butts of their rifles. And as the Czechs
behave in the highlands, so do the Serbians down in
the plain, and worse than both, the Roumanians in
Transylvania. They flog ladies, priests, old men, in
the open street. They hang and torture, cut gashes
into the backs of Hungarians, fill them with salt, sew
the bleeding wounds up, and then drive their victims
with scourges through the streets. Meanwhile the
voluntary Szekler and Hungarian battalions are ap-
pealing in vain for help from the War Office, so that
they may at least save their people. But William
Bohm and Joseph Pogany refuse it, Karolyi makes
speeches on pacificism, and Bela Kun proclaims class
war in the barracks of Budapest.

There is dynamite underground. We hear stifled
explosions every day. It was in this charged atmos-
phere that Count Bethlen made his declaration con-
cerning his party's policy.

CHAPTER XVI.

February 20th-22nd.

As one looks back on distant days they seem to melt
into one like a row of men moving away, and yet
they passed singly and each had its own individu-
ality. Long ago the days smiled and were pleasant,
now all that is changed. One day stares at us, frigid,
relentlessly, another turns aside, and one feels there
is mischief in its face; some of them look back
threateningly after they have passed by.

Such are the present ones. When they have passed
they still look back at us and mumble something
that sounds like "there is worse to come." We re-
fuse to believe it, our common-sense revolts against
the prophecy, because our common-sense has come
to the end of its power of enduring misfortune. Even
jungles come to an end, and if they do not we tear a
path through the tangle of their thorns, tread them
down, and, at the price of whatever wounds and loss
of blood, regain the open country.

The masses have lost their illusions concerning
Karolyi's republic, for they are colder and hungrier
than ever. History always reaches a turning point
when there is no more bread and misery becomes past
endurance. Logically there must be a change, and
what change could there be but the resurrection of
the country ? Hope, which has come to naught, must
become a reality in March ... At any rate we
flatter ourselves with this belief , so that we may find
strength for life and work though the streets whisper
a different tale, nay, sometimes they shout it aloud,
and last Thursday they baptised it with blood to
prove that they meant it.

Bela Klin's staff has called the work-shirking
rabble together. One day they stir the people up

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 257

against the landlords, next day they agitate among
the disbanded soldiers to induce them to raise im-
possible claims; to-day it was the turn of the unem-
ployed.

Potatoes are rotting in the ground and last year's
maize cannot be gathered. There is nobody in the
town to sweep the streets, to cart the garbage, to
carry a load. At the railway station starving officers
do porters' work. The evicted officials of occupied
territories hire themselves out as labourers on farms.
Meanwhile at their meetings the Communists court
the idle rabble : " You have lost your jobs in conse-
quence of the terrible bath of blood ; the time has
come to get your own back; up, to arms V*

So the mob went to Visegrad Street, where Bela
Ktin and his friends stirred it up still more and
finally provided it with arms. With wild screams
the furious crowd thereupon poured out into the
boulevard, armed women, young ruffians with hand-
grenades. "Long live Communism," rose the shout.
Somebody exclaimed : " Let's go to the * People's
Voice!'" And the crowd, which had learned from
the Socialists how to sack the editorial offices of
Christian and middle-class newspapers, went on to
storm the offices of the all-powerful organ of Social
Democracy. The destructive instinct knows no
bounds. The alarmed secretariat of the Socialist
party appealed for help to the police and the armed
forces, but before the sailors and the people's guard
had reached the street its pavement was covered with
blood. Fifty constables awaited the crowd in a
street ; shots fired by the mob were the signals for a
mad fusillade; from windows and attics machine-
guns were trained on the unfortunate police and a
shower of hand-grenades fell on the building of the
1 People's Voice.' It was a well prepared battle, the
first real test of the Communists' power.

It failed . . . The Communist leaders remained
in the background, and the rabble, left to itself
without guidance, abandoned the field with such a
bloody head that all desire for further fighting has
gone out of it for the present. It is said that the dead
in this street battle numbered eight, and that over
a hundred injured had to be admitted to hospital.

It was late in the evening and we could still hear

258 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

wild firing going on in the direction of the fight.
Even late at night occasional rifle shots were heard.
Then came the news in Friday's papers that at day-
break the Communist leaders had been arrested.
Szamuelly's room was found empty; on the table
lay a piece of paper and on it was written: "Dear
Father, don't look for me; there is trouble, I must
fly." Most of the others were captured : Bela Kiin
was taken in his flat, and at the prison the police-
men, infuriated by the death of their comrades, beat
him within an inch of his life, indeed he only saved
it by shamming death, and the constables left him
in his cell without finishing him off.

In consequence of the attack on the ' People's
Voice ' the Social Democratic party declared a
general strike. All work was forbidden, the traffic
stopped in the capital's main streets, the shop
shutters put up, and even the cafes and restaurants
were closed. The town looked as if it had gone
blind; all along the streets closed grey lids covered
its eyes of glass. There was no traffic at all. All
vehicles had disappeared, and nothing but machine
guns passed along the roads. At the various corners
of the boulevards soldiers lounged beside their piled
rifles.

There were processions everywhere. I met one
group, advancing under a red flag and consisting of
well over a thousand people, most of them wearing
white aprons smeared with patches of blood. They
swung huge axes, knives, and choppers over their
heads, and all were covered with blood. They looked
as if they had murdered half the town, and wherever
they went they shrieked : "Long live the proletarian
revolution !"

" Who are these kindly people ?" I asked a hag
with the face of a witch, who was cheering them
enthusiastically from the pavement.

"The butchers' guild," she said proudly;
" Social Democrats, every one of them ..."

Nor were the Communists idle. Armed bands of
them threatened the police stations and prisons, sup-
porting their demands with hand-grenades and
clamouring for the immediate release of their leaders
and the delivery into their hands of the constables
who had beaten Bela Kun.

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AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 259

Meanwhile something was going on in the dark.
The tone of the Social Democratic press has changed
suddenly and now the Government threatens the
counter-revolution with more vehemence than before,
asserting that the formation of a new party by
Count Stephen Bethlen is a more sinister crime than
the murderous attempts of the Communists. With
a sharp change of attitude, ' The People's Voice '
asks for the punishment of the constables who ill-
treated Bela Kun, and writes threateningly of
Bethlen 's party and the National Association of
Hungarian Women : " Through the one of them the
men, through the other the women raise their voices,
and because the revolution has not yet made use of
the gallows, they give as shameless and impudent an
accent to their appeals as if the gallows were abso-
lutely excluded from among the weapons of defence
the revolution might use . . ."

And while the official paper of the Social Democrats
writes like this, the evening paper, Az Est, which
for the last few months has boasted of having been
the principal agent in preparing and bringing about
the October revolution, now seeks to inspire the
minds of its readers in favour of another revolution
by exciting sympathy and pity for Bela Klin.

Every day the attitude of the Government becomes
less comprehensible. It is openly said in town that
Karolyi is in communication with the Communists.
He telephoned orders that the leaders should be well
cared for in prison, and then «ent messages to them
through his confidants, Landler and Jeszenszky, and
made his wife pay them a visit. Countess Michael
Karolyi, accompanied by Jeszenszky who is called
Karolyi's aide-de-camp, went to see Bela Kun in the
prison to which he had been transferred. She
actually took him flowers, and saw to it herself that
the arrested Communists were provided with spring
mattresses, feather beds, blankets, good food, and
tobacco.

Karolyi, the guilty megalomaniac, becomes more
and more of an enigma. He wanted to rule; to
attain power he had to ruin poor, befooled Hungary
and make an alliance with every enemy of the
country. It was cruel logic, disgraceful, but it was
logic. But that he should now ally himself with the

260 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

enemies of his own power seems to indicate softening
of the brain. And this same feeble-mindedness
manifests itself daily in all his declarations and
pronouncements in a more grotesque shape, in him
as well as in his wife. The stories about them become
more and more extravagant.

The other day he had a kinematograph film taken
of his projected entry into the royal castle, yet dares
not have it exhibited. He had a stage erected, red
carpets were laid, lacqueys in court livery stood in
a row, and he made his state entry with his wife,
assisted by some actors. Something went wrong with
the film, so they started anew and played the whole
comedy over again.

Then there is the tale about Countess Karolyi's
attempt to play the ministering angel. She had the
royal table linen cut to pieces, and the stiff, hard
damask with the royal arms and crown on it was
sent to proletarian infants to be used as pilches !

The other day the military band was playing in
St. George's square. It struck up the ' Marseillaise.'
As if by magic, a window of the Prime Minister's
residence opened, and Countess Karolyi leaned out
and waved her hand. Then the band began to play
the Hungarian national anthem ; Countess Karolyi
retired at once and shut her window in a hurry.

Receptions are organised up in the castle. Real
Hungarian society, which lives in retirement, practi-
cally in mourning, has severed all contact with the
Karolyi 's ; but they have found a remedy for this.
Their receptions are reported in the newspapers, and
among those mentioned as being present are people
who cut them in the street. The other day, to my
consternation, I found my own name in one of the
lists, but when I tried to protest through the press
no newspaper would print my letter.

A few days ago Karolyi gave a state dinner in
honour of two Italian gentlemen, who, as simple
private individuals, had come to visit some relations
here ; it surpassed everything that bad taste had ever
produced. The country is in mourning, there is no
coal, and in many houses people lack even candles
and oil; yet the castle was a blaze of light. The
ministers of the republic were present with their
wives, and dinner was served in the hall where the

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picture of the coronation of 1867 is hanging. The
table was covered with linen bearing the monogram of
Francis Joseph, and the plates were marked with the
royal crown. Thus, in the royal castle, among the
memories of kingship, on royal plate, the so-called
president of the republic entertained the astonished
foreigners who had expected to be the guests of a
Hungarian nobleman and found that they had fallen
in with a ridiculous parvenu. They related their
adventures next day and carried the story back to
their own country as a huge joke.

The Karolyi's have parted with everything that
could support them. It is said of them that they
gave asylimi to Szamuelly, the murderer of Hungarian
officers, when he escaped the other day. Michael
Karolyi started his career with lies, continued it
with dishonour, and now has landed in the mire. If
he is not stopped somehow it is likely that he will
drag the whole nation down with him.

February 23rd.

Past midnight. I said good-night to my mother;
the street is silent, and my room is cold.

How often have I, at this table, imagined destinies
that existed only in the author's mind, and while I
wrote the story brought the children of my fancy to
very life ! But now life is harder than the destinies
which I ever imagined, and more than once of late
my real existence has seemed to me like some fan-
tastic tale, beheld from the outside, as though at a
distance . . .

This morning the newspapers have published a
new law just passed by the Government to oppose all
attempts at a counter-revolution. It empowers the
Government to put ' out of harm's way ' any one who
is, in their opinion, dangerous to the achievements
of the revolution or to the popular republic. This
means that anyone of us who is obnoxious in their
eyes can be arrested without any further prelimin-
aries.

It was about midday when my telephone, which
has been mute for a long time, raised its voice. A
cousin of mine was speaking, and her voice, though

262 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

she was obviously making efforts to appear calm,
was excited.

" Knopfler would like to speak to you. Important
—Urgent."

" Why doesn't he come here, then?"

" He cannot come now. Mother-in-law keeps an
eye on him. Come to us, we will meet in the street."

She put the receiver down. Among ourselves we
always refer to the police as ' mother-in-law.'

I wonder what has happened. What has Gombos,
the leader of the Awakening Hungarians, to tell me ?
(Knopfler is his nom de guerre.) I saw in the paper
yesterday that on the proposal of the Minister of
War the Government had decided that his society
should be dissolved.

I never leave home without saying good-bye to my
mother. " Come home early," she said when I took
leave. I was going to lunch with some relations.
My mother knew this, and yet she seemed anxious.

" I needn't go if you don't want me to. I can
make some excuse."

" No, you just go along," she said, and her expres-
sion changed suddenly. " You know, it does us old
people good to be alone sometimes. Then we are
with our own contemporaries who are no more. You
go along to your own contemporaries who are still
here."

She said this so sweetly that it made me feel as if
a solitary Sunday dinner were a treat for her. She
achieved her end, I went with a lighter heart.

A cold wind blew down the street. My cousin and
her husband came to meet me, and a short distance
behind them Gombos followed. " We'll go a few
steps with you," they said, and Gombos came to my
side.

M The cabinet council decided yesterday," he
whispered, "to intern us. Count Bethlen, Colonel
Bartha, Bishop Count Mikes, Wekerle . . . and
you."

Again I had that feeling that it did not concern
me, and I listened indifferently.

" Karolyi is at Debro and the warrant lies on his
table waiting for his signature. Well, what do you
think of it ?"

" Nothing," I answered, and was surprised to find

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 268

how little it affected me ; "I am just thinking who
will carry on in our place."

They went with me for a short distance and then
we parted. I walked across the town, for I wanted
to be alone and think : I had to make plans and
arrange my affairs for all eventualities. A thousand
questions crowded into my mind, and yet I found
no time to take any decision, because I was thinking
all the while of my mother, and of her only.

When I told my hosts, over the coffee, the news I
had just received, their faces seemed to reflect the
danger that stood behind me.

Evening was drawing in when I reached home. As
I stepped into the ante-room the telephone bell rang,
and when I answered it a friend spoke to me in the
secretive way that has now become habitual.

" The dressmaker has come with the new fashion
papers. She is going straight to you, please don't
leave home until you have seen her."

A few minutes later her husband arrived. He had
heard it at his club . . .

" You will probably be arrested to-night. What
are your plans ? Your friends, I understand, don't
want to escape."

"I shall stay too," I said, and thanked him for
his kindness. Meanwhile, my brother Geza had
arrived, then a friend and his wife, and finally
G6mbos.

It was now nearly ten o'clock. My mother called
me : supper had been waiting on the table for a long
while. The others had already supped, so I left
them and joined my mother. I ate rapidly, and she
watched me closely.

" What is going on here ? Why have they come ?
Is anything wrong? Don't hide things from me."

I tried to reassure her, though I saw clearly she
did not believe me. She sighed. " Well, go along
to your friends, but don't keep them too late."

Soon they rose to go with the exception of Gombos.

" It has been decided by the others," he said,
" that none of you will flee. They only send me . .
I shall help from abroad."

We fixed up everything. Gombos rose, took his
society's badge from his button-hole : an oak wreath
on white ground with ' For the honour of our

264 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

country ' on it, and handed it to me. " Take this as
a souvenir, nobody has a better right to wear it than
you."

" God bless you ; if we live I am sure we shall hear
of you," I said at the door.

They left me and I heard the street door shut. I
wondered whether anyone was lying in wait for him,
down there in the dark, and listened for a time at
the window, but the steps went undisturbed down the
street.

I went to my mother. I don't remember ever
having seen her so excited. " Now why don't you
tell me ?" she cried. " I know that something has
happened."

" Gombos came to take leave ; he is flying the
country."

I changed the subject as soon as possible. We
chatted a long time and by and by she calmed down.
Or did she only pretend, for my sake ? No, she
never showed anything but what she felt.

Slowly the clocks struck midnight. And here I am
sitting at my writing-table and, instead of imagining
destinies, am occupied by my own. Who knows
whether I shall still be free to write to-morrow what
I leave unwritten to-day ?

I packed the most necessary things into a small
valise. Again the clocks struck : they are knocking
at the gate of the morrow.

• •••••••

February 21f.ih.

The news of the internments has spread all over
the town. I was afraid my mother might hear from
someone else what was in store for me, so I decided
to tell her myself. She is not one of those whom one
has to prepare for bad news. When I told her, she
went a little pale, and, for a time, held her head up
more rigidly than usual. But her self-control never
left her and she remained composed. She blamed
nobody and did not reproach me for causing her this
sorrow.

" You did your duty, my dear ; I never expected
anything else from you." More approval than this
she had rarely expressed.

I remained at home the whole afternoon, sitting

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 265

with my mother, and we talked of times when things
were so very different from what they are now. If
the bell rang, if the door opened or steps approached,
I felt my heart leap. In the afternoon a motor car
stopped in front of the house. For a time it throbbed
under our window . . . Had it come for me ?

We have come to this, that in Hungary to-day
those who dare to confess to being Hungarians are
tracked down like game. In the Highlands it is the
Czechs, in Transylvania the Roumanians, in the
South the Serbians, and in the territory that remains
to us it is the Government who persecutes the
Hungarians.

The bell . . . Nothing, only a letter. Those who
have never tried it cannot imagine what it feels like
to have ceased to be master of one's freedom and to
be waiting for strangers to carry one off to prison.

I spent the evening with my mother and, as of old,
I followed her if she went from one room to another :
I did not budge from her side. After supper I
showed her a packet of letters which I wanted her to
hide among her own things, so that they might
not be found if there was another search. The letters
had nothing to do with politics : they were old, far-
away letters which one never reads again yet
does not like to burn, because it is comforting to
know that they still exist — dead letters of past
springs. I should have been horrified if rough strange
hands had touched them.

" Put them there," my mother said and pointed
to the glass case with the green curtains. As I pushed
the little packet in at the back of the highest shelf I
noticed a big box with a paper label on it. Written
on it in her clear handwriting was " Objects from the
old china-cabinet."

"May I have a look at these?" I said. She
nodded.

It was as though I had received all the desires and
forbidden toys of my childhood ; I pressed the box
against me. Then we put our heads together over
the table, in the light of the shaded lamp . . . Sud-
denly the high white, folding doors of the old house
where I had spent my childhood opened quietly,
mysteriously, one after the other, and as by sweet
magic I saw again the old room of long ago and the

266 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

china cabinet near the white fire-place, under the old
picture in the gilt frame . . .

Slowly and carefully we unwrapped the little
objects that had slept so long in their tissue paper.
My mother had packed them away when we had
come here and when there was no room in the smaller
china cabinet of our diminished dwelling. Since
then I had never seen the treasures of my childhood,
and as the years went by they lay enshrined and un-
disturbed in my memory.

The tiny Marquis de Saxe held up his white be-
wigged head; there was my great-grandfather's snuff
box, which could play a tinkling little tune; the
Empire lamp in pseudo-Greek style, and a long-
necked scent bottle, which to this very day contained
the ghost of a perfume of long ago. There was the
old Parisian card-case in the silky glory of the Second
Empire, the century-old miniature writing-table of
mother-of-pearl and the bucket of the same material
with a tiny landscape painted on it. In a separate
paper were souvenirs of dinners at Francis Joseph's
court : petrified sweets, with Queen Elizabeth and
her fan stuck on them, the old King when he was
still young, Archduke Rudolph with Stephanie's
fair head at his side. Among other things there was
a little carriage, standing on a silken cushion and
containing golden flagons and bunches of grapes.
Next I found the gold filigree butterfly. Then there
came a little porcelain group of marvellous beauty :
on a little toilet-table sat a tiny monkey who was
looking into the looking-glass; behind him stood a
group of laughing rococo ladies, and their whispering
heads were reflected in the mirror too.

Suddenly I instinctively put my hands behind my
back.

" Do you remember, mother ? We always had to
put our hands behind our backs when we looked at
this." We began to laugh, both of us, and at that
moment there was nothing else in this whole wide
world that mattered. And through the open white
doors I saw myself, a mischievous fair child, on tip-
toe, looking up with religious awe, and I saw my
beautiful young mother, with the porcelain monkey-
group in her hand.

"Do you remember? ..." And memory kindly

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 267

took us back to happy, quiet times. My mother said :
" I brought this from Paris in '61, this was given me
by my mother, the pair of this one was bought by the
Empress Eugenie ..." At the bottom of the box
there was a little packet. And there, at the very end
I found again my forgotten love : a lady in a yellow
dress, my favourite bit of china. But I was disap-
pointed with it now. It had no mark and its origin
was unknown. It was curious that in childhood's
days she seemed to have been much more beautiful in
her yellow, china crinoline. She stood on the spread
edges of her crinoline and for that reason she had no
need of feet. Her hair was brown and her waist
ridiculously slender.

While I was looking at her, steps resounded in the
quiet street and stopped in front of the house. Then
the front door bell rang. That sound dispersed all
the magic that had surrounded us. The picture of
childhood fell in ruins and the folding doors of the
old house shut one after the other.

My mother's hand remained on the table. She sat
motionless in the green armchair and turned her head
back a little as if listening. We did not speak a
word, yet knew that we were thinking of the same
thing. The silence was so absolute that we could
hear the steps of the concierge going towards the
door. The key turned. There was talking down
below. And then we could hear the steps coming up
the stairs. Would they stop at the first floor for us,
or would they go on ? We held our breath to hear
the better.

The steps went on.

My mother's rigid attitude relaxed, and she leant
back in the arm-chair. "What can the time be?"
she said after a while. I was packing away the
treasures of the old china cabinet, one after the
other. Should we ever see them again ? They might
be smashed, they might be carried off. I took leave
of them, one by one. Nowadays one is for ever tak-
ing leave . . .

February 25th.

What are they waiting for ? The night has passed,
so has the day, and I am still free. Nobody has been

268 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

arrested yet. Pogany insisted on the arrests being
made, and Bohm proposed them to the cabinet
council, which accepted the proposal unanimously.
The fate of the arrested Communists was settled un-
animously too. They were to be detained only for
the sake of appearances, not to protect the town from
them, but to protect them from the vengeance of the
police.

Since Baron Arco's bullet laid low Kurt Eisner,
the Jewish tyrant of Bavaria, the Government has
been getting more and more nervous. Since the
Soldiers' and Workers' Council in Munich decided for
the Dictatorship of the proletariat, the Communists
party here is getting more audacious every day. Red
news comes from Berlin, from Saxony, and, like a
distant earthquake, it shakes our town.

Notwithstanding the request of the Entente, the
date of the elections for the National Assembly has
again been postponed. Perhaps in March, or in
April ... If it's delayed so far the fight will be
hard. The party at present in power is employing
unheard-of stratagems. The achievements of the
revolution : freedom of the press, freedom of thought
and of opinions, freedom of association and meeting,
all these exist only for them. Our opinion has no
longer a press. One newspaper dared to raise the
question of shirking work, and the gigantic amount
paid out in unemployment doles; the Communists
demolished its offices. Then came the turn of another
which had attacked Hatvany's book, the chronicle
of their revolution. Others followed, and the plant of
their printers was wrecked too.

The same sinister spirit which directed destruction
fell like a strangling nightmare on the mind and brain
of the press. Even journalists, whose patriotic feel-
ings were opposed to it, were forced to join a Trade-
Union. By means of the Trade-Union, three Jews
became the dictators of the written word. All the
well-disposed papers and printers were silenced, and
the Hungarian spirit was banished from the journalists'
club. When the Markgrave Pallavicini tried to make
a breach in the Communist and Social Democratic
stronghold by purchasing an existing paper, the terror
had already reached such a pitch that Fenyes turned
up with his armed sailors to prevent him from taking

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 269

possession of it. After this it was obvious that aboli-
tion of the freedom of the press was being achieved
with the aid of the same Government which had
crushed the freedom of assembly by means of Red
soldiers, and the freedom of opinions by the means of
the ' popular law ' of internments. We are not even
allowed to assemble : our meetings are broken up by
the same Red soldiers who demolish the editorial
offices. And yet the Socialists dare not appeal to the
country, for who knows what answer it might give ?

They promised to bring the country happiness.
Hungary has never been unhappier than now. Public
opinion in the Provinces has lately turned entirely
against them. They had to do something, so they
produced the mirage of land distribution ; and Karolyi,
who had previously taken up a mortgage of several
millions on his property, went out with a noisy
following to his estate at Debro and, before a kine-
matograph camera, received the claims of tenants on
the land which was laden with debts and did not
really belong to him any longer. An old peasant was
elected to present his claim first : an old servant of
the Karolyi estate. In a lofty speech Karolyi sang
his own praise. The old peasant answered. Un-
fortunately he was not allowed to say what he wanted
to : he had been carefully coached, but even so he
made a slight slip in his address. " I have served the
Karolyi family to the third degeneration ..."
They stopped him then. The Social Democrats sent
their delegates to this theatrical distribution of land.
They feel that if they don't succeed in fooling the
level-headed agricultural population of Hungary they
will lose the election. In many villages the Social
Democratic agitators are driven away with broken
heads. It is the women who enrage the people against
them: "Blasphemers, sans patrie!"

But a thing like that does not embarrass the Social
Democrats : they adopt a disguised programme for
the rural districts. Since one of the leaders of the
broken-up small-holders party, Stephen Szabo of
Nagyatad, has joined the Karolyi government in
Budapest the Socialist propaganda has appropriated
the patriotic and religious mottoes of that party.
The Red Jewish agitators, before addressing the
people, kneel down on the platform, make the sign

270 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

of the cross and pretend to say their prayers. Then
they start like this : " Praised be the Lord Jesus
Christ, we too, Social Democrats, believe in the all-
powerful God ..."

Notwithstanding the threats of the new ' popular
law ' the various Protestant and Catholic women's
organisations bravely carry on their work. The
National Association had a meeting this morning.
The whole committee was present, not one was miss-
ing ; it seemed like a deliberate demonstration. These
women can be great and noble. Is this to be our last
meeting ?

" If anything happened," I said, " and I were pre-
vented from coming again, I should ask Elizabeth
Kallay to take my place. If her turn comes, and she
cannot be here any longer, let someone else take her
place, and so on. The links of the chain must not
be broken."

There was stern resolution in our dark, insignifi-
cant little office.

Countess Raphael Zichy looked at me while she
addressed the others : " There is one among us whom
the Government wants to arrest. Let us decide that
if this should happen, we shall go, with a hundred
thousand women, up to the castle and claim to be
arrested too, because we have all done what she has
done."

She was not laughing now. And in all the weary
journey of this wintry world I have never been given
anything more precious.

February 26th.

Early this morning the door bell rang. Steps
tramped about the ante-room. A little later the
little German maid came in.

" Two soldiers were looking for you, and asked if
you were in town. They had an urgent message. I
told them you were in town but had gone out."

As she spoke I knew that they had come to find
out if I had escaped. It is quite the custom nowa-
days ; they ring, inquire, and go. They follow me in
the streets, and sometimes even walk behind me up
the stairs.

It makes one feel like a cornered quarry. I'm be-

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AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 271

ginning to wish that something would happen. If it
has to be, let them arrest me; but this underhand
spying gets on one's nerves. It is reported in town
that I have already been arrested. The telephone
bell is continually ringing — friends inquiring if I am
still at home.

Later Count Bethlen came to tell me that the
internments had been suspended after Szurmay, the
former Minister of Defence, and Szterenyi, the for-
mer Minister of Commerce, had been arrested. They
went for them after midnight, arrested them and
took them somewhere on the right bank of the
Danube.

In the evening my mother and I played Patience.
It is about the only old-time custom that is left to us
now. To-morrow I shall have one more day at
home ... As for the day after — but in these times
that is such a distant date that one dares not think of
it if one wants to live.

February 27th.

Bishop Count Mikes has been arrested : his diocese
waits for him in vain. Once there was an Archbishop
down there in Kalocsa for whom the faithful in the
Cathedral waited in vain too, when the time came
for Mass. He had girded on his sword, had gone to
do battle for Hungary, and had perished with his six
bishops on the fields of Mohacs. But his spirit is not
dead. It has appeared now and then in the history
of Hungary, and to-day it is here again. Its name
to-day is John Mikes.

Some of us who went to the Association this
morning spoke of him. Suddenly the news came
that Communist soldiers had run amok in the neigh-
bouring street and were coming to break up the
women's meeting.

M Let's go," somebody suggested.

"I stay!" And three others stayed with me to
see it through. To save our rings and watches we
handed them to one of those who left. There were
shouts in the street. People were running about in
the house. Then the noise subsided and the visit of
the Reds did not come off.

In the afternoon I went to see the daughter of

272 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

General Tiirr, the Hungarian who had been
Garibaldi's right-hand man and one of the heroes of
Italy's fight for freedom. It was rather a shock to
see an Italian officer there, his chest covered with
decorations. Where had he got them ? I thought of
the Hungarian dead at Doberdo and San Michele.
And I also remembered that the Czechs were at
present using Italian rifles to beat out the brains of
Hungarian peasants in Upper Hungary.

When the commander of the American troops
landed in France he shouted : " Nous voila,
Lafayette!" . . . When the Italian general who is
leading the Czechs over the defenceless Carpathians
stepped on Hungarian soil I wonder if he said,
"Nous voild, Tilkory . . . nous voild, Tiirr! . . ."

My hand twitched when I gave it to Italy's
soldier. And yet this stranger seemed a sympathetic,
well-intentioned man. And Italy once was my
second home, dear good friends of my youth live
there and the fate of our two peoples has often taken
a common road. We must forget, but it is still very
hard.

We tried to inform Signora Tiirr of the situation,
but Karolyi's ministers had preceded us. They had
betrayed themselves. Signora Tiirr spoke of them
with the greatest contempt and promised to inform
her government of the country's desperate plight.
" Why, what you have got here amounts practically
to Bolshevism ..." Practically!

February 28th.

It seemed quite unusual to have been in society
again, without any serious cause or purpose, for
nothing special, just as we used to in old times.
Countess Mikes gave a tea party in honour of
Stephanie Tiirr.

Loafing soldiers on the look-out gathered round the
entrance when we arrived. Where are the old times ?
Where are the homes that knew no care ? Electric
lights dimmed in silken shades, the dainty lines of
beautiful dresses, Paris scents, the smoke of Egyptian
cigarettes; flowers, a shower of flowers .

Now there are last Spring's dresses, dim light,
scanty heating, cigarettes of a coarse tobacco.

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 273

Scents exist no more, and in a wide-necked vase three
miserable, sad flowers. Hungarian society no longer
has a social life. Those who can amuse themselves in
these times are not Hungarians. Salons are dead,
they have become the meeting-place of embittered
conspirators where people talk to each other and then
look anxiously behind them. Practically every
Hungarian house is spied upon by its own servants.
We know it but cannot remedy it.

Everything has changed, even conversation. In
former times it turned on human interests, music,
theatres, books, distant towns, foreign countries,
acquaintances. Now we ask each other "What was
it like in jail ? Have they searched your house yet ?
I thought you had been arrested." And if somebody
says "I'm glad to see you " it has a different
meaning from what it used to have. Count Albert
Apponyi passed smiling and came up and shook my
hands warmly. "So you are still free! . . ."

I met Stephanie Tiirr once more before she left, and
talked to her in the hall of the Hotel Bristol. She
gave me a solemn promise ; she will try to help us
when she gets home. The Italian officer who had
been given her as an escort for her personal safety,
said nervously :

" Signora, you are watched. There are detectives
here." Then he spoke so low that I could hardly
hear him. " E pericoloso," and he winked and
nodded to me. " Be careful, we can leave, but those
unfortunates who remain here are playing with their
lives."

I felt as if there were only two kinds of humanity in
the world : those who are happy and those who are
unfortunate. And these foreigners look upon us as if
they were looking, half in pity, half in curiosity,
through the grating of a mortuary.

CHAPTER XVII.

March lst-5th.

Winter is still with us, but the winds bring signs
of awakening from afar. March . . . the month of
fevers and commotions. On the earth fatigue and
restlessness chase each other. Flooded rivers race
along. There is no visible sign of it, yet spring is
there somewhere over the horizon.

Whose spring is this to be ? Ours or theirs ? Signs
of evil omen prophesy against us. The monster,
raised from the dark by Karolyi's party in October,
shows its head daily more boldly and now grips
the city with innumerable tentacles. Its suckers
pierce the flesh of Budapest, and where they fasten
themselves the streets become convulsed, and, like
blood, red flags trickle out of the houses.

The Galileists openly avowed at their last meeting
that they are Communists. At the instigation of
Maria Goszthonyi and a Jewish Communist woman
the Socialist women demonstrated in the Old House
of Commons against the religious and patriotic spirit in
the schools. On the initiative of John Hock, himself
a priest, orators clamoured in favour of abolishing
the Catholic priests' celibacy. Revolutionary orders
from the War Office and the Soldiers' Council spread
all over the country. Pogany has sent instructions to
the various military detachments that they should,
with the help of the confidential men, elect officers
of the most advanced political opinions and dismiss
the others.

In the Town Hall the Workers' Council has now
passed sentence of death on the system of small
holdings and on the distribution of land. This dis-
tribution would at least have left Hungarians to some
extent possessed of their birthright. But that would
have retarded the plans of our new conquerors. So they
want to socialize it and create producers' co-operative
Societies, controlled from Budapest, and directed,
instead of by the old Hungarian landlords, by people

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 275

who, as Kunfi said : " are inspired by the new spirit
of Hungary." They want to achieve the revolution
of the soil even as they achieved their political revo-
lution. After the wheel, they want to lay hands on
the ship itself.

Outside the walls, no less than inside, the red
plague is spreading. I remember the first red flag
hoisted. It hung alone for a long time, then it was
followed by others. The rebellion of October ordered
the beflagging of the town. The perpetrators of that
crime commanded an obscene display of joy in the
hour of our great disaster, and Budapest donned in
cowardly fashion the festive decoration imposed
upon her, while the country was being torn to pieces
all around. In the days that followed she did not
dare to remove it : she stood there, beflagged, during
the downfall, under the heel of foreign occupation,
like a painted prostitute, and the national colours
became antagonistic to our souls, an insult to, a
mockery of, our grief. Though it sounds like the talk
of a madman, I say that I began to hate the colours
for which I would formerly have loved to give my
life.

Now the red, white, and green flags are disap-
pearing rapidly. But the soiled colours of the nation
are not replaced in the country's capital by the black
of mourning. Every day there are more and more
red flags in the streets of this unprincipled town,
which is always outrunning itself and stamping its
past into the mud. Once I loved this town and wrote
its romance, so that its people might learn to love it
through my art.* Now I have become a stranger
within its gates and have no communion with it. I
impeach it and repudiate it.

And this accusation is not raised against the foreign
race which has achieved power, which has attained
its end by sheer perseverance, ingenuity, industry
and pluck — but against Magyardom and the whole
nation, who have, heedlessly, incapably and blindly,
given up their own heart — the capital.

All past powers and governments are responsible
for this. The reproach concerns to the same extent
those politicians who are still debating about shades

* The Old House.

276 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

and won't see that to-day there are only colours, and
won't feel that in a short time there will be no
more colours, but only one colour, and that that one
will be — red.

This bitter thought brought to my mind a Red
soldier whom I saw when I was on duty at the rail-
way station. Some armed men came into the hall
where we have our Red Cross. They were commanded
by a strapping young Hungarian. He stopped in
front of me and asked me whether I had seen ninety-
six men pass there. They came from Dees, were
Whites, armed, and their track had been lost.

"I haven't seen them." Then my eyes caught
sight of his cap. A broad red ribbon was sewn
round it. " What have you done with the red,
white, and green one?"

"We lost that on the Piave," the soldier answered.

" There you lost the black and yellow one.* You
have torn off our own colours yourselves." As I said
this I looked straight into his eyes. He couldn't
stand my gaze : he snatched the cap from his head
and hid it behind his back :

" Well, and you gentlefolk, why don't you ever
give us a lead ?"

Many times have those words echoed in my ears
since then, every time a soldier or a workman has
flung at me the accusation of want of leadership. It
seems to be a characteristic of our politicians and
intellectuals.

• •••••••

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

* Black and Yellow was the flag of the Hapsburgs, consequently
of the Austro-Hungarian army, and was always disliked in Hungary
as antagonistic to national aspirations.

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 277

poor : labourers, labourers' wives. They passed un-
moved, caring for none but themselves.

The community of Marxian proletarians came to
my mind. Those teachings which kill human com-
munity 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 accu-
sations against me remain, nobody has torn up the
warrant for my arrest. Why they hesitate about ex-
ecuting 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 ?

The elections are coming off shortly. I work
too, though I don't believe in them. The situation
would be just the same if, regardless of all intimida-
tion, the patriotic masses were to secure a majority.
Social Democracy is not particular about its means ;
it has roused the workmen with the story of the
world-saving powers of the equal and secret ballot,
and now when this has been obtained and it ought
to submit to its judgment, the official Government
journal says right out : " If Socialism were, for what-
ever reason, to lose the battle, it would be ultimately
obliged to resort to arms against the counter-revolu-
tion ..." The election can't help us. Something
else will have to happen.

And it will happen. It is in the air. A monster
cord is tightening round us, and when it snaps it will
draw blood from those it strikes.

278 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

March 9th.

The red fist is raised higher every day and becomes
more and more threatening. In a friendly way it
points occasionally to the gallows, and then towards
gaol. This morning it has again honoured me with
its attention. The official paper of the Social
Democratic headquarters, under the title ' The
visiting Counter-Re volution,' makes an onslaught on
those who, without the knowledge of the Government,
are communicating with the envoys of the Entente,
and, in company with others, it calls me a counter-
revolutionary spy.

Somebody gave me the paper on the staircase of
the Protestant Theological College. The Evangelical
students were giving a concert, and between the
songs I was to give an address. The words of ' The
People's Voice ' were still buzzing in my head when I
stepped on the platform. I told the Protestant youths
that every patriotic action which serves its purpose,
that every patriotic word that hits the mark,
regains a scrap of our torn country. The People's
Voice accused me this morning of being a counter-
revolutionary spy. I don't deny it, I try to inform
foreign countries of the state of affairs by word of
mouth and with my pen. I read an article of mine
which a compatriot and his Swedish wife had taken
to Stockholm for the Svenska Dagbladed. It was
called: 'An appeal from a nation's scaffold.' I left
it to my audience to decide whether that was counter-
revolution or patriotism.

When I came to the end of my address a loud voice
shouted : " We want a hundred thousand similar
counter-revolutionaries!" And the whole audience
jumped up and took up the cry.

A wave passed over the hall, a wave which grows,
spreads over the country, while from the other side
there comes another wave coloured red. Which is
faster, which will be the first to break the dyke ? It
is all a question of time. -

March lOth-llth.

The street was silent. There was no shooting last
night and the obscene shouts of drunken patrols were

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 279

not heard. It might have been about half past one
when a cart came down the street and stopped at our
front door. "Surely they have not come to fetch me
in a cart?" I thought, but all the same I collected
my papers and stuck them under the bookcase. There
was an odd noise below, as if something were being
broken open. Then there followed steps carrying a
heavy weight. The thought occurred to me that they
might be robbing our cellar. I put out my lamp and
went to the window. The street was practically dark,
but I thought I could distinguish a cart and a few
human figures.

What if they were stealing our coal ! The idea made
me shudder. I ran to the concierge, made him open
the door, and went out into the street. The cart was
standing at the cellar-stairs of the neighbouring
house, where a carpenter had his workshop. The
night birds were dragging furniture out of it. One
of the dark figures stood in front of me : " Good
evening, Miss," he said.'

" Good-evening," I answered, and with the
egotism bred of our times I was glad that it was not
our cellar into which they had broken. " Good-
night," I added politely. " Good-night," came the
answer.

Only when the door had shut behind me did I realise
that these well-intentioned people might easily have
knocked me down.

Such are the " Winter's Tales " enacted in the
nights of Budapest . . .

• •••••••

March 12th.

In the name of the women of Hungary we made a
last attempt to-day to unite the adherents of law
and order. The leaders gathered at my house : we
all realised that this was our last chance. And when
at length, after long discussions, we women were left
to ourselves, all we could do was to sum up our
efforts in the words: "we have failed again!"

Before going to bed the housekeeper brought her
account books to my mother. She fixed her inquisitive
eyes on me and said : " You look tired, miss.
You've had so many visitors to-day ! Perhaps it
was an important meeting? ..."

280 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

Instinctively I answered : "We discussed whether
it would be possible to have the children's festival
this year." And then straight out, in self-defence, I
asked : " Your fiance, he is Pogany's chauffeur,
isn't he ?"

She was taken aback by my sudden question and
gave herself away :

"He carries Pogany sometimes, sometimes Bohm."

That was just what I wanted to know.

• • • • • • • •

March 13th.

Many people are stopping at the street corner,
where a new poster is shrieking from the walls. It
represents a giant workman bending over the
Hungarian Parliament, at his feet a bucket of paint,
and with a dripping brush he is painting the mighty
mass of granite, which is our House of Parliament,
red. Above the picture is the appeal * Vote for the
Social Democratic party.'

The everlasting pile of stones, and — red paint . . .
That sums it up completely — even more than was
intended.

The other day we stuck up our tiny poster. It
was a map of Hungary : on a white field the green
frontiers, and above, in red letters ; 'National Associ-
ation of Hungarian Women.' They are free to cover
the walls with yard-long posters : ours was no bigger
than a hand and took up little enough room, yet
they could not tolerate it. I saw a little boy tearing
them off.

" Why do you do that, sonny ? It does not hurt
you."

" I get twenty crowns a day to tear down those in
national colours."

All around us foreign invaders are tearing our
country to bits with impunity. In the capital, hired
little Hungarian boys destroy its image.

The future lacerating itself.

........

March lJ^th.

I think that has pained me more than anything
else. The face of that boy has haunted me ever since
I saw it. Whose contrivance is it that we should

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 281

come to this ? A new teacher walks among the
children, a devilish red shadow has mounted the
teacher's desk. It takes away from us the last thing
that remained to console us. It started many years
ago in the factories, then it prowled about the
barrack-squares, and now it invades the schools. It
puts up " confidential " boys and girls in opposition
to the teacher's authority and gives them everything
they were not allowed to touch before. "It was all
stupid lies," it whispers incessantly, and gives them
the idea of Divinity as a target for their pea-shooters,
and the map of their country, with all it stands for,
to make kites with. It even betrays their parents to
them: "don't respect them!" it says. "You are
only the result of their lasciviousness. They
only sought their own pleasure in your existence, and
you owe them neither gratitude nor obedience."

The devilish red shadow threatens morals with
ever increasing impudence. " Let the human mind
be set free," said Kunfi, and he replaced religious
teaching in the schools by the exposition of sexual
knowledge. Jewish medical students and lady
doctors give erotical lectures to little boys and girls,
and, so as to make their subject quite clear, films are
shown which display what the children fail to under-
stand. I heard of two little girls who lost their
mental balance in consequence of these lectures.
Some children come home disgusted and fall in tears
into their mother's lap. But there are also those who
laugh and say horrible things to their parents. After
robbing the land the theft of souls has started, and
Jesus appeals in vain that the little children be
allowed to come unto Him : they must go no more.

A woman came to our office to-day. "The children
turn against me," she complained, and her voice
broke. " School has robbed me of their hearts."

I tried to console her, but she only shook her head :
" What has been defiled in the children's soul can
never be cleansed again."

I did not know what to say. After all, she waa
right.

Talk is buzzing behind me. Voices are raised.
Somebody coming from Sopron says that the

282 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

Austrians are covering the whole of West Hungary
with their propaganda. The Czechs want a Slav
corridor in those parts, right down to the Adriatic
Sea. Another voice gives news of the British :
" Don't you know ? They have decided that the
whole navigation on the Danube is to pass into the
hands of the Czechs, including all Hungarian
vessels "... " The Roumanians are advancing
steadily," says a whisper. "In Paris they cannot
advance the line of demarcation as fast as they
pass beyond it."

In one county the Workers' Council has expelled
the landlords and various estates have already been
socialised. Young Jews from provincial towns now
direct and control the old stewards and bailiffs who
have grown old in hard work on the estates. One
voice rose in alarm : "The Government is impounding
all banking accounts and safe-deposits. There is a
run on the banks. Something awful is going to
happen."

I looked at the woman near the window who was
wiping the tears from her eyes. Lands, rivers, old
estates, acquired fortunes, money, gold — they are
lost, but they can be recovered. But what that
woman is weeping for is lost for ever.

March 15th.

This is the 70th anniversary of our glorious revolu-
tion of 1848. During the period of Austrian
absolutism which followed it the nation commemor-
ated it in secret. Then once more the flowers of that
day, the national flags, were allowed to be unfurled
freely. Anthems, songs, speeches, processions with
flags. For half a century March the 15th was a
service at the altar of liberty.

This day has never passed so dull and mute as it
has this year. The flags, which have practically
rotted oft their staffs in the last few months, have
lately become rare, and to-day they have not re-
appeared. It is said that it was by request of the
Communist party that the Government has repudi-

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 283

ated this day, though it claims to be its spiritual
descendant.

The town, quiet during the day, went to sleep
early. The March wind blows cold and chases
through dark empty streets. The shop-signs swing
like black shadows, and the brass plates of barbers'
shops dance in the air.

Our street sleeps too. Through its dream a step
breaks now and then. In the next room the clock
with the alabaster pillars strikes midnight in hesitat-
ing strokes. Who goes there, in this stormy night ?

I seem to see him. He is tall and wears an old-
fashioned shabby dolman. His white shirt is folded
over it, and the wind plays with the soft collar. His
face is scarcely visible, so far has he drawn the cap
over his eyes. He goes on and on, through empty,
unfriendly streets. His spurs clink, and his big
sword knocks against his boots. A motor races
through the streets, its interior lit up by an electric
bulb. A heavy-featured fat man leans back into the
cushions. A patrol turns the corner. " Pogany,"
says one of the men. The boots of Red soldiers tramp
unsteadily on the pavement. They pass the man in
the dolman, look in his direction, but see him not.
His fluttering collar touches them, but they feel it
not. And he just glares at the red gashes left on
their caps where the national cockades have been
torn off.

M What have you done with my rosettes'?"

His face turns paler than death. He goes on. His
eyes wander over the empty flag-staffs between the
red flags.

" What have you done to my flags ? "

His way takes him past some lighted windows.
They are working up there in an editorial office. Red
soldiers stand with cocked revolvers in front of the
editorial table. They are the censors, and the rotary
presses hum in the cellars. Compositors in linen
overalls, besmeared with ink, lean over their work.

M What have you done with my free press? What
have you done with its freedom born in March ? "

He leans over the compositors' shoulders, and his
eyes pass over the letters. They do not see him, nor
hear him ; they go on composing the line : M Under
the statue of Alexander Petofi, Eugene Landler spoke

284 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

of the significance of March 15th. The choir sang
the Marseillaise."

" What have you done with my songs?"

He goes on again, dark and alone. He knows the
streets, he knows the garden, the big quiet house
with its pillars, between the rigid, wintry trees. He
has reached the Museum. Under his hand the handle
of the locked, barred gate gives way. The guardian
wakes and looks out of his shelter. Nothing — it was
a dream. The wind whistles, and the wanderer's
collar flutters as he mounts the lofty stairs and stops
at the top against the wall. He looks down, standing
long immobile, and asks the winds why there is no-
body to call: "Magyars! Arise!"

" Don't they know it here? Who are the masters
now, under Hargita and on the fields of Segesvar?"

He is tired and would like to stretch himself at
ease after the long sad road.

" To whom have you given my grave?"

There is no rest and there is no place for him to go
to, he whose ghost had led me through the town on
this homeless fifteenth of March.

Oh let him go, let him go in silence, for should he
remain here and raise his voice to-morrow the Govern-
ment of ' Independent Hungary ' would arrest him as
a counter-revolutionary.*

March 16th.

I was at Foth to-day, where I had intended to
address the village women. But the bubbles rise no
longer in the wine of Foth. Spring has a heavy,
foreboding atmosphere there to-day.

I went with two friends. Beyond the town white
patches of snow were melting on the awakening black
soil. The waters of winter flowed with a soft gurgle
in the ditches.

"We cannot have a meeting to-day in the village,"

*The ghost is Petofi, the national poet of Hungary, who, on
March 15, 1848. roused the country with his famous song "Magyars !
Arise!" He fought in the War of Independence and died a
hero's death on the battlefield of Segesvar, in Transylvania, where
he lies in an unknown grave. His poem, the national song,
started the revolution. ('48)

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 285

I was told. " Another time, next week . . . there is
a Social Democratic mass-meeting in the town hall,
and a memorial service for those killed in the war at
the cemetery. There is a lot of excitement, and I'm
afraid the meeting of women would be interfered
with."

We listened to the speeches from a window of the
town hall. They differed widely from Budapest's
orations. Here, the half-hearted war-cries were
shouted under the national colours and mixed with
hero-worship. It was the same in the cemetery.
Then suddenly a drunken soldier stood up on the
mound of a grave. Hatred was in his face and dark
threats poured from his lips : " Let the gentle-folk
learn. We are going to teach them. They cheated
the people, and drove them into death. But just you
wait now that we have got the power ..."

Night was falling when our crowded train entered
Budapest. There were no cabs, they have been on
strike for the last four days, and I couldn't get on to
an electric car. A soldier shoved me aside and
dragged me off the steps. I watched him pushing
his way in among the passengers to make room for
himself. Apparently somebody shoved him back, for
he drew his revolver and began to shoot at random.
The car stopped, the passengers jumped off,
women shrieked and there was a panic.

I walked along the streets. Nearly everywhere the
pavement was pulled up and here and there red
warning lamps blinked near the holes, but there
were no road-menders. I thought of an old
engraving of the French revolution. In the picture
there were narrow old houses, and between them
barricades on which figures in tight check trousers,
and with top hats, but without coats, were shooting
with very long guns with fixed bayonets. Barricades ?
Why, these paving stones practically offered them-
selves for that purpose.

What is it preparing for, this town which becomes
stranger every day ? What is it scheming now, when
nearly every voice in it has been silenced and only
the mind of the rabble finds expression ? As I passed
under the mass of the cathedral I looked up at its
tower where a big bell hangs, high above all the
towers and bells of the town. I remembered its

286 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

voice. If only it. might speak — but not to call to
Mass. I want to hear it sound the tocsin, in desper-
ate appeal . . .

• •••••••

March 17th-18th.

People speak to me and I answer them ; what I
say sounds quite natural, yet I am only partly there,
only bodily ; the rest of me is walking ahead of my-
self and counting the hours.

I made a speech at a meeting to-day, and then
wrote letters in the office, after which I had a talk
with the secretary. Perhaps people didn't notice that
my mind is now haunted by a single idea, an expec-
tant desperate idea. The secretary had been in the
country . . . Bad news . . . He had spoken to
Bishop Prohaszka, who told him that a sharp plough
is being prepared to tear up the soul of the Hungarian
people. It will make a deep furrow, but it has to
be, so as to make the ground the more fertile.

" It will be so," I said, as if I had heard the words
of the bishop with the soul of Assisi repeated in my
dream.

• •••»•••

The night between 19th-Wth March.

The last embers died out in the fireplace : I began
to shiver, yet I did not move. I sat in my chair in
front of my writing-table and felt shudders running
down my back.

I ought to have written my last manifesto in the
name of the Association. I began it, but at the end
of the first sentence the pen stopped in my hand,
would not go on, drew aimless lines, and went on
scratching when the ink had dried on it. Then it fell
from my hand and rolled on the table. I took up a
book at random, held it for a long time in my hands,
and looked at its lettering. I don't know what it
was. I closed it and shut my eyes. One hears better
like that, and I am waiting.

The hours struck one after the other. Twelve, one,
half-past one, a quarter to two ... I put out the
lamp and opened the window.

I went back to my table. The cold was streaming
in through the open window and made me shiver.

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 287

The silence quivered, and it seemed to me as though
a huge artery was throbbing in the air.

The clock struck two.

It is time now . . . Every nerve in my body was
at high tension, my neck became rigid.

I don't know how long it lasted. I felt colder and
colder. The clock struck again. Perhaps it was fast
. . . About half an hour may have passed. My
stiffness began to relax, as if the very bones of my
body had melted ; my head drooped.

So they have postponed it again !

It had been fixed for two o'clock this morning.
We have arms enough, and the police and the gen-
darmery are on our side. But the signal did not
come. The bells of the cathedral never sounded.

What has happened ? Will it sound to-morrow, or
the day after ?

If only it is not too late . . .

March 20th.

The night of the counter-revolution had been fixed
for so many dates and had been postponed so many
times that hope began to tire. Will it ever come ? I
thought. With an effort I roused myself from my
weariness and concentrated my whole mind once
more on expectation.

The town, too, seemed expectant, the very streets
on the alert — at any rate so it seemed to me : there
was an expectant silence in the very dawn. There were
no newspapers — it is said that the compositors have
struck for higher wages. I went to the bank. The
Government has impounded all deposits, and no money
is to be got anywhere. The shutters are drawn and
the crowd outside pushes and swears in panic.

All sorts of rumours are flying about. Somebody
reports that the Communist army is preparing some-
thing : disbanded soldiers are holding threatening
meetings all over the suburbs, insisting on the release
of Bela Klin and his companions. It is also reported
that Michael Karolyi is planning something. In his
hatred he had once sworn that he would destroy
Tisza, even if the nation had to perish with him.
Tisza is dead, but his soul has risen against Karolyi
in the whole nation. And so Karolyi prepares a new

288 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

vengeance. It is rumoured that this is not directed
against Magyardom alone, which has regained con-
sciousness and repudiates him, but also against the
Entente, which will have nothing to do with him.
What is going to happen to us ?
I went to the meeting of the Party of National
Unity this afternoon and exchanged a few words
with Count Stephen Bethlen. He said that great
changes are to be expected; the powers of the
Entente had informed Karolyi through their repre-
sentatives that they would show consideration to a
level-headed Government. To give weight to their
demand they threatened us through Colonel Vyx with
new lines of demarcation. Count Bethlen thought
the situation less desperate than it had been lately,
and I was reassured for a time.

I came home with a friend through remarkably
crowded streets. She lived a long way off and we
were late, so she stayed with us for the night. I
roused myself in the evening and we worked together
on the women's manifesto. It was about midnight
when my mother came in to us, and, as I usually do
when I have written something, I asked her opinion
and followed her advice. Then she drove us off to
bed. When I was left alone I tried to allay my rest-
lessness by polishing the manuscript. Thus the time
passed. It was two o'clock.

Suddenly, I don't know why, yesterday's excited
expectation came over me again. I looked up and
thought I heard the clanging of a bell a great distance
away. My throat became dry, and my heart beat
madly. I threw the window open.

But out there all was hopelessly quiet. It was just
an hallucination . . . For a while I leaned out into
the cold, black street. A shot was fired. Then the
night resumed its stillness.

" I can stand it no longer." How often did we say
that during the war ! Then came the protracted
debacle of autumn; then winter, and our country
was torn to pieces. We can't stand it . . . But we
stood it. And who knows how much more we shall
have to stand this spring?

I leaned on the window-sill, and in the dark I
began to see visions, as if I were dreaming a night-
mare. Suddenly the visions became definite. I saw

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 289

myself in a big ugly house, with unusually high win-
dows, opening in its bare high walls. We were
sitting in the last room, waiting for something which
we could not escape. There was no door in the room
leading into the open, and down there the gate was
wide open, with nobody to guard it. Through the
draughty porch steps came inwards, and nobody
stopped them. They came up the stairs. For some
time one door in the house opened after another.
One more, and one more, each nearer than the
last . . .

We can't stand it any longer . . . The minutes
stretch to horrible infinity, and yet we cannot move,
and expectation becomes terror. The steps are
already hesitating at the last door. Something is
happening there. Nobody is yet visible, but the
door-handle moves, slowly, carefully, and then it
creaks.

For God's sake open it. Let anything happen,
whatever it is, but only let it happen !

March 21st.

Rain falls, and water flows from the dilapidated
gutters. The drops beat on the metal edging of my
window and sound as if a skeleton finger were knock-
ing, asking for admittance.

The hall bell rang. It was Countess Chotek
bringing a contribution for the Association. Then
Countess Mikes arrived, though it was not yet nine
o'clock. She whispered in my ear : "I have very
bad news. I must speak to you."

I took the money and we went out. She told me
in the carriage that a reliable person had been present
yesterday at a Communist meeting. The majority
of workmen had gone over to the Communist party —
the iron and metal workers had all gone over — and
they had decided henceforth to oppose the parties in
power and at the same time break down the counter-
revolution.

Is the demoniacal magician who with his evil eye
has cast a spell of suicidal lethargy over the whole
nation now going to close his hand definitely on his
benumbed prey ?

We went to the offices of the Association and had

290 AN OUTLAW'S DIARY

scarcely arrived there when Countess Louis Batthyany
rushed in and signalled to me. We retired to a
corner. It was only then that I noticed how thin and
deadly pale her face was. She spoke nervously. The
Government had resigned. Colonel Vyx had handed
it an ultimatum. The Entente has again advanced
the line of demarcation and now asks also for a
neutral zone. And Karolyi, on reliable information,
wants to hand over the power to the Communists.

So that was Karolyi 's vengeance . . .

Elisabeth Kallay and her sister came in. On
hearing the news they rushed off again to inform
Archduke Joseph, and went also to Stephen Bethlen
to ask him to attempt the impossible with the dele-
gates of the Entente.

Within the last few days Colonel Vyx has with-
drawn the French Forces from Budapest. All in all
there might be about three hundred Spahis in the
neighbourhood. He knew what was going on. Was
he intentionally depriving the population of the
town of their only safeguard ?

Countess Batthyany got up to go. Before leaving
she whispered in my ear that I must escape during
the night, as my name was on the first list of persons
to be arrested.

I went home. It poured the whole afternoon and
the rain beat a tattoo on my window. I telephoned
for my sister, speaking softly so that my mother, who
was ill in bed, could not hear. She knows nothing as
yet.

Later, a friend came to tell me that it was essential
for me to escape, they had decided to hang me; so
when Countess Chotek came back I returned the
money to her which she had brought in the morning
for the Association, saying, " It would not be safe
any longer with me." She brought the same warning
as my other friend.

" I won't go," I said. " It would be cowardice
to run away. If they want to arrest me, let them do
it. I shall stay here."

"But we shall need you later, when we can
resume our work," my friend said, and tried to per-
suade me. " I would take you with me, but you
wouldn't be safe there, for they're sure to search our
place for my brother." I listened to her patiently,

AN OUTLAW'S DIARY 291

but I felt neither fear nor excitement, perhaps be-
cause of a curious illusion I had that the talk was not
about me, but about somebody else.

About seven o'clock a young journalist friend
came to us, deadly pale. He closed the door quickly
behind him, and looked round anxiously as if he feared
he had been followed. He also looked terrified.

M Karolyi has resigned," he said in a strained
voice. "He sent Kunfi from the cabinet meeting to
fetch Bela Klin from prison. Kunfi brought Bela
Kun to the Prime Minister's house in a motor
car. The Socialists and Communists have come
to an agreement and have formed a Directory
of which Bela Klin, Tibor Szamuelly, Sigmund
Kunfi, Joseph Pogany and Bela Vago are to be the
members. They are going to establish revolutionary
tribunals and will make many arrests to-night. Save
yourself — don't deliver yourself up to their
vengeance."

Even as he spoke, shooting started in the street
outside. Suddenly I remembered my night's
vision . . . We are in the big ungainly house . . .
the door handle of the last room is turning, and the
last door opens . . .

An awful voice shrieked along the street :

"LONG LIVE THE DICTATORSHIP OF THE PROLETARIAT ! "

THE END.*

* The second part of Miss Tormay's diary, containing the account
of the Commune and of her escape and pursuit, will be published
as soon as possible.

014250041

OCT 4

W