Now I remembered: some days ago I had heard that Károlyi’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 cafés came to the surface—and the ghetto sported cockades of national colours and chrysanthemums. As though it were beneath some wicked enchantment, 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 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 distributed 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 Petöfi. 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.