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 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 perfect 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 destruction 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 Károlyi who will stop them: as far as he is concerned they can do what they like with the crown. A few days ago Count Ambrózy, the Keeper of the Crown Jewels, went to Michael Károlyi’s house and asked for admittance. Károlyi was lunching with Count Pejacsevich when the butler announced that the Keeper of the Crown Jewels was waiting. “Let him wait,” said Károlyi. “I am lunching,” and continued his meal undisturbed. After a time he was told again that Count Ambrózy wanted to see him urgently, as he had to leave town. Károlyi, to whom Kéri, Jászi and Pogány 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 Károlyi. 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. “Ambrózy 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....” [Illustration: ST. STEPHEN’S CROWN (THE HOLY HUNGARIAN CROWN). (_To face p. 162._)] 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; 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 Sévres 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.