Hungary -- History -- Revolution, 1918-1919 -- Personal narratives; Tormay, Cécile, 1876-1937 -- Diaries
His face showed undisguised disgust when Károlyi introduced to him, as
an achievement of the revolution, the delegates of the Workers’ and
Soldiers’ Council. He pointed at the collar of Csernyák, the delegate
of the Soldiers’ Council, whence the insignia of rank had been removed:
“_Vous êtes tombés si bas?_” Then, instead of bowing, he threw his head
back haughtily, turned on his heel, and left them. He dined with his
officers, and did not 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 befooled, betrayed country, which had been rocked to
sleep for months by the recital of Károlyi’s connections with the Allies,
and the belief of a good peace?... In their fear they accused each other,
and one of them said to Károlyi: “In Budapest you were feasted like a
demi-god, and here you are treated like a dog....”
Károlyi 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 Károlyi, Mrs. Jászi and other “revolutionary ladies” (as they
like to be styled) were there too. But the festal crowd waited in vain.
Károlyi 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.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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