The car started and disappeared in a cloud of dust. I shrank back with disgust. Why had that face come here? Where had I seen it before? I shuddered. It was as though a soft slimy toad had suddenly appeared on the surface of a clear sylvan pool. The garden closed over the vision and the flowering lilacs effaced its impression. In the evening I was told that the man in the princely motor, with his suite, was Joseph Pogány. I suppose I ought to be amused. Here am I, outlawed, sentenced to death, and sleuth-hounds have been let loose upon my tracks. The chauffeur is probably our housekeeper’s fiancé, the same who was set to spy on our home. And these people who have been searching for me for weeks were standing just now a few paces from me; they, openly, free, while I was hiding in the bushes. May the same fortune attend their search for others. * * * * * _May 17th._ Yesterday a newspaper was thrown from the train. The old middle-class newspapers have stopped publication even in their new Communist disguise. Following the Russian example there are now only official papers; ‘The People’s Voice,’ ‘The Red Newspaper,’ ‘The Red Soldier,’ ‘The Young Proletarian’; _Világ_, the old newspaper of the Freemasons, has remained, though it disguises its identity under the name of _The Torch_ and serves as official mouthpiece of the Commissary for Education; and there is the old capitalistic _Pester Lloyd_ used by the revolutionary Cabinet as its semi-official, German mouthpiece. The newspaper went from house to house through the village and at last reached us. It proclaims in gigantic type: “Victories of the Proletarian army. Lenin congratulates Béla Kun by wireless on his victories.” So Lenin is speaking once more! The sun is shining and yet the horizon appears dark and sad. Is it really possible that they should triumph in the end? Suddenly I laughed: Comrade Landler has published an article in ‘The People’s Voice,’ telling the story of how he visited a workmen’s battalion with Béla Kun and Pogány. To quote him verbatim: “When they saw us they cheered. Then a curious thing happened—our comrades asked for our autographs. We were obliged to give our autographs, not to one, not to ten, but to half a battalion. He who cannot interpret this incident must be afflicted with blindness. An army which is on such a high level of culture that its men, a few miles behind the front, ask for nothing but autographs, _an army like that cannot fail to be victorious_!”