“I can’t tell. The matter was never mentioned.” The People’s Commissary turned his back on him furiously and ordered the officers to parade in front of the men; then he asked the latter: “Are you satisfied with the comrade officers?” After that, though the Red press describes his indomitable courage at the head of storming troops and gushes over his self-sacrificing heroism, he retired to a safe distance behind the front. And the gunners are going to remain another day because they want to have a dance as a send-off. The men say that Isidor Grosz has come to an arrangement with Béla Kun—he came back with his pockets bulging with money, so now he does not mind leaving. It is to be hoped that none of the others will take the thing amiss: there is a lot of ammunition in the woodshed and on the terrace. The gate stands open, and there is nobody to guard it. Even children steal in and break the boxes open, stealing the cartridge cases and the cordite to make fireworks with. The maid went to the dance to-night. There was a Gypsy band. The soldiers danced and “the Proletarian army, as a sign of its great, self-respecting discipline,” emptied several barrels of wine. * * * * * _May 19th._ The Red press is shrieking with sarcasm, mixed with hatred: “The parody of a Government in Arad!” What is it, an opposition Government? Surely not a Hungarian Government? But it is. It was formed in Arad on the 5th of May, two weeks ago, and we, living in the same country, have received the news only to-day! That is how The Terror deals with our news. At last...! I read the manifesto of Arad over and over again. “The real leaders of the nation being now in prison or banished, we assume the leadership provisionally.” A Hungarian voice, after a long silence. It does not boast, it has none of the conceit of the distributors of autographs, it is manly and modest like the man who is at the head of this provisional Government, though for an instant his name repelled me. Károlyi! Awful memories are connected with that name, and an irremovable curse. After Michael Károlyi comes another Károlyi; but Count Julius Károlyi’s personality stands high above the name, as if in expiation of the crimes which another bearer of it has committed. The Foreign Secretary, Baron Bornemissza, has been for years the leader of the Hungarians whom fate has cast among the Rumanians. The Minister of War is not a typewriter-agent or a second-rate journalist, but a real soldier. And all the names are of this stamp but one: Varjassy has been Károlyi’s and Jászi’s man. But that matters little now, and the more ‘The People’s Voice’ fulminates, the greater is my joy. “Who are these nobodies?” the Communist paper asks. “Hungarians!” replies the air, replies life, replies morning and night. And hope made golden promises.