Dense masses of soldiers came from the village this afternoon, and the gunners of the 32nd came to harvest in our garden. They are leaving this evening and flowers are required for the train. So they made a dead set at everything that blossomed in this quiet realm of green. Branches cracked, the garden moaned. Within an hour the dreamy little shrubs were changed into scarecrows, the grass was purple with the blossom of lilac. Branches were twisted and cut down to stumps, wounded plants were stripped of twigs and leaves. They have trampled Spring to death. I raged inwardly; let them have the flowers, but why this mad destruction? I went into the house: I could not bear the sight of it. * * * * * _May 20th–21st._ After the tepid rain in the night the sun has come out from among the clouds, and the ill-treated shrubs look less hopeless, laden as they are with glittering drops. The rain has made the grass raise its head and some forgotten lilacs have opened their blossoms. Ever since break of day the air has been humming above our heads. Steel moles are mining the clouded sky. They are invisible till they fall with a terrific crash and raise mole-hills on the ground. The Reds have retaken Miskolcz from the Czechs. Eleven counter-revolutionaries have been arrested in Budapest. In the ‘Frankel Leo’ barracks a memorial tablet has been unveiled to the French Communist leader of that name who was born in Old Buda. In other countries there is peace, there is a future. They awake daily without fear, their dreams are not nightmares; they have doors they can close, cupboards that are not searched, a hearth which is not shared by uncivilised, spiteful strangers. There one may sing and laugh. One may even speak openly, happily. They have music, pictures, and books, and no one comes to take them from them. Man is allowed to create, their minds produce songs and sculptures and pictures, scholars pursue their studies, and women have not forgotten to smile. And in the stifling fetid atmosphere of ugliness, humiliation, reckless brutality, restraint, slavery, and hatred, I am homesick for an hour’s beauty. Just for an hour to have things as they used to be! Mrs. Beniczky had a visitor to-day, an elderly lady who lived in the village. I escaped quietly to my room, and although the visitor spoke in whispers, now and then she forgot herself and then her voice reached me. Suddenly she became aware that she was raising her voice and pulled herself up. “I understand that a poor relation of the Huszárs is staying with you, where is she?” she asked anxiously. “In the next room? Goodness, then I ought to....” “Don’t worry,” said Mrs. Beniczky, laughing quietly, “she is hard of hearing.”