Now the road goes up a hill, the wheels crunch on fine gravel, a gate opens between the trees, and a sudden light flares up in the night. We have reached the Kállays’ turretted castle. In a few minutes we are all sitting together in a well heated room. A wide garden surrounds the house, the night surrounds the garden. And the world is far away, somewhere beyond. * * * * * Berczel. _March 27th, 1919._ Days have passed since my arrival, yet I do not think that I shall ever forget the first morning when I awoke here. I seemed to be floating in a pure ocean of absolute silence. Then, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, a small voice fell from above into the ocean of silence. After the threatening hum of the revolution in the city, the wild howling, the panting hatred and the ominous nightly tramplings, there was such beauty in this voice that I remember being enraptured in the semi-consciousness of waking. A small bird was sitting on a twig before my window. Instead of the abyss of human infernos, of narrow streets and worn dark walls, my eyes lighted on a twig and a bird, and I wept out of sheer gratitude that such things still existed. I should have liked to gather in my hands every tiny particle of the sound so that I might send it to those who remained prisoners among the stones of that accursed city. [Illustration: GEORGE NYISTOR. LABOURER. ASSISTANT COMMISSARY FOR AGRICULTURE. ] How different is life here! It is like a fairy-tale related to soothe children at bed-time.... It is a quiet village. On the hillock can be seen the bell tower and the shingled roof of the church. Below, at its foot, are small cottages and small farmyards. People go to bed early in the evening: only now and then is a window lit up. The cow bells ring, a dog barks somewhere. And horror does not creep through the night, worry does not sit on the threshold of the morn, threatening the dread shadow of events to come. To-day is like yesterday and to-morrow bears no different aspect. Sometimes I fear that conscience has died of exhaustion within me. A clouded glass screen has risen between me and the world. Even the village seems to be beyond the screen and there is nothing on this side of it but a castle, a wide park, and narrow, useless little paths on which the past treads undisturbed. These are set with white seats which have not been provided for fatigue. Beds of flowers which only exist in order to be beautiful, dark violets, without a purpose but just to flower.