A white lace hat appears and disappears in the cool sunshine: the widow of Benjamin Kállay passes under my window. Her husband, the most brilliant Finance Minister of Francis Joseph’s reign, the inspiring spirit of the Monarchy’s Eastern policy, the governor of Bosnia and Herzegovina, had been a scholar and a historian. The old lady had been the uncrowned queen of the small southern provinces and one of the most beautiful women of the receptions at the Vienna Burg. Now she discusses with the bailiff the spring sowings, though when the harvest comes they may no longer be hers. For that matter, are the house and gardens still her own? Everything is uncertain. She also worries about a son and a daughter. Elisabeth Kállay had been the one Hungarian maid of honour of Queen Zita, accordingly the Communists eye her with distrust. Frederick Kállay is an aide-de-camp to the Archduke Joseph and had left Budapest with him. She has had no news since then. “Good God, what are we coming to?” When she says this her two daughters rise in revolt: they will have no despondency. I like to hear them speak: they voice the fine, strong vitality of my race: “And you, why are you always staring into the air?” Elisabeth has put her hand on my shoulder. “Instead of moping like this you had better go and commit your thoughts and sorrows to paper.” “I have taken a good many notes. When I left I asked my young nephew to keep them for me. But what’s the good of going on with them?” Elisabeth Kállay, however, urged me on: “Go on writing your diary; it will come in useful some day.” Thus one evening, when I was left to myself, I took up my pen and looked back on the past days and gathered fading memories. It is a practice, however, that makes things both easier and harder. This diary affords the relief of self-confession, but it also tortures me by compelling me to live the past over again. And who shall say if I shall ever reach the end? I looked up from my writing: Lenke Kállay appeared at my window, holding her head high. She brought news, good news. Elisabeth said: “Let no one dare to speak of evil tidings.” Stephen Bethlen is in Vienna and has petitioned the Powers through the French High Commissioner, M. Alizé, for help against Bolshevism. The Entente is certain to intervene and will send troops to checkmate the Proletarian Dictators. Thirty thousand French soldiers have embarked at Marseilles, with General Pétain in command. “It won’t continue like this much longer. We shall get on our legs again presently.” Did they say it, or did I? We have said it for a thousand years and when the men grew tired of saying it the women said it. They said it during the Tartar invasion, after the defeat at Mohács. To-day we say it again, though everything has collapsed, though we have been robbed of our all and are the most unfortunate people on earth.