Yet we still trust and have faith. Why? Nobody knows. Yet how often have I felt in me that faith which is stronger than our fate, and how often have I noticed it flaming up in others! What is it? The mysterious desire for existence? Or is it more than that, is it the subconscious knowledge of our vitality? It is like the belief in the miraculous deer—an old legend which is ever present in the Hungarian mind in time of trouble. It tells how among the endless swamps of Maeotis, at the beginning of time, a white deer with shining antlers appeared to two brothers who were lost in the morass. The divine deer lured them on and guided them over invisible tracks. And to this day, whenever we fall in the morass the miraculous animal appears, gleaming white and leaping lightly across the bog, and guiding us along invisible tracks towards the future. Things can’t remain like this: we shall get on our legs again presently. The Miraculous Deer is leading us. * * * * * _March 28th._ The folding doors of the big drawing-room on the first floor open quietly, and in the room beyond books with gilt backings are set among flowers. The fire is already burning brightly in the porcelain stove in the dining-room, whilst above the red-shaded lamp the ceiling appears heavy and dark. Between the windows stands a chest that once belonged to Imre Thököly: the walls are ornamented with Oriental dishes and old Chinese plates.... The footman stands stiff in his black dress coat: his white shirt gleams, and his hands holding the dish are gloved in white. Little silver buttons glitter on the page’s jacket. My thoughts fly homeward: in the villages there is still a sense of home, which has long since departed from the towns. I thought of the past winter, the closed shops, the scanty tables. If only I could give that sense of home to somebody.... And again I feel the glass screen raised between myself and reality. Mrs. Benjamin Kállay, dressed in white silk, presides over the table. Her head is held up a trifle haughtily; her sharp profile is crowned with snow-white hair, and her full chin disappears in lace. Somehow she reminds me of a portrait of Louis XV.... Presently she nods and rises: her gait is solemn and slow: the wings of the door open before her and we follow her into the drawing-room. Outside, drums are being beaten in the village, and now and then a scrap of the crier’s announcement reaches our ears. “The revolutionary council.... Revolutionary tribunals ... the president and two members ... prosecuting commissary ... clerk of the court.... No restrictions whatever ... any hour of the day ... in the open ... death sentence ... carried out without delay....” I had a curious impression that the words seemed to have little connection with what was said: ‘Lenin speaking....’ Nobody actually said that, yet I seemed to hear those two words as a sort of refrain.