So it appears that once again Michael Károlyi has deceived the nation. But is it not curious that Colonel Vyx’s mission has delayed this explanation until now? Why did it not take action at once, when Károlyi endeavoured to justify his resignation by the alleged finality of frontiers fixed in the Entente’s note? Why did it allow him to use nationalist arguments in order to throw Hungary into the arms of Bolshevism? And why did Colonel Vyx permit Béla Kun to creep in under the same nationalist flag which had covered Károlyi’s exit? Who consented to play the game of these two abject creatures in the fateful hour when the stakes were a country’s fate? The tardy explanation of the Entente Mission inevitably creates the impression that Colonel Vyx played into their hands, or, at the least, that he showed considerable partisanship in their favour. The exposure of Károlyi’s deception concerning the fixing of frontiers shows the falsity of Béla Kun’s battle-cry: “For territorial integrity!” Now that he wields both armed forces and finances, he sings another tune. He has declared to a correspondent of the Viennese _Neue Freie Presse_: “In Soviet Hungary we do not insist on territorial integrity.... We do not recognise any economic frontiers.” These are the men who have Hungary’s fate at their mercy! The very thought makes one’s blood boil. Is all our ancient pride of race, all our glorious history, to be thus trampled under foot by Jews? Why does the Entente delay? Why does it give Bolshevism time to recruit an army for its own support? _The Red Soldier_, a new daily paper, has just appeared in Budapest. Propaganda is active: Pogány recruits, Számuelly directs. What a nightmare it is! The cradle of the Red army is draped with low-class comedy. Its advertisements take the shape of newspaper paragraphs and vicious posters. From a world of brothels, of cheap upholstery, of merry-go-rounds, of foul-mouthed agitators speaking from red stands, is the Red army recruited. It is proposed to hold Red soldiers’ gala performances at the theatres, and the newspapers are devoting unending columns to rapturous approval of the idea. “The temple of the Muses stands in festive attire!” Yes—and to the sounds of the Internationale the crowd rushes the free seats. In every theatre a different leader will address the audience: the Galician Neros will mount the stage and play their parts. “There is no such thing as one’s own country! Long live the country of all the Proletarians! An army is the tool of nationalist society. Death to militarism! Long live the Red army!” Someone knocks at my window: it is Elisabeth Kállay in a fur coat standing in the twilight. Yes, by all means let us go. The evening has become heavy and unbearable indoors. Let us get some fresh air.