Now the Hungarians are nothing if not patriotic. In every shop window things are ticketed _hony_ (national) and, by the advice of an amateur in Vienna, who had brought me a volume of Hungarian national airs, I chose the Rakoczy March and arranged it as it now stands as finale to the first part of my _Faust_. No sooner did the rumour spread that I had written _hony_ music than Pesth began to ferment. How had I treated it? They feared profanation of that idolised melody, which for so many years had made their hearts beat with lust of glory and battle and liberty; all kinds of stories were rife, and at last there came to me M. Horwath, editor of a Hungarian paper--who, unable to curb his curiosity, had gone to inspect my march at the copyist’s. “I have seen your Rakoczy score,” he said, uneasily. “Well?” “Well; I feel horribly nervous about it.” “Bah! why?” “Your motif is introduced _piano_, and we are used to hearing it started _fortissimo_.” “Yes, by the gipsies. Is that all? Don’t be alarmed. You shall have such a forte as you never heard in your life. You can’t have read the score carefully; remember the end is everything.” All the same, when the day came my throat tightened, as it did in times of great excitement, when this devil of a thing came on. First the trumpets gave out the rhythm, then the flutes and clarinets, with a _pizzicato_ accompaniment of strings--softly outlining the air--the audience remaining calm and judicial. Then, as there came a long _crescendo_, broken by the dull beats of the big drum (as of distant cannon) a strange restless movement was perceptible among them--and, as the orchestra let itself go in a cataclysm of sweeping fury and thunder, they could contain themselves no longer. Their overcharged souls burst with a tremendous explosion of feeling that raised my hair with terror. I lost all hope of making the end audible,[22] and in the encore it was no better; hardly could they contain themselves long enough to hear a portion of the coda. Horwath, in his box, was like one possessed, and I could not resist a smiling glance at him to ask-- “Are you still afraid or are you content with your _forte_?” It was lucky that this was the end of the programme, for certainly these excitable people would have listened to nothing more. As I mopped my face in the little room set apart for me, a poorly dressed man slipped quietly in. He threw himself upon me, his eyes full of tears, and stammered out: “Ah, monsieur--the Hungarian--poor man--not speak French--Forgive, excited--understood your cannon--Yes, big battle--Dogs of Germans!” Striking his chest vehemently--“In heart of me you stay--ah, French--Republican--know to make music of Revolution!” I cannot describe his frenzy; it was almost sublime. After that, of course, the Rakoczy ended every concert, and on leaving I had to present the town with my MS.