Later he was to declare that Hungary should lose no time in accepting President Wilson’s terms. That he never seemed to waver in his publicly declared attitude, at least not so the general public would notice, (as, for example, when he volunteered for the army, or when Romania’s entry into the war provoked a fierce chauvinist reaction in Hungary), may have puzzled many of those who did not know him well.

Some of his intimate friends, however, knew that Károlyi had relations in France and what was more significant, had held political discussions with Poincaré, who had once acted for him as a solicitor. This was enough, in those last ominous weeks and months, for more and more people to see in him not only the one politician who seemed always to have been right but also possessed powerful links with (and maybe even definite promises from) the Allies, who could bring about an end to the already all too evident menace of the nation’s imminent destruction and so somehow lead the country to the other side of the political Ocean, just as the Czechs and Poles had already done. Even the lawsuit brought by his cousin, Imre Károlyi9 seemed to confirm what they thought just because the two men had been in such close touch. Surely this meant, the general public assumed, that it was precisely this relationship which proved that Imre’s accusations were true; and so, if it were true now, when the destruction of the Central Powers was only a matter of days away, how much more faith should be put in Mihály if he were indeed a secret agent in the pay of the French? The example of the Czech Kramarz strengthened this view, since the latter had been tried for treason in Austria, recently set free and had now re-emerged as spokesman for the newly independent republic of Czechoslovakia.

In the course of that first week of the revolution I met many men who analysed these events with cool logic. Furthermore, an army of eager gossip-mongers was to be found everywhere, who heard everything from ‘reliable’ sources, and these men, who now announced with joy that providence had sent Count Károlyi to head the government, were the very same who, a few months before, had related with wicked glee that the ‘traitor’ Károlyi was about to be arrested. This was one of those times when one needs a lot of brotherly love not to loathe one’s fellow men.

So passed the first morning of revolution in a general outpouring of joy. Everywhere was heard the cry: ‘our bloodless floral revolution!’

And indeed that first day was bloodless, and all the firing heard during the night was only due to high spirits. No one was hurt, not even General Lukacsics who had been called ‘Bloody Lukacsics’ as he had ordered ten or so deserters to be shot as soon as he had been put in command of the Budapest garrison. Arrested, like all the other senior officers in the capital, he had been taken to the Hotel Astoria, dressed in civilian clothes, and let out the back door.

Amazingly enough there was no resistance anywhere or incident of any kind. Even today10, with the benefit of hindsight, it is difficult to understand how everything passed so smoothly. This cannot be explained solely by the fact that the night before, General Lukacsics had telephoned King Karl for instructions and he, always kind-hearted, had said that no blood was to be shed; nor because, as came to light later, all the telephone lines (including the secret ones) had been taken over by the revolutionaries. Some people later suggested it was because Hungarian officers refused to fire on their fellow Hungarians, but this does not explain it either, for neither the officers of the Kommando-Korps, nor many other army leaders were any more Hungarian than the men under their command, most of whom were Soldatenkinder, born into military families in which the tradition of serving in the Dual Monarchy’s forces was handed down from father to son. Such men had hardly any connection with Hungary, for their only ‘homeland’ was the Austrian army. What was common to them all was a shared ideology (which, incidentally, was to prove to be both their strength and their weakness while ensuring that the dual army was one of the Habsburg monarchy’s strongest supports) made up of such artificial notions as the Kaisers Rock and the Portepée Ehre11, and this made it all the more extraordinary that all those disciplined officers, from humble depot commanders to those of the highest rank, should now forget their most cherished ethic and give up their arms when faced with threats and orders from mere civilians or disobedient soldiery. Was their passivity caused by the lack of orders from above? Was that why they did not automatically reach for their own weapons? I admit that theirs was the wisest course; but were they all wise? How was it that the tradition of never permitting an insult to the Kaisers Rock – which in times of peace was so fiercely upheld that an unwise remark or harmless gesture could provoke a duel as an ‘affair of honour’ – was now forgotten by them all?

However, one thing did cast a chill over that evening on the day when the sun had shone and ‘bloodless’ revolution was being celebrated everywhere with white aster flowers in full bloom.

This was the assassination of István Tisza.

The news spread like wildfire through the city, and as it did the universal merriment was stilled and the crowds started to melt away. Those few who remained would speak quietly to each other, whispering the news and moving swiftly on so as not to have to reveal what they felt. It was as if the flames of the guns that had killed the man whom many people, both friend and foe, had considered great had acted as a flash of lightning had laid bare the sinister truth.

The revolutionary idyll ended at that moment.

Tisza’s funeral was to be at four o’clock on the following day. At half-past three I set off but was met by a friend coming away. He told me that the funeral was over and that it had been held before the time announced as it had been feared the mob might try to prevent the last respects from being paid because there were those who had threatened to desecrate the corpse of a man who had been so hated.

***

Tisza’s tragic death at once put an end to the public rejoicing, but the people’s confidence in the new order, and in particular in its leader, was eroded more slowly. The first disappointment came when the new cabinet was announced and, instead of an exciting bevy of new names, sparkling with talent and promise, which everyone had expected, the list of ministers held no surprises. Of course, the public’s hopes had been essentially naive since by then most men of experience and integrity had long been antagonized and so, in the inevitable atmosphere of distrust and disillusion it was a matter of ‘Woher nehmen und nicht stehlen?’12 Even if Károlyi had wanted to do otherwise, he found himself bound to make the choice from members of his own party.

Even so, the first list of ministers was not complete. No one wanted the post of minister of justice. This gave rise to a tragicomic little anecdote that was soon repeated all over Budapest and caused much amusement. It was recounted that all morning and most of the afternoon Károlyi had tried in vain to find someone willing to occupy the velvet seat of the minister of justice. This was serious, as Károlyi was desperately anxious to take over the government without delay. Nothing was to be done, however, and so Károlyi, with his incomplete band of proposed ministers, set off for Buda to present them to Archduke Joseph. In the funicular they met, by chance, one Károly Sladics who held a senior post at the ministry of justice. Why not offer him the vacant post? someone suggested, and to their relief and joy, he accepted; and so, by the time the old funicular car had rattled its way to the top, the cabinet list was complete. But not for long.