I have never seen such interesting photographers’ show-windows as there are in Budapest.  Partly this is because the photographers are good, but partly it must he in the Hungarians themselves—­such vivid, interesting, unconventional faces.  These people look as if they ought to do the acting and write the music and novels and plays and paint the pictures for all the rest of the world.  If they haven’t done so, it must be because, along with their natural talent, they have this indolence and tendency to flop and not push things through.

It was this Budapest, so easy-going and cheerful, that came drifting through the hospital windows, with the faint sound of band music that Sunday afternoon.

On all the park benches and the paths winding up to the citadel, in a hundred shady corners and walks, soldiers, with canes and bandages, were sitting with their best girls, laughing with them, holding hands.  The boys, with miniature flower-gardens in their hats, tinselled grass and red-white-and-green rosettes, could sit with their arms round their sweethearts as much as they wanted to, for everybody knew that they had just been called to the colors and this was their farewell.

I looked over more of the histories—­not in the ward, where one was, of course, more or less a nuisance, but in the room where they were filed in hundred lots.  Some of the men were still in the hospital, some had died, most of them gone back to the front.  There were many of these foot cases:  “While on outpost duty in the Carpathians during a snow-storm I felt the lower part of my body becoming powerless.  Not being able to walk, was carried back and put on train.  Next day we were stopped, because Russians were ahead of us, and obliged to leave train.  Waited two days without food or medical attention; then put on train for Budapest.”

“My regiment was in the Carpathians, and on or about January 20 my feet refused to obey.  I held out for four days and then reported ill.  Toes amputated, right foot.”

“I belong to German Grenadier Regiment No. ——.  On February 6, while sleeping in open snow, I felt numbed in feet.  Put on light duty, but on 8th reported ill and doctor declared feet frozen.”

“March 12, during heavy snowstorm, Russians attacked us.  One of my comrades was shot in stomach, and I took off my gloves to bandage him.  All at once our regiment sounded ‘Storm!’ and I had to rush off to attack, forgetting my gloves.  I had both my hands frozen.”

“I am field-cornet of the—–­German Grenadiers.  I was, since the beginning of the war, in Belgium and France, and at end of November sent to Russian Poland and January 1 to Carpathians.  On February 6, while retiring to prevent the Russians surrounding us, I was shot In thigh at 1,500 yards distance and fell.  Within a few minutes I got two more shots.”

“That’s just like a German,” commented the nurse.  “They always begin by telling just who they are and what they were doing.  A Hungarian would probably just say that he was up in the mountains and it was cold.  These soldiers are like big children, some of them, and they tell us things sometimes.”