All of which is another way of stating that Budapest is the gayest capital in Europe at the present time.

The Hungarians have kept their heads (metaphorically speaking) better than their Austrian or German allies. They have not "strafed" their enemies or bothered themselves with restrictions. It is not necessary to have a bread card in the daytime in Budapest. And there are no limitations on your wine card at night. With the result that fits people -- and its visitors -- are pursuing their Budapestiferous life exactly the same as before the war.

I arrived in the Hungarian capital at 10 o'clock in the morning on the night train from Berlin -- a through train with sleeping and restaurant cars. As I had not even been obliged to leave my berth at the frontier, I stepped off the train in a happy frame of mind and a new winter suit. It was a fine Noverber morn, so I took an open cab to the Grand Hotel Hungaria.

The only thing grand about the G. H. H. is its name. Still it is the best place at which to stop in Budapest. It faces the beautiful blue Danube -- which at this time of the year is a muddy green -- and it has an excellent gypsy orchestra. So that the fact that it still clings to tin bathtubs and musical furniture may be overlooked.

Myr first war meal in the Hungarian capital consisted of czardas, excellent fogosh, more czardas, with string beans and chocolate pudding. It was called luncheon, and cost five crowns. A crown is only 15 cents at the present rate of exchange, so the price was not excessive, as both the czardas and the fogosh were very good. The sauce with the latter will long be remembered.

I will skip the afternoon hours, which were spent in visiting the wife of an officer in her home on the Pest side of the city. As the lady does not speak English and as my knowledge of the Hungarian language is confined to the word goulash, it is just as well that I omit our conversation.

However, half-past five found me in the whirl of genuine Budapest life. At that hour I was taking coffee with Miksa Brody, the librettist of "Sybil," and Albert Szirmai, the famous light opera composer, at the Cafe Abazzia.

Coffee houses play an important part in Budapest. Most people spend more time in them than they do in their own homes. There are hundreds of these cafes scattered all over the place; but the largest and certainly the most famous is the Cafe Abazzia. For the Abazzia is the home and business office of Molnar Ferenc -- the same Franz Molnar who wrote "The Devil" and who is a literary light of Hungary.

The Abazzia is also the favorite cafe of the editors of the Azest, the leading newspaper of Hungary, and the literary and artistic who's-whos of the capital. In fact, I was surrounded by celebrities, cups of hot coffee and toothsome pastry. Every one, except Molnar, seemed delighted to meet an American. He said he didn't care to talk with me because American managers had stolen his plays and neglected to pay him a Hungarian nickel. But as he didn't get excited enough to lose his monocle I didn't mind.

There is no feeling against America or Americans because of the war. The Hungarians don't even hate the English, and it is their boast that the only British subject interned in their kingdom is a negro who couldn't make his own living. Which gives a black eye, so to speak, to "strafing" reports printed in London papers.

Three different programmes were suggested for my first evening in Budapest. Miksa Brody suggested that I visit the Vigszinhaz or Comedy. Theatre and see "Onagysaga Ruhaja."

"And what is 'Onagysag Ruhaja'?" I asked: "a musical show?"

"Of course not," he replied, with a disgusted look on his librettist face. "It is a play by an American, Edward Knoblauch. I think you call it 'My Lady's Dress.'"

I explained that I had not journeyed all the way to Budapest to see a play by an American, especially as I had seen the play in New York.

"Then you must visit the Royal Hungarian Opera House" (I will spare the reader its Hungarian name), suggested Albert Szirmai. "'Boheme' is the bill tonight."

I declined, on theground that I had seen a GRAND opera, but no one saw the point. My cutting remark having failed to make an incision, I waited for another suggestion. It came quickly from Victor Alberti, a music publisher who had joined our little gathering.

"Your distinguished American friend," he suggested, "ought to visit the Kiraly Szinhaz and see "Szibill," so he can compare the performance with the New York production which will be made in January.

And this is what I did.

The Kiraly Szinhaz or King's Theatre, so called because the King has nothing to do with it, is the leading playhouse in Budapest devoted to the favorite form of entertainment of the Hungarian capital -- operetta. I was fortunate in witnessing the biggest musical success Budapest has had since "The Merry Widow." "Szibill," Victor Jacobi's operetta, has been running for two years and is still playing to crowded houses.

Of course I couldn't understand the words, but I did enjoy the music, which was played by an orchestra of forty-five and sung by artistes instead of the soung-and-dance actors we sometimes hear -- or rather don't hear -- in operettas on Broadway.

After the play I joined my friends again at the Abazzia, where I caught another glimpse of Molnar and met Alexander Brody, the famous painter and novelist. Molnar hurried away soon after I arrived, and I was told that he had gone to join Fedark Sari, the star of "My Lady's Dress," who is the popular idol of Budapest and the particular idol of the author of "The Phantom Rival."

We sipped coffee and liqueurs at the Abazzia until midnight, because the really lively places in Budapest do not care to take on their gay and festive air until after twelve. There are a dozen large music halls in the capital giving performaces that begin at midnight and continue until 5 o'clock in the morning. Dancing, instead of being frowned upon as in berlin, is encouraged. For the people of Budapest refuse to allow the war to interfere with their pleasures.

Our first stopping place was theFolies Caprice, a music hall near the Royal Opera House. Here a variety show was in progress before an audience of civilians with a sprinkling of uniforms. It reminded me of some of the music halls in Montmarte, Paris, with their bad singing by sedate veterans of the dear unfair sex. And I said as much.

"You're quite right," agreed Miksa Brody. "We must go upstairs."

A few minutes later we were afloat on the "gay life" in the Casino Mulato, as the smaller music hall on the top floor of the same building is called.

Here there was "something doing." A variety performace given entirely by girls occupied the attention of that part of the audience which sat near teh stage. Supper parties with members of the fair sex kept the occupants of the boxes busy, while behind the rows of tables and chairs which filled half of the floor a score of couples were dancing to the music of a fantastic gypsy orchestra.

The "gay life" in the Hungarian capital differs from the alleged gaiety in other European centres in one very important respect. It is inexpensive. Four or five crowns buys admission to any of the all-night rendezvous, and excellent wine can be bought for five or six crowns a bottle. A crown, it will be remembered, is only 15 cents in American money. "Another bottle" means something less than a dollar. Tips are in proportion, and a ten-crown note to the leader of a gypsy band will produce more music of the kind you like than a ten-dollar note in little old New York.

Shortly before 3 A.M. we left the Casino Mulato and walked around the corner to the Winter Garden, the largest and most attractive all-night establishment in the capital. Here fully a hundred couples were dancing on the confetti strewn floor. In the boxes were Hungarian officers in their gorgeous uniforms, gray-coated German officers with their inevitable iron crosses, and the "old scouts" of Budapest who are beyond the age limit for war but doing very well, thank you, in peaceful pursuits.

We engaged a cabinet, sent for a bottle of wine and a gypsy fiddler. The waiter brought glasses for six, all of which were needed because we were joined by three Polish dancers, acquaintences of Szirmai's. Fifteen minutes later we were dancing czardas and singing Hungarian war songs. At least that is what all our neighbors were doing; but of course I may be mistake as to what I sang.

The Winter Garden doesn't close its doors until 5 A.M. This does not mean that one is forced to go home at that hour. The grill room in the basement of the same building remains open until sight. And as it has a gypsy orchestra and a floor for dancing in addition to its culinary equipment, it is not exactly a hardship to remain there until one feels inclined to "call it a night."

Adopted from The Fort Wayne Journal-gazette, Dec 26, 1915.