Ákos could no longer listen to his young friend, who was now propounding all kinds of confused ideas about the eternal nature of suffering. He spoke in detail about his poems, about those he had already written and those he was yet to write, and kept repeating the words:
“Work. One has to work.”
Ákos quickly picked up on this.
“Yes, my boy, work. There's nothing nobler than work.”
Ijas stopped talking. It was quite clear that they were at cross purposes, that the couple didn't understand him. But they had listened to him all the same, and out of gratitude he turned his attention to the woman.
“Is Skylark still not back?” he asked.
Mrs Vajkay shuddered. The question was so sudden and unexpected. He was the first person to mention her in the five days she had been away. And by her nickname, too.
“No,” the woman replied, “she's due back on Friday.”
“I can imagine how you must miss her.”
“Terribly,” said the woman. “But she works herself to death at home. So we sent her off to the plain. To rest.”
“To rest,” said Father, mechanically echoing his wife's last words, as he often did when he was agitated and sought to silence his thoughts beneath the sound of his own voice.
Ijas noticed this. He looked into the old man's eyes, as Ákos had looked into his, and felt such pity for him that it wrung his heart. What stagnant, primal depths of pain could be disturbed by just a couple of words.
Miklós stuck to his new task and went on inquiring, probing.
The woman was glad of his attention, although she could not quite fathom its intent. She turned towards the young man.
“The two of you haven't met, have you, Miklós?'
“No, madam,” Ijas replied, “I've not yet had the pleasure. Of course I've seen her once or twice. At a meeting of the Mary Society, for example. She seemed most enthusiastic.”
“Oh, she's awfully conscientious.”
“And with you. I've seen you all walking together. She's always in between.”
“Yes, yes.”
“She seems very kindly and...straightforward.”
“Bless her soul,” said the woman, raising her eyes to the heavens.
“She must be a most refined and pleasant creature. Quite different from the other girls round here.”
“If Skylark could only hear,” said Mother with a sigh, “how pleased she'd be. And she would be ever so pleased to meet you in person. She's fond of poetry too. She has a little book, hasn't she, Father, where she copies down all those pretty poems.”
Ákos tapped the wall with his stick, for the voices he heard within him were louder than those without. He did all he could to drown them. Ijas went on talking. He asked all about Skylark, about every detail of her existence, his questions often as precise as those of Dr Gál when interviewing a patient on a house call. He was trying to draw an accurate mental portrait.
No one had ever shown such interest in their daughter, or spoken of her with such warmth and kindness.
He did not suggest that she was pretty, but neither that she was plain. He didn't lie. Instead he hovered between the two extremes and avoided the danger area altogether, shifting direction and leaving every option open. The woman fed on his every word, and in her soul a vague hope began to stir, a dim presentiment she didn't even dare to admit to herself.
“You really must visit us one day, Miklós,” she said. “If you can spare the time, of course. Do come and see us.”
“If I may be so bold,” said Ijas.
They had reached their own house, accompanied all the way by a young man. This didn't happen often. In fact this was the first time.
Ákos shook Ijas by the hand.
“Thank you, my dear boy,” he said, then turned inside.
The iron gate banged shut behind them.
Miklós looked through the grille into the garden. Here all was silence and solitude.
He looked at the decorative glass balls among the flowers, the stone garden gnome on the lawn, who seemed to stand on guard. A sunflower hung its head in the failing evening light, as if blindly searching for the sun on the ground. The sun into which it would usually stare and which was now nowhere to be found.
He could hear rummaging from inside the house, the old couple preparing for rest. And he could see quite clearly before him the wretched rooms, where suffering collected like unswept dust in the corners, the dust of lives in painful heaps, piled up over many long years. He shut his eyes and drank in the garden's bitter fragrance. At such times Miklós Ijas was “working.”
He stood for some minutes before the gate with all the patience of a lover waiting for the appearance of his beloved. But he was waiting for no one. He was no lover in a worldly sense; the only love he knew was that of divine understanding, of taking a whole life into his arms, stripping it of flesh and bone, and feeling into its depths as if they were his own. From this, the greatest pain, the greatest happiness is born: the hope that we too will one day be understood, strangers will accept our words, our lives, as if they were their own.
All he had heard about his father had made him receptive to the suffering of others. Until then he had wanted nothing to do with those who lived and moved around him–with Környey, the drunken Szunyogh, Szolyvay the ham actor, and Doba, who was always silent. Not even with Skylark. For yes, at first sight they had seemed worthless, twisted and distorted, their souls curling hideously inwards. They had no tragedy, for how could tragedy begin to grow in such a wasteland? Yet how profound, how human they all were. How much like him. Once this became clear it could never be forgotten. So he did have something in common with them, after all.
He took this lesson with him. His steps were firmer, surer, as he strode back down Petőfi Street. The poem he had been carrying inside his head had been a bad poem and he gave it no further thought. He'd write about other things, perhaps about these people and all they had told him. About the veranda and that long, long table where they once had sat, and sat no more.
At Széchenyi Square he broke into a run. He hurried down Gombkötő Street, for here, next to the bakery, lived Kladek, the senior editor and publisher of the
Sárszeg Gazette
.This bearded, slow-witted, but cultivated and conscientious old man no longer even visited the editorial office, and only demanded of his assistant editor that he call on him once a day. He sat beside a paraffin lamp in his ravaged room where books lay strewn about the floor and the windows were all but barricaded by discarded newspapers piled six feet high. He had lost his grip on this cursed modern age and no longer cared what the next generation made of it, no longer cared, however much young Ijas praised the Secession in his paper.
He rummaged in his pocket for a leader Feri Füzes had written about the effect of hoarfrost on grapes. He gave this to Ijas and told him to take it to the printers, to give the peasants of Sárszeg something to read about.
All that remained for Ijas now was to take a call from Pest about the Dreyfus trial and the latest political events. He had to hurry, because the telephone usually rang at nine.
VIII
in which is contained the full text of Skylark's letterÁkos was
just about to set out from home the following afternoon when he met the postman at the gate. A registered letter had arrived.Skylark. He immediately recognised the pointed, spidery lettering which reminded him of gothic script and also of his mother's hand.
He opened the letter there in the street. At any other time he'd have used his penknife for this purpose, for he believed in order in all matters, however small. But now he ripped the envelope open with his fingers, and with such excitement that he tore the letter too, both in the middle and on one side. He had to piece the fragments back together.
Oblivious to the passers-by, who bumped into him and stared after him as he went, he eagerly read the letter syllable by syllable. The words marched across the page in exemplary, solid lines. The writing was clear, but on this occasion Skylark had used a pencil, a particularly hard pencil that scored the paper with faint, unshaded lines like scratches made by a needle. By the time Ákos had fully deciphered the text, he had reached the park.
Here he put the letter into his pocket and walked on with his hands behind his back. Afternoon strollers lingered in the bare and withered park, where only a handful of hawthorn and rosebushes still managed to survive. The lawn was parched yellow from the heat, strewn with rubbish and scattered sheets of newspaper. Ákos sat down on a bench and spread the letter over his knees.
Skylark's spelling was impeccable and she wrote in the clear, orderly Hungarian she had been taught at the Ladies’ College. Her style, however, was a little wooden. As soon as she took a pen in her hand, her mode of expression changed and she fell under the spell of textbook composition. At such times she could always see her former teacher, the strict Mrs Janecz, standing before her in a starched white collar and black tie. She became so terrified of making mistakes that she chose words she'd never dream of using in everyday conversation.
Her writing lost any appearance of naturalness and took on a tone more elevated and enthusiastic than she intended.
Ákos reread the long letter in which his daughter gave a detailed account of all that had happened so far.
Thus:
Tarkő Plain 4 September 1899
Monday evening, half past six o'clockMy dear, sweet parents,
Forgive me for not having written to you earlier, but I have until this moment been so very busy with all the many joys of life in the plains, and my hospitable relations have provided so very much for my entertainment, that it is only now I have been able to find time for correspondence.
I have been searching for a pen for days.
Yesterday I found the only one in the house on Uncle Béla's desk, but even this was rusty and the inkwell had, in the great heat, run completely dry. Cousin Berci at last placed this pencil at my disposal. Thus I am forced to write in pencil. For this too I beg your forgiveness.
I shall begin at the beginning.
The journey was most agreeable. As the train departed and you, my dear parents, disappeared before my eyes, I entered my compartment in which my two polite travelling companions already sat, a young man and an aged Roman Catholic priest. I was at once absorbed by the passing landscape, the pleasing variety and fresh colours of which claimed my full attention. I observed the beauties of nature, which only began to unfold in all their true splendour beyond the boundaries of our town, addressing my very spirit with peaceful, consoling words. With nature I conversed for the entire duration of my journey.
I reflected on the past, my thoughts devoted, above all, to you. Time flew by and I arrived punctually. They awaited me with a carriage. In the evening I enjoyed an appetising supper and convivial conversation in the circle of my relations.
I received a hearty welcome from all–Uncle Béla, Aunt Etelka and Cousin Berci.
Only Tiger seemed to take no pleasure in my arrival.
This good and faithful dog did not recognise me and went on barking, snarling and growling for some time. I didn't even dare venture outside alone for several days. Then this morning on the veranda, I finally succeeded in placating her. I dipped my plain-cake in the milk and gave it to her. Now we are the best of friends.
It is seven years since my last visit, in which time much has changed. Can you imagine, there is now a garden on the hill, with tropical plants and rhododendrons? There is also a winding path leading down to the brook, from which they have cleared away all the bulrushes and on which one may even row a boat. Only in spring, of course, for now it is quite dry. In a word, the place is quite divine.
Berci, whom I had not seen since he visited us in Sárszeg when he was eleven, has just matriculated from a private establishment in Budapest. He passed his examinations, with some difficulty I am told, and will now study at the School of Agriculture in Magyaróvár.
I find Uncle Béla a little changed. His hair is hoary at the temples, and I had somehow expected him to look different. It was hard to get used to him at first and I kept looking at him with a smile. He would look back at me, also with a smile. “Have I grown old?” he asked. “No,” I replied, “not in the least.” At this everyone began to laugh, including Uncle Béla.
Aunt Etelka scolds him continually for his smoking, but it seems as if she'll never persuade him to give the habit up. But he doesn't eat supper any more, and only has a cup of milk in the evening, without sugar, and a slice of aleuron-bread, which he always offers me, in fun of course.
I'm still his little favourite. He sits me down next to him, kisses and cuddles me and says what he always used to say to me when I was a little girl, “Never fear, Skylark dear, good old Uncle Béla's here.” At this we both giggle.
All through supper they ask me to talk about you. They were most amused by how worried you were about me. “A bad penny...” said Uncle Béla, with that sweet humour of his.
We chatted until almost midnight, when they showed me to the spare room. I soon fell asleep in the nice, soft bed.
I awoke at dawn to an infernal racket. I could hear shrieking out on the veranda. Guests had arrived from Budapest, the Thurzó girls, whom they had invited long before, but who had never turned up. At breakfast they introduced themselves and asked if I'd allow their four large suitcases to be taken into the spare room. I gladly granted them their request. They spent the whole morning there unpacking. As I prefer to be alone, I recommended that they stay in the spare room, while I moved in with Aunt Etelka for a few days.
Since then I've been sleeping on the divan, beside Aunt Etelka, but it's much more pleasant this way. I could never really become friendly with these girls. Zelma, the eldest, is such a little secessionist! She smokes cigarettes and doesn't wear a corset. She changes costume three times a day, once for lunch, once for dinner and once again for tennis. She laughs at me because I bring home a large bunch of wild flowers every day.
She finds wild flowers ugly. She likes only camellias and orchids.
Berci would appear to be courting the younger sister. She's still only a little girl, sixteen years old. They hide away together in the house, then steal out in the morning, running off unchaperoned into the forest, returning awfully late.
Yesterday Aunt Etelka asked me to go with them, but I shan't accept that role any more. What children! It would seem that they're actually quite serious. Uncle Béla teases them cruelly at table. Berci goes quite red, but Klári doesn't.
The following day another guest arrived, Feri Olcsvay, who, I fancy, may have taken an interest in Zelma. He at least is an attentive and courteous young man. He spent a long time talking to me. We even worked out that we are very distantly related. I looked at his signet ring and from the lily surmised that we belong to the same original family–the Boksas, isn't it? He maintains, however, that the background on their coat of arms is not scarlet like ours, but gold, whereas the lily isn't gold, but scarlet. In any case, it's not sure whether he descends from the Olcsvays of Kisvárad or Nagyvárad. No one has ever been able to shed any clear light on this. His father believes they descended from the Kisvárad branch, but in the National Museum they told him he probably came from the Nagyvárad Olcsvays. Poor boy, now he really doesn't know where he stands at all. I told him to turn to Father, who'd be able to decide the matter at once. Feri promised to look Father up when he's next in Sárszeg.
Otherwise we're having a splendid time. It is quite enchanting to wake to the sounds of the plain, to the dreamy tinkle of cowbells and the cooing of turtle doves. And those darling yellow chicks who hide away cheeping under the wings of the brooding hens. How sweet life is in the country! How delightful their work must be! They're preparing for the harvest and have already brought the barrels out of the cellar. Uncle Béla is busy fumigating them stave by stave. The crop promises to be good, and they say there'll be an excellent festival.
Now I shall describe how I spend my days here. I rise early, at six, to watch the glorious sunrise, then go for a little walk with Aunt Etelka before helping her with the housework. In the kitchen she calls me her right hand. In the afternoon I go to the apiary with Józsi, the young gardener. I simply can't stop marvelling at the industry of those busy bees. Józsi can't believe how brave I am–for a girl, that is. Of course the Thurzó girls scream if a bee flies anywhere near them.
You know I cannot bear to be idle. I'm still crocheting the yellow tablecloth and should have finished it in a day or two. But it gets dark here rather early.
At about six in the evening, when they light the lamps, I take up Jókai's
The Baron's Sons
, which I've read before, but whose real beauty I have only now come to appreciate. Ödön Baradlay moves me to tears, while Zebulon Tallérossy makes me laugh out loud. How well our great storyteller knew the secrets of the heart and how ornately he expressed them! Unfortunately I've only been able to find Volume II. The first volume seems to have gone astray.Tonight there is a ball in Tarkő, and the Thurzó girls, Berci and Feri Olcsvay have driven over there in two carriages, together with Aunt Etelka. They begged me to go with them, but I declined. I said I had nothing suitable to wear. I really shouldn't enjoy myself without you, and, to be honest, I didn't find the prospect of an evening with the Thurzó girls especially alluring either. And anyway, last night, at about one o'clock, my tooth (the one I last had filled) started aching so much that I had to wake up Aunt Etelka. Don't worry, it didn't hurt for long, because I rubbed my gums with rum and the pain died down. But I was afraid it might flare up again, so I stayed at home, holding the fort with Uncle Béla. He's already gone to bed now, and I'm sitting in my cosy little room, writing to you.
But what a selfish thing I am! I ramble on about myself, bragging and complaining, and have completely forgotten about you, all on your own. Is Father very busy? Is he working on another family tree? Is Mother, poor dear, growing weary of all the housework? Is the food at the restaurant absolutely ghastly? Are you in good health? Are you missing your naughty, ungrateful daughter just a tiny bit? Did you find the pantry key, which, at the last minute, I left under the blue tablecloth?
I'm with you in my every thought, and sometimes when I laugh here, I suddenly grow sad, because I see the two of you sitting in the dining room alone, my poor, dear parents. I'm actually quite ready to come home. They're trying dreadfully hard to make me stay another week, but however nice a little more holiday would be, I wouldn't stay for all the tea in China. I shall be home, as promised, on Friday evening with the half-past-eight (20.25) train. I can hardly wait to embrace you both again.
I must hurry to conclude these lines. I want to send them off tonight with the coachman who'll drive out to Tarkő after midnight for the girls. A hundred kisses and embraces from your loving daughter
Skylark
That was all. There the letter came to an end.
Ákos sighed. He carefully slipped his spectacles back into their paper case.
The letter still lay open on his knees.
A single name kept coming to his mind. He muttered it to himself under his breath:
“Olga Orosz.”
And it wasn't the Tarkő plain he saw before him in his mind's eye, nor the divan on which his daughter slept, nor the Thurzó girls, but, even more clearly than on stage two days before, he saw Olga Orosz, kissing Sir Reginald Fairfax on the mouth.
She wouldn't understand this letter. Nor would she understand why its every word cut him to the quick, why its every observation was so special–that a path now wound its way down from the hill, that the rhododendrons were in bloom, that they already lit the lamps at six, and were preparing for the harvest. Olga Orosz would laugh at all this with her husky, throaty trill.
The children, the little cops and robbers who had till then been playing in the park, were now gone. Dusk was falling. In the country, after sunset, every child belongs at home.
Now common soldiers strolled through the park, gently swinging the calloused hands of their housemaid sweethearts–hands that fitted snugly in their own thick palms. From this coarseness something sweet might yet be born. Little parlour maids, buxom cooks and sluttish Soldier-Suzies in grubby dresses came arm in arm with these rough peasant lads who'd curse in the barracks, be clouted and clapped in irons by their sergeants, but now ambled along quite harmlessly.
Their blue eyes were glazed with dumb delight, caring about nothing, no one. Their boyish faces and pug noses red with schnapps, they looked like lost orphans, wandering dreamily through some enchanted garden of love, the women leading them onwards. Every now and then the couples stopped and gazed deep into one another's eyes. They sat down on wooden benches near the bushes, waiting for it to grow completely dark.
How squalid it all was, here and at the theatre too, among the shabby props and decorations. There was no justice in the world, no justice anywhere. Everything was meaningless. Nothing mattered at all.