“Water,” he said, pouring and passing a glass. The young man drank it slowly, then lay back again in the chair, staring out of the window towards the vines with their heavy crops of grapes, to the peaches and apricots lying on top of the wine press, drying in the sun, to the chickens and geese and dogs, all scratching together in the dust, to the acacia woods that led down to the river.
“How peaceful it is here,” Karoly murmured dreamily. “How quiet and peaceful, like Amalia.” He was silent for a moment, then continued. “Did you know how close the Russians were last year? I don’t suppose they told you: nearly over the Carpathians. All this”—he waved his hand towards the window—“would have looked like Galicia, everything burnt and dead and full of shell holes, the peasants hanging from trees, all the food gone, just guns and soldiers and burnt huts.”
He couldn’t answer. Too much had happened. He wanted to drive the young man from his house with a whip, hurl him down the steps into the dust of the yard. He could still do it, physically he could still do it; he was a big man, a strong man in spite of his years. But how could he throw a soldier with a medal ribbon and a bloodstained handkerchief from his house? How could he quell him with words and silent threats when the soldier was no longer afraid of him? He wanted to pound his fists on something, or somebody, raise his voice to the heavens and scream his anger, but how could he do this when the cold blue eyes would just stare at him with indifference and apathy?
“I shall go home... to Cousin Alfred’s.” Karoly began to pull himself to his feet. “The coach is waiting and I have stayed too long.” As he walked slowly towards the door he added casually, “It is agreed, then. Amalia stays here until the war is over and we can be married.”
He opened the door and she was waiting outside. Her face lit into a smile when she saw him and swiftly she slid her arm round his waist in a gesture that combined femininity with the need to support and help him.
“It is agreed,” Karoly told her. “We shall marry as soon as the war is over.”
She turned back, smiling, said, “Thank you, Papa,” and then returned all her attention to helping him through the hall and down the steps.
He watched them from the window—the thin, young-old man bent exhausted over the prop of the girl’s body—and dimly he began to understand why Kati and his sister had been crying.
10
It wasn’t that she was jealous of Malie—no, not at all. Poor Malie had had a very difficult time with Papa since meeting Karoly, and it was only right that at last darling Malie and dear Karoly should be rewarded for their constancy. She wasn’t one little bit jealous; she loved her sister very much. Indeed, in some curious way Malie was more important to her than Mama, who was gay and charming but... unreliable. Oh, no, she was very happy for Malie, delighted that at last Papa had agreed that one day they could get married. She wasn’t jealous at all.
It was just that it was so unfair! Always it had been Eva first, then Malie. Even when they were little girls she could remember Mama saying, “No, Amalia! You must let Eva have the doll because she is your little sister and you must be kind to her.” And Malie had been kind. Eva had had the dolls, and the chance to choose first when there were picture books or crayons to be divided between them. And when they were older and the French mademoiselle who made the clothes for the town’s gentry began to come and measure them, always it was Eva’s dress that was sewn before Malie’s, and Eva who was allowed to make the first selection from the festive dress lengths.
And she was prettier than Malie too. They were called the enchanting Ferenc girls, and of course Malie was very handsome, but Eva knew she was really the prettier of the two; every young man who had ever danced or skated or walked or drunk coffee with her had told her so. “Oh, yes, your sister is very nice to look at, but you—you are wonderful, Eva!”
She could see it in the mirror. Every time she looked at her delicate heart-shaped face with the bright eyes and thick mass of black curls, she knew she was prettier than Malie. And—she blushed at the thought, but nonetheless it was true—she had more... seduction than Malie. She pretended not to notice the way men looked at her, but all the time she was conscious of their eyes; even Uncle Alfred stared overlong at her narrow waist and the curves of her bosom and hips. Whenever he kissed her he always kept his arms round her just a little longer than necessary.
That’s why it was so unfair. She had always been first, and now Malie was in love, and Karoly was in love too. Karoly had never even looked at her. Even when Malie was absent and she tried to cheer him up a little by laughing and teasing, he didn’t really look at her. He was the second young man not to notice how pretty she was, how naughty and moderne and seductive, and while Karoly’s indifference merely annoyed her, Felix’s failure to appreciate how exceptional she was both hurt and humiliated her. She had done everything: flirted, laughed, provoked, sulked, smiled, pouted, pirouetted, winked, giggled, and flattered. She had, in the course of her pursuit of Felix, collected a number of ardent young men who had been shattered by the side effects of her smiles. They had gone off to the war expressing their devotion and hinting that perhaps it would be rewarded once the war had been won. And Felix had gone away too—smiling at her, saying how much he would miss her, flirting with her—and none of it meant anything. She, who had carelessly charmed so often, knew the difference between a-heart heavily inflicted with dramatic love and a pleasant but meaningless romance.
She had even forced herself to pay frequent and dreary calls on Madame Kaldy during the summer. She made Malie go with her, and they had sat and conversed stiffly about the letters they all received from the front. She had asked Felix’s mother about the farm, about Adam’s boring beet fields, about how she was managing with the men all away. The only time she had seen Madame Kaldy soften was when they called on her soon after Karoly had returned. Malie appeared to be living in some euphoric dream world since Papa’s capitulation, and when they had entered Madame Kaldy’s drawing-room the older woman had crossed to Malie and kissed her on both cheeks.
“My dear,” she said, quite kindly, “I am happy for your good fortune. I believe you will be happy with the young man.”
Malie flushed, shy but gratified. “We cannot marry until the war is won,” she said guardedly, but her face was bright.
Madame Kaldy nodded and raised her hand. “There are difficulties. Obviously it is not the match your papa would have wished, but in the circumstances....”
Eva was angry. Driving back to the farm, her wrath exploded. “How dare she say that. How dare she!”
Amalia frowned. “Say what, Eva?”
“About ‘in the circumstances.’ Because Papa is not of the gentry—that’s what she meant—she thinks we are not really good enough for the old families like the Vilaghys and the Kaldys.”
“Why no, Eva! That wasn’t what she meant at all. She was referring to the fact that Karoly and I—that we love one another and have refused to give in to Papa. That is what she meant.”
She was so obviously upset that Eva said no more. But she knew what the old witch had meant. She hadn’t been talking to Malie at all. She had been telling Eva that no Ferenc girl was good enough for her son, and that Eva Ferenc could forget about Felix Kaldy.
“Well, I don’t like her! And I’m not going there again,” she said, hitting angrily at a butterfly that had settled on her skirt. “I only visited her because I felt sorry for her, both Felix and Adam away at the war and no one to talk to her. That’s the only reason I went, just to be kind, but I shan’t go again.” She was annoyed, not only by the “old witch’s” remark but also by the way Madame Kaldy had kissed Malie and wished her well. Everyone was kissing Malie: Mama, Roza, Kati, even Aunt Gizi. Everyone was saying how wonderful it was that she and Karoly were to be allowed to marry once the war was won. Everyone was talking about nothing else but Malie—and it wasn’t fair!
At the end of September they had to get ready to return to town in time for the little boys to begin
their school term. And then the final unfairness of all burst upon her.
Uncle Alfred and Aunt Gizi came to see Papa. There was a long and loud (although not loud enough to hear exactly what was said) conversation in the drawing-room, and then Papa had come out looking cross and confused. Aunt Gizi had apparently persuaded him to let Malie stay with them in the country until Karoly was fit and well again.
“He will be here for only a little longer,” she said persuasively. “Just as soon as the doctor has declared him fit he will return to the front. Malie can stay until then. It will be company for Kati too.”
Eva felt as betrayed by Aunt Gizi as her father. Always Gizi could be relied upon to interfere with her nieces’ lives, usually to their disadvantage. Always she was ready to persuade Papa that they should not do this or that, should not go to so many parties, or have so many new dresses. And now Aunt Gizi was actually persuading Papa that Malie should stay in the country, having a lovely time at the Racs-Rassay villa and celebrating the grape harvest with Karoly. She was so angry and peeved that she couldn’t even say good-bye to Malie.
The little boys were unhappy about leaving Malie too. They never liked leaving the farm at the end of summer, but this year was even worse because Eva was in such a bad temper. She slapped them both when they climbed up in the coach to go home. She said they had trodden on her dress.
The journey down from the hills was miserable and dreary. Mama prattled gaily for a while—all about Karoly and Malie, of course—until finally Papa said coldly, “I do not see the necessity for constant chatter, Marta. I would appreciate it if you could manage to be silent for a few moments.”
Jozsef and Leo sat glaring sullenly at Eva. They had not forgotten the slap, and they were already missing their beloved Malie. The presence of Uncle Sandor on the box afforded a small comfort, but it didn’t outweigh the gloomy presence of Papa or their resentment of Eva. In silence they trundled along the dusty roads, between woods and farmlands, until finally the fields flattened out into a monotonous landscape of small holdings and houses that grew thicker as the town approached.
That evening Eva knocked on the door of Papa’s study and glided in without waiting for an answer. Papa was sitting with a book in his lap, but hé wasn’t reading; he was staring straight ahead of him. She hurried across and sat at his feet, resting her head despondently upon his knee.
“Oh, Papa! I feel so miserable!”
He began to stroke her hair, indulgently, as though enjoying the feel of her soft curls against his palm.
“Everything is changing. Mama and Malie seem so... so separate from us all. And even Jozsef and Leo can talk about nothing but Karoly and Amalia.” She darted a sly glance up at him. His mouth was firmed into a straight line, his eyes wrinkled in puzzled irritation. “I sometimes think, darling Papa, that only you and I care about the family.”
The band stroking her hair ceased to move. In a cold, remote voice he asked, “What do you mean, Eva? We are as united as ever we were, all of us: your Uncle Alfred and Aunt Gizi, Kati, and all of us—”
“Oh, yes, Papa!” she cried hurriedly. “Of course! I know Malie loves us all really; it is just, with Karoly, she has no time for me at the moment. You know how I love to be with the family, Papa. I’m so lonely. Malie doesn’t want to be with me any more, and you are busy with the war.” Her delicate face, the eyes brilliant with neglect and unhappiness, turned towards him. “I’m so miserable here on my own. The little boys don’t want me, and Mama doesn’t want me, and you are away in Budapest all the time....” Tears rolled gently down her unmarked face. She felt so sad at the way everyone was mistreating her.
“You have your friends, my darling,” he chided gently. “You know I have always encouraged you to have friends.”
“But they are not the same as you, Papa,” she said, adoring him. “And when you go away I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
He stroked her hair again, gazing down into the beautiful, entreating face. “How would it be, my dear,” he asked, “if I took you on a little trip to Budapest? When I go up next on business, would you like to come with me?”
“Oh, Papa! I don’t mind where I go if I am with you!”
“I cannot be with you all the time,” he reminded her. “I have business to attend to and you will be alone for part of the day.”
“I don’t mind, Papa.”
“Perhaps,” he said thoughtfully, “we can find some daughters of my colleagues at the bank to accompany you. Little trips, perhaps to the theatre? And we could ask Felix Kaldy to join us for one or two excursions.”
‘“Anything, Papa!”
She was so lovely, the way Marta had been. She was his daughter and she was obedient and dutiful, grateful for anything he arranged for her, happy to do his bidding instead of defying him like his elder daughter.
“That is settled then.” He patted her hand, feeling happier himself because he was once more a father with a loving, obedient child. “Now kiss me good night and go to bed. We will discuss the arrangements in the morning.”
“Good night, dearest, dearest Papa!”
She kissed his cheek. She was still sad for herself, because she had been so lonely and neglected, but very soon—immediately outside the door, in fact—she began to feel elated.
“I shall borrow Malie’s sealskin coat,” she said to herself. “I will ask Marie to shorten it tomorrow.” She had a moment’s guilt at the thought of actually altering Malie’s coat to fit herself, but she pushed the guilt away. Serve her right for not caring about me, she thought piteously, and then she did a few mazurka steps down the passage, humming to herself.
The following morning, bright, happy, and loving everyone at the breakfast table, she opened a letter from Felix. He was leaving Budapest that day following a posting—he could not say which—to one of the fronts.
11
The spring should have brought a sense of hope, a rising promise that the war—which was going well—would soon be over. On the Russian front the great victorious armies of last summer held their positions at a line well inside the enemy territory. The Russians, it was generally conceded by everyone who hadn’t actually fought them, were finished. As for the perfidious Italians, those betrayers who had dared to stab the Monarchy in the back, news had just filtered through of a large and glorious victory on the Isonzo. The Italians were being punished for their treachery. The fighting was fierce—yes, the Empire’s soldiers were falling—but for every icy alpine rock the Italians tried to defend, their soldiers too were destroyed. Soon they would be reduced, with their inferior weapons and bad organization, to the same routed condition as the Russians.
Serbia was crushed. The hated Balkan shepherds who dared to defy and temporarily conquer the Austro-Hungarian armies were now annihilated. Pushed steadily back into the mountainous hinterland of their own country, caught between the troops of the Empire in the north and the brave Bulgarians (who had decided to throw in their lot with the Central Powers) in the south-east, they were finally starved or frozen into defeat. Yes, everywhere one looked, on all three fronts, things were going well. So why was there no hope in the spring of 1916? Why did people walk a little more heavily and look sadder, more worried? Why was there a feeling of depression and apathy in the air?
The meat and bread queues were longer. There were more women in mourning, more wounded seen walking through the streets of the town. And there were rumours—oh, nonsense, of course!—but they planted seeds of disquiet in the most optimistic of hearts. The rumours stemmed from the soldiers returning on leave from the fronts. Leo and Jozsef, habitues of the kitchen, where Marie, who had a brother at the front, presided, reported chattily one morning that all the soldiers fighting in Russia had deserted. Papa rebuked them and sent them from the table, but the rumours persisted, leaking back through other quarters: all the troops, other than those of Austrian and Hungarian origin, were deserting from their regiments, in some cases joining the Russians in order to fight against their
former masters.
And there was a sense, too, of this spring’s being somehow repetitious of the last. In the early months of 1915 it had been possible to look both back and forward, to say, “Oh, yes! This time last year we were going to poor cousin Kati’s birthday party. And this time next year the war will be over and perhaps we shall be thinking of getting married!” But now, in the spring of 1916, one could only look back to last year, when the war had been on, and then forward to some timeless point when, miraculously, it would all be over and, please God, Karoly and Felix would come home unharmed.
Felix had been sent to Serbia, had indeed been part of the victorious army that had vanquished the dirty Balkan shepherds, but Eva took no joy in his achievements for Felix had ceased to write to her at all, not even sending her a pink field postcard. She had to rely on news of him from the still faithful Adam, who wrote, now, from the Italian front. No longer were Adam’s letters tossed irritably to one side without being read; eagerly she scanned them, searching hungrily for a message relayed from Felix. Such comments as there were proved to be brief and unsatisfactory. “Mother reports that Felix is well.” “Mother hopes that soon Felix will be given some leave.” Leave! What good would that do her! Felix would go home to his wretched old witch of a mother and she wouldn’t see him at all, not unless his leave was postponed to the summer when they were all at the farm. Bitterness and hurt pride rankled within her, and combined with the rancour was deep and sincere distress. She prayed for him, prayed he would not be killed and prayed that whatever kept him from writing would soon be put right. At night she brooded and pondered any number of possibilities: that he had met and fallen in love with a Serbian girl, that his right hand had been injured and he had begged Adam not to tell her in case she worried, that he suspected she had grown tired of him and was in love with another. Oh, what did it matter if only he would write?
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