Csardas Page 12

  When the papers came down from the village Papa would immediately settle down to study them and then, as though against his own will, he would read the conflicting reports from the capital aloud. Relieved to hear him say anything, anything at all, they would gather round and listen with great respect and concentration. Eva and Mama would try to pass intelligent comments, and the little boys just listened and nodded, and gradually Papa would unbend. Then he would suggest that Uncle Sandor take them over to Alfred and Gizi’s to discuss the news. That was good too, because it got them out of the house to where there were other people. The boys, who were too little to go, would wait until the coach was out of sight and then run screaming all round the farm.

  Eva wondered what they would all do when the news and excitement died down and the papers had nothing worthwhile to report.

  At the end of a week, when they were returning from Alfred and Gizi’s, Mama broke. She had grown thin and tired in the days since Papa’s arrival, and suddenly she said to him, quite loudly, “When are you going to let my daughter out of her room?”

  Papa stared and did not answer, and Mama began to shout, leaning forward on the seat and looking at him with hatred and fear.

  “You have imprisoned her for a week. She has seen no one except Roza, and you have forbidden Roza to speak when she takes her food in. You do not know if she is ill, or starving herself to death, or what has happened to her. If she dies I shall tell your sister what you have done to my child!”

  Papa’s eyes flickered for a second. Eva knew that sign well, and her heart lifted and became confident and strong again. She always knew when it was safe to try and persuade Papa of something. It could not always be done, but now Papa had returned to them from whatever terrible place he lived in while fury controlled him. Now it would be possible to speak to him again.

  “Malie doesn’t even know about the Crown Prince,” she said, very quietly and carefully. “You have explained everything to us, Papa—all about Russia and Serbia, and France and Germany. But Malie has been told nothing. If there is a war surely she has right to know why.”

  Papa did not answer, but when he stared out of the carriage window it was in a different way, absorbed and thoughtful. The next morning he went into Malie’s room very early and, after an hour, led her out. Silently they sat at the breakfast table. Mama swept from her place and wrapped her arms round her elder daughter. Her voice was trembling as she plied Malie with hot bread and apricot jam. Then she rushed from the room and returned in a few moments with a comb of fresh honey on a plate.

  “There! Uncle Zoltan has just taken it from the hive.” She smiled her silly Mama smile. “If you listen you can still hear the bees singing in it!”

  Malie nodded, her mouth doing its best to smile back at Mama. Round her eyes were large dark circles and the lids were unhealthily swollen. Her hair was limp and dirty and her skin looked bad too; the golden soft complexion was pallid and slightly mottled. “Thank you, Mama,” she managed at last. The words were stiff, as though she had forgotten how to speak.

  “Your sister has reminded me that you are unacquainted with the historic events of the last week,” Papa said quietly. “It is possible that the Empire stands on the brink of war.”

  Malie stared obediently at Papa, and he began to recite the readings accumulated from the past week’s papers. Eva, under the table, squeezed Malie’s hand. Leo and Jozsef gazed at her with barely controlled longing. Suddenly all the things they had missed her for seemed unimportant. It was just enough to know she was there again. And they had a surprise for her, a lovely surprise. Malie did not yet know that Uncle Sandor was the most wonderful man in the world.

  By the middle of July it appeared that the furore over Serbia and the killing was dying down. It would fizzle out, as these things usually did, in long and dreary talks at diplomatic levels. The harvesters had arrived and the fields were full of big brown men with scythes. It was difficult to take Serbia or the newspapers too seriously when the harvesters were here. The war—anyway—had finished without ever beginning and now the important things had to be carried on: the hay stacked up, wild strawberries picked, the cheeses made for the winter. Everything was still controlled and melancholy, because of Papa, and now that the international situation seemed to be settling there was mention of Malie’s being sent away to a school in Berlin famous for discipline. They tried to ignore it, tried to pretend that this was a summer just like any other.

  The war happened before they had even caught up with the news. There was an ultimatum, and then a declaration of war from Vienna, and the next time they went into the village a crowd of men and women stood round the schoolhouse door reading the mobilization order. One or two of the peasant women were crying, but the men seemed jovial and noisy. Papa called to Uncle Sandor to drive them straight to Gizi and Alfred’s. When they arrived Madame Kaldy, Felix, and Adam were there. Madame Kaldy had two bright spots of colour on her cheeks and her back was rigid. “My sons have their mobilization orders,” she said proudly. “They have been called to the reserve, Felix to Budapest, Adam to the garrison in the town. They will go tomorrow.” She glared at them all, forbidding expressions of sympathy or offers of help. “I shall manage the farm myself for the next few weeks,” she announced.

  Alfred was noisy and belligerent. “Just as I said. We’ll teach the dirty Balkan shepherds not to tamper with the Monarchy. We’ll handle the Russians too if they interfere!”

  Even Papa was confident. “Quite the best thing to do,” he said. “Get it over before the bad weather sets in.”

  Adam was silent, Felix gay. Eva gazed at him, imagining how he would look in his uniform. The picture that came to her mind was almost too much to bear.

  Everyone except Madame Kaldy decided it would be sensible to return to town where the news could be obtained quickly and where Papa and Uncle Alfred could be within speedy reach of Budapest and the bank. As they pattered back to the farmhouse there was an air of expectancy about them, a taut excitement as though great things were going to be asked of them, splendid and dramatic actions which they would nobly perform.

  Just as Uncle Sandor pulled the coach into the yard, Mama looked out of the window at the young peasants bringing in the last of the grain and her gaiety vanished. “All the young men who are going to be killed,” she murmured sadly. “We cannot stop them... they will be killed.” She turned to her daughters, relieved because they were not sons, and saw in their faces the fear of women who love men who are old enough to go to war.

  The town was a riot of bunting and flags and martial music. Young men with suitcases and bundles arrived in carts, on horses, and from the station, all converging on the garrison. Mostly they were peasants, because the land around the town was farming country, and everyone suddenly felt proud of the healthy, stocky young men that the land had bred. At other times they were stupid, lazy, dishonest, and dirty, but now, with their bags of bread and sausage, they were strong and reliable and brave. The Russians wouldn’t be able to defeat men like that. Several peasant women had come into town with their men. The young ones were smiling and wore flowers in their hair, but the old women, with their black skirts and head scarves and faces like year-old apples, were silent. They pressed extra kolbasz and fruit into the bags and parcels of their men and tried to say, with the food they had prepared themselves, what anguish was in their hearts.

  Felix and Adam called next day to say good-bye. Felix was on his way to Budapest, and Adam, although he was only reporting to the garrison, did not know if he would see them again either. Papa shook hands with them and told them what a fine and splendid thing they were doing. Mama kissed them both and pinned roses on their coats. Eva laughed and flirted and finally managed to corner Felix for herself.

  “You are not to forget me!” she cried playfully. “If you are too dazzled by the girls in Budapest it will quite break my heart.” She smiled up at him through her long, dark lashes to show that it was all a joke, that she was flirting the way sh
e had throughout the summer. She couldn’t quite understand the tiny pain in her chest. If she could cry it would be better, but she had no right to cry for Felix Kaldy. They had laughed and teased each other all through the long summer days, and the gaiety must be preserved. It was her gaiety he liked so much.

  “There will be no time to make new friends!” he cried. “Do you think we shall allow a handful of Serbian peasants to keep us from the hunting season? Dearest Eva! We shall be back for the autumn. There will be your birthday in November; do you think I could possibly miss your birthday?”

  He snatched her hand and kissed it with great gallantry. She was still laughing, but the pain grew worse and finally she had to say to him, “There will be no... no danger, will there, Felix? You will be careful, won’t you?”

  He laughed again and pulled from his pocket a watch engraved with the Kaldy crest. “See,” he cried, “I shall give you this to guard for me. It belonged to my papa, and it is the most beautiful and valuable thing I possess. If I leave it in your trust there will be no danger of a southern beauty taking it from me!” And Eva, eyes shining, held the watch in both hands because surely he would never have given it to her if she hadn’t been very special to him.

  Adam was quiet, and Amalia, who was also quiet, sat beside him for a few moments without saying anything. She wanted to ask a favour of him but was afraid that Papa might hear.

  “Adam,” she whispered. “In the garrison. Could you manage to see Karoly?”

  He frowned, irritated. “Malie, how can I? The garrison is only a central mustering point. There will be thousands of men arriving and departing. Karoly may already have left.”

  “No,” she faltered. “None of the garrison have left yet. I asked Uncle Sandor.”

  “I do not know how I can manage to see him or speak with him. He is a regular officer of hussars; I am only a mobilized soldier. I do not even know what part of the garrison he will be in.” As he saw her face his voice softened. “Understand, Malie, try to understand. Have you any idea of the confusion there? Oh, very well, I will try, but I cannot promise. If I see him I will try to speak. What do you want me to say?”

  “Tell him—”

  Suddenly there was nothing she could say. Tell him she loved him? She pictured Adam rushing across a crowded parade-ground, saying, Amalia Ferenc loves you, and she fell silent again.

  “Tell him I shall pray for him,” she said at last. “And tell him that he is more important to me than Papa, and I will act accordingly.”

  Adam nodded, but his eyes were on Eva, sitting laughing with Felix at the other side of the room. “You will soon be back, Adam.”

  Malie smiled, and he nodded again, briskly this time. “Oh, yes. I must be back soon to see my sugar crop harvested. There is no one but myself who will care about it.”

  “Good-bye, dear Adam. You will remember... Karoly. Remember, please.”

  At last he looked at her, his kind eyes understanding and patient. “We don’t choose very well, do we, Malie?” he said quietly. “We both seem to be unlucky when it is a matter of loving.”

  She followed his eyes to Eva, Eva in the yellow dress with her dark hair springing away in tendrils from the braids. She wanted to offer him comfort—the misery in her own heart was such that she was painfully aware of his unhappiness too—but there was only one thing Adam wanted to hear. And even if she said it, said, “Eva cares for you, Adam. I am sure she cares for you,” it was so patently untrue he would think her a fool.

  The young men left, all the young men with whom they had danced and skated and drunk coffee. They came to say good-bye to the enchanting Ferenc sisters and Papa shook them all by the hand, gratified that his daughters provoked such respectful admiration. The town was still noisy, gay, awash with peasants and horses and more motorcars than they had ever seen in their lives. At breakfast Papa read out the official reply to Russia, which had ordered mobilization too. The reply left no doubt in anyone’s mind that Russia was the aggressor and had wronged them. There was still time; if Russia sent her soldiers back to the steppes, the war could be stopped—except that now no one really wanted to stop it. The Russians must be taught a lesson as well as the Serbs.

  The first battalions began to march from the garrison—the first men from their town, their county, to go to the front and do their duty. Through cheering crowds and women throwing flowers, the cavalry in their field uniforms clattered to the station against a background of regimental music.

  They stood at the window of the upstairs drawing-room watching the men and horses, pointing out to each other the faces they knew. “There’s Laszlo, look, leading his troop. He’s seen us. He’s smiling. And Janni Szabo! And there is Uncle Zoltan’s son. When did he come up? He could have come in the coach with us! And there—”

  Eva stopped, but it was too late. Everyone, including Papa, had seen Karoly riding ahead of his men. From Amalia’s lips came a tiny involuntary moan, and then she pressed close to the window and stared down through the panes of glass. “He’s not looking up,” she said in a small voice. “He isn’t even looking to see if I’m here.”

  Papa was very angry, both angry and confused. “Come away from the window, Amalia.”

  “He isn’t even looking up. He thinks I do not care. I haven’t written and Adam has not delivered my message. He will go away and think I do not care.”

  “Amalia! Come away from the window at once!”

  She moved away from the window, stared uncomprehendingly at Papa, and then suddenly ran from the room. Eva thought she had gone to the bedroom, but a few moments later they saw her running along the cobbled road in the direction of the station, no hat and just a white lace shawl thrown over her muslin dress. Papa, white-faced, turned to Mama.

  “Follow her! Get her back! She is behaving like a street woman!”

  “Let her say good-bye,” said Mama wearily. “What does it matter? He will probably die and then you will not have to make them unhappy. The war will do it for you.”

  Eva thought Papa was going mad for a moment. He pulled Mama away from the window so roughly that her head swung against the frame. He dragged at the blind; it clattered down and banged hard against the ledge. Then he strode towards the door.

  “You’ll never find her in the crowds. You have lost her, but she will come home when the train has gone and then you can punish her again... and again... and again.” Mama slumped into a chair, weeping. “Why do you destroy us, Zsigmond? You love us, I know this, therefore why do you destroy us?”

  They had both forgotten Eva was there. She cowered in a corner, afraid to draw their attention because already, in these few moments, there was an unbalanced atmosphere in the room. Thin rays of sun slatted through onto the carpet, but apart from that it was dim. She remained quiet and inconspicuous, awaiting a moment when she could leave.

  Papa’s face was tormented. His eyes darted feverishly from side to side, looking at nothing, everything. “You do not understand. You have never understood, because you are a Bogozy—lazy, immoral, decadent. I have created a class of my own, a family of my own. But I have to guard you, all of you, because you are Bogozys—and Racs-Rassays—useless, idle, proud people.”

  “Why do you hate us?” moaned Mama. “Why did you marry a Bogozy if you hate us so much?”

  “I married you—” Papa stopped. He gazed at Mama in the dim light, seeing her drooped on a chair, still graceful even in despair. “I married you because you were—the loveliest creature I had ever known. And you were a Bogozy. No one believed I could marry a Bogozy. I wanted you.”

  “Then why do you destroy us, Zsigmond? Why do you destroy your daughter?”

  “Because she is a Bogozy too,” he answered, suddenly cold again. “She has the bad blood, the carelessness, the... the immorality of you all, and I must protect her, guard against the Bogozy influence, the looseness, the immorality.”

  Slowly, slowly, Mama raised her head and gazed at him. She was as tremulous and helpless as she always w
as before Papa, not strong enough to fight him but still alive enough to understand him. “So that is why....”

  She stretched her hands out before her and shook her head.

  “After all these years, that is why you came to hate me. You have never forgotten that night, that one time.”

  “Never.”

  “You thought I was... careless, immoral.”

  His face was white and strained and full of hate. “My sister, Gizi—she would never have done it.”

  Mama’s eyes were huge with tears. For a long, long time she had trained herself to live in a world where Papa could not hurt her. And now, because her daughters were growing up, because Amalia and Eva had allowed themselves to tumble down the precipice of emotion, she was once more vulnerable to pain.

  “Your sister never loved Alfred as I loved you,” she said simply. “You hate me because you think I was immoral. You never considered it was because I loved you.”

  “No doubt Amalia believes she loves the lieutenant too. But I shall not allow them to be alone together, as your father allowed us.”

  Mama put one hand to the back of her chair and pulled herself upright. Like a sick, elderly woman she moved across the room towards the door. “I shall be happy again,” she said softly, reassuring herself.

  Eva was terrified. She did not want to understand what Mama and Papa had been talking of. Already she was burying it away, down in the part of her mind where she buried other unpleasant things. She wanted to get out of the room, because if Papa realized she had heard their conversation he might—she couldn’t imagine what he might do, but her skin crawled at something deeper, stranger than she could understand. Silently she moved round the darkened sides of the room to the door. She need not have worried. Papa was staring sightlessly at the shutters and did not hear her depart.

  There was a band playing in the large open area before the station. The bandsmen, in red and blue uniforms, puffed and banged and blew, and the noise they made helped to drown the whinnying of horses and the shouting of men. She weaved her way through the crowds: through groups of soldiers who were just standing, smoking, eating sausage and bread; through women holding children in their arms; through harassed officers assembling their men into units. Everywhere was noise, whistles, steam, the cranking of engines and rolling stock, screaming, shouting, and over it all the band playing Strauss marches.