Beware of Pity (23 page)

And indeed the old man was swaying back and forth as if drunk. It took me all my strength to drag him over to the bench through the dark, while the thunder rumbled as it came closer and closer. The waiting had undoubtedly exhausted him, and no wonder. He must have stood on weary legs at his post for three hours, impatiently on watch for me, and only now that he had succeeded in getting hold of me did the strain show. Exhausted, as if felled by a heavy blow, he leant on the bench put there as a place where the poor could sit. Workmen also
ate their midday snack on this bench, pensioners and pregnant women sat on it in the afternoons, and the whores used it at night when they were looking out for soldiers. Now old Kekesfalva, a man who was richer than anyone else in this town, sat there still waiting, waiting, waiting. And I knew what he was waiting for. I guessed at once that I would never induce the obstinate old man to move from this bench (and how awkward if one of my comrades happened to see me in this strange intimacy!) unless I could raise his spirits first. I had to reassure him before he would move. Once again I was overcome by pity, once again I felt that hot surge of emotion. It always made me powerless, sapping my own will. I leant closer to him and began talking.

The wind roared, whistled and howled around us, but the old man never noticed. For him, the sky, the clouds, the rain did not exist, there was nothing on earth but his child and the hope of curing her. How could I have brought myself to tell him, shaking with agitation and weakness as he was, the bleak facts of the matter—how could I have said that Condor was by no means sure of the best course to take? He needed something to cling to, just as a moment ago, near collapse, he had clung to my arm as I helped him along. So I hastily resorted to the few comforting words that I had been able to extract with such difficulty from Condor. I told him that Condor had heard of a new course of treatment, one that Professor Viennot had tried out in Paris with great success. At once I heard rustling and sensed movement in the dark; Kekesfalva, who had just been leaning back, limp and exhausted, was moving closer as if to warm himself against me. I ought not to have promised him anything else now, but my pity led me to say more than I could answer for. Yes, indeed, I encouragingly told him again and again, this treatment had been very successful, it had achieved surprising
results within three or four months, and probably—well, almost certainly—it would not fail with Edith. A certain pleasure in my own exaggeration came over me as I took in the miraculous effect of my reassurances. He kept avidly asking me, “Do you really think so?” or, “Did he really say that? Did he say it himself?” And in my impatience and weakness I fervently assured him that it was so, that was indeed what Condor had said. The weight of the old man as he leant on me became less. I felt his certainty growing as I talked, and for the first and last time in my life I guessed, in that hour, something of the intoxicating pleasure of creativity.

I don’t know now, and never will, exactly what I promised Kekesfalva as he sat on the bench meant for the poor. For as he greedily drank in my words, his happiness as he listened egged me on to say more and more. We both ignored the blue lightning flashing around us, and the increasingly insistent growl of the thunder. We sat close together, talking and listening, listening and talking, and I assured him again and again, honestly believing it, “Yes, she’ll soon get better, soon, she will certainly get better,” just to hear his stammered, “Ah!” and, “Thank God!” and to sympathise with his intoxicated and intoxicating frenzy. I don’t know how long we might have sat like that, but suddenly the final fierce gust of wind came that always precedes a heavy storm, clearing the way for it. Trees bowed low, their timber creaking and cracking. Chestnuts rained down on us like shots, and a huge cloud of dust blew around us.

“Home, you must go home,” I said, and he did not resist. My comforting words had strengthened and healed him. He no longer staggered as he had just now; confused, but fast now, he hurried with me to his waiting car. The chauffeur helped him in. Only then did my mind feel easy. I knew he was safe.
I had comforted him. Now he would be able to sleep at last, poor broken old man, deeply, quietly, happily.

But in the brief moment when I was going to spread the rug over his feet, so that he would not catch cold, something appalling happened. He grasped my hands by the wrists, both of them, and before I could prevent him he raised them to his mouth and kissed them, right and left, right again and left again.

“I’ll see you tomorrow … tomorrow,” he stammered, and the car drove off as if blown away by the now icy wind. I stood there rooted to the spot. But the first heavy drops were falling, drumming, pelting down, echoing like hailstones on my cap, and I ran the last four or five dozen steps to the barracks through the torrent. Just as I reached the gate, dripping wet, a lightning bolt illuminated the stormy night, and after it a crash of thunder as if it were tearing the whole sky down. The lightning must have struck quite close, because the earth shook and windowpanes clinked. But although my eyes were dazzled by the garish light, I was not as shocked as I had been a moment before, when the old man had snatched up and kissed my hands in his passionate gratitude.

After such strong emotion I slept well and soundly. Only next morning did my first waking sensations show me how deeply I had been affected by both the sultry weather before the thunderstorm and the electric tension of my conversations that night. I felt numb. I surfaced from what seemed like unfathomable depths, stared first at my familiar room in the barracks as if it were a strange place, and then made vain efforts to remember when and how I had fallen into such an abyss of slumber. But
I had no time to think it all out properly. My other, military memory, which seemed to function separately from the personal kind, told me at once that we were going on special exercises today. Signals were already being given down below, horses were stamping audibly, from my batman’s urgent reminders I realised that it was high time I got down there myself. I flung on the
uniform
laid out ready for me, lit a cigarette, ran downstairs to the yard, and off I went with the whole squadron drawn up ready.

As part of a column of mounted men you don’t function like your normal self; you can neither think clearly nor daydream through the sound of a hundred hoof beats. We were riding at a brisk trot, and I felt nothing except that our group was on its way in loose formation out into the finest summer day you can imagine. The sky was washed clean of rain to the last little cloud and wisp of mist, the sun was strong, yet without any sultry heat, and all the contours of the landscape stood out clearly. Looking far into the distance, you saw every house, every tree, every field as real and clear as if you held it in your hand. The very existence of every bunch of flowers standing in a window, every curl of smoke rising from a roof, seemed to be heightened by the strong, clear, glassy colours; I hardly recognised the uninteresting road along which we trotted week after week at the same tempo to the same destination—its leafy canopy rising above our heads was so much richer and greener than usual. I felt wonderfully light and easy as I sat in the saddle, all the uncomfortable, dark, problematic notions that had been oppressing my nervous system for the last few days and weeks were gone. I seldom performed my military duties better than on that radiant summer morning. Everything went well and naturally, everything was as it should be and rejoiced my heart: the sky and the meadows, the pleasant warmth of the horses as
they reacted obediently to every pressure of the rider’s thighs and every pull on the reins, even to my voice when I gave orders.

A strong sense of physical wellbeing, like every intoxicant, has something about it that inhibits thought; intense enjoyment of the present moment makes you forget the past. So as I went my usual way to the castle after those refreshing hours in the saddle, I was thinking only vaguely of my nocturnal encounter with Kekesfalva; I was merely happy in my own lightness of heart and the joy of other people, because when you are happy you think of everyone else as happy too.

Sure enough, I had hardly reached the familiar gate of the little castle before I heard the voice of the usually carefully impersonal manservant welcoming me with a particularly cheerful note in it. “May I take you up to the tower, Lieutenant Hofmiller, sir? The young ladies are already waiting for you up there.”

But why were his hands fidgeting so impatiently, why was he beaming at me so warmly? Why was he already hurrying so busily ahead? What’s up with him, I couldn’t help wondering as I started to climb the spiral staircase to the terrace, what’s the matter with good old Josef today? He seems to be burning with impatience to get me up there as quickly as possible. What’s come over the good fellow?

However, it was good to feel happy, good to climb the winding stairs with my strong young legs on this beautiful June day, seeing the summer landscape stretching out to infinity as I glimpsed it from the narrow windows in the walls of the tower, looking now north, now south, now east and then west. Finally, when I had only ten or twelve more steps to go to reach the terrace, something unexpected made me stop. To my surprise, I suddenly heard the faint music of a dance tune as I went on up the dark stairwell. The melody was played by violins, with cellos adding
the lower notes, and sparkling, intertwining coloratura voices sang. I marvelled. Where did this music come from, close and yet far away as it sounded, ghostly yet also earthly, a popular song from an operetta sounding as if it came down from the sky? Was there an ensemble playing in the garden of an inn somewhere nearby, so that the wind was carrying every delicate phrase of the intricate melody up here? Next moment I realised that this airy orchestral sound came from nothing more than an ordinary gramophone on the terrace. How stupid of me, I thought, I sense magic everywhere today and expect miracles. A whole orchestra could hardly be installed on the terrace at the top of such a narrow tower! But after only a few more steps I felt uncertain again. No doubt about it, a gramophone was playing up there—and yet the singing voices were too free, too real to come out of the little box whirring away. Those were the live voices of girls, rising in childishly cheerful exuberance. I stopped and listened more intently. The soprano with the lower register was Ilona’s voice, beautiful, full, voluptuous, as soft as her arms, but whose was the other voice singing with her? I didn’t know it. Edith must have invited a friend to visit, some cheerful young girl with a sparkling voice, and I was very curious to set eyes on the songbird who had so unexpectedly settled on our tower.

My surprise was all the greater when, stepping out onto the terrace, I realised that only the two girls were there, Edith and Ilona, no one else, and it was Edith laughing and trilling in a voice entirely new to me—free, light, silvery in its elation. I was amazed; this sudden change seemed to me somehow unnatural. Only a healthy, self-confident woman would sing of her happiness so exuberantly. On the other hand, that poor sick child couldn’t have been cured unless a
genuine miracle had happened overnight. What, I marvelled, has delighted her, what has intoxicated her so much that this blessed certainty suddenly breaks from her throat and her soul? My first feeling is hard to explain—it was really discomfort, as if I had taken the girls by surprise naked, for either the sick girl had been hiding her true nature from me until now, or else—but why and how?—she had suddenly become a new woman?

But to my surprise, the two girls seemed to feel no confusion at all when they saw me. “Here you are!” cried Edith, and then, turning to Ilona, “Quick, do turn the gramophone record off!” And she was already waving to me.

“At last, at last—I’ve been waiting for you all this time. So quick—tell us all about it, tell us everything … Papa muddled everything up so badly that I was left quite confused … you know what he’s like, when he’s excited he can never tell you anything properly. Guess what, he came in to see me last night when that terrible storm was keeping me awake. I was so cold, there was a draught from the window, and I didn’t have the strength to get over there and close it. I kept wishing someone would wake up and think of closing my window, and suddenly I heard footsteps coming closer and closer. I felt frightened at first—after all, it was two or three in the morning, and in my surprise I didn’t recognise Papa, he looked so different. And he came straight in to see me, and then there was no stopping him … you should have seen him, he was laughing and sobbing both at once … can you imagine, Papa laughing out loud in such high spirits, dancing from foot to foot like a great big boy? Of course, when he began talking, I was so amazed, I just couldn’t believe it … I thought—either Papa has been dreaming, or I’m dreaming myself. However, then Ilona came in, and we were
all talking and laughing until morning. But now, what about this new treatment to cure me?”

I tried not to give way to my utter consternation. It was like attempting to keep your footing when a strong wave flings itself against you and leaves you staggering. That one, last little phrase had explained everything to me in a flash. I alone was responsible for the unsuspecting girl’s new, happy mood, I had implanted this ill-founded certainty in her mind. Kekesfalva must have told her what Condor had told me. But what, exactly,
had
Condor told me? And what had I said myself in passing it on? After all, Condor had expressed himself with the utmost caution, and what must I have added, a prey to my own foolish pity, to light up the whole household and make the desperate feel rejuvenated and the sick healthy again? What must I have said? …

“What is it … why do you hesitate like that?” Edith pressed me. “You know how much every word matters to me. So what did Condor tell you?”

“What did he tell me?” I repeated, playing for time. “Well … you know how it is. The outlook’s very good … Dr Condor hopes for excellent results in the course of time and … and he intends, if I’m not mistaken, to try a new course of treatment, he’s finding out about it. Apparently it’s a very effective cure if … if I understood him correctly. Of course I’m no judge of these things myself, but at least you can rely upon it that if he … I think, I really do think he will make everything all right in the end.”