Beware of Pity (25 page)

The simple country folk were greatly surprised to see such an extraordinary carriage stop in their unassuming marketplace, where the owner of the whole estate, known to them all by hearsay, got out and went into their little church to take part in matins with his whole family, which also seemed to include me. The sexton came running up, as if the former Leopold Kanitz were Prince Orosvár in person, and told us earnestly that the priest would delay the beginning of mass for us. Our path was lined by the congregation, their heads respectfully bowed, and a wave of sympathy ran through them when they saw Edith’s infirmity as Josef and Ilona supported her and helped her into the church. Simple people are always moved to see that the rich, too, can suffer misfortune. There was a murmuring and whispering, and then some of the women thoughtfully brought cushions so that the frail girl could sit as comfortably as possible—of course in the front pew, which was quickly cleared for us. It was almost as if the priest were celebrating mass with special solemnity for our benefit. I was greatly touched by the moving simplicity of this little church—the clear singing of the women, the deeper, sometimes rough tones of the men, the children’s naive voices all seemed to bear witness to a purer, more immediate faith than that of many more sophisticated church services, the kind that I knew from Sundays in St Stephen’s cathedral or the Augustinian church at home in Vienna. Against my will, however, I was distracted from my own prayers when I happened to look at Edith, sitting next to me, and was startled to see the ardent fervour with which she was praying. I had never before seen any sign that she had been brought up to be devout, or was naturally pious, but now I saw her deep in prayer that was not, like most people’s, a matter of habit. Her pale face was lowered as if she were walking into a
strong wind, her hands held the front of the pew tightly, it was as if all her outward senses were turned on her inmost being, and as she automatically murmured the words of the service her entire bearing was that of a woman with her nerves strung up to a high point of tension, using her concentrated powers in the attempt to force something into being. Sometimes I felt the pew in front of us trembling, so fervently did the ardour of that ecstatic prayer transfer itself to the dark wood. I knew at once that she was turning to God to ask for some particular answer to her prayers, that there was something the sick, crippled girl wanted the Deity to provide, and it was not difficult to guess what it was.

Even when we had helped Edith back into the coach after the end of matins, she remained thoughtful for a long time, and did not say a word. She was no longer turning to look at everything with interest; it was as if that half-hour spent wrestling for her heart’s desire had left her weary, exhausted. Naturally the rest of us said little. It was a quiet drive now, and the pace of the coach slowed down until we had nearly reached the stud farm just before midday.

Here, however, a special reception was waiting for us. The local young men, obviously told in advance about our visit, had chosen to ride the most high-spirited horses in the stud, and now came to meet us at a smart gallop in a kind of Arabian fantasia. It was a fine sight to see these young fellows whooping with delight, sunburnt in their open-necked shirts, and with long coloured ribbons dangling from their low-crowned hats. In white trousers of the kind worn by Argentinian cowboys, they raced up riding bareback, like a Bedouin horde intent on running us down. Our four coach horses were already pricking up their ears uneasily, and old Jonak had to rein them in sharply,
bracing his legs on the coachman’s box, as at a sudden whistle the wild band formed skilfully into a line and then escorted us to the stud manager’s house like a cheerful cortège.

As a trained cavalryman I saw much there to interest me. The two girls, on the other hand, were shown the foals, and couldn’t see enough of those skittishly inquisitive creatures, still not quite steady on their angular legs, and with mouths that didn’t yet know what to do with the sugar lumps they were offered. While we were all so happily occupied, the kitchen lad, carefully supervised by Josef, had set out a fine picnic in the open air. Soon the wine proved so good and so strong that our cheerfulness, muted until now, became more and more
exuberant.
We were all talking away, feeling friendlier and more relaxed than ever, not the least cloud troubled the silky blue of the sky above us in those hours, nor did the sobering thought cross my mind that I had never before known the frail girl now laughing even more heartily and happily than the rest of us as anything but a desperate, disturbed invalid. And was the old gentleman patting and examining the horses with a veterinary surgeon’s expertise, joking with the grooms and handing them tips, really the same man who, a couple of days ago, had been lying in wait for me by night like a sleepwalker, weighed down by a burden of crazed fear? Indeed, I hardly even knew myself, so light and easy did my limbs feel, as if all my joints had been oiled. After our picnic Edith was taken to the stud manager’s wife’s room to rest for a little while, and meanwhile I tried out a couple of the horses, racing across the paddocks with the grooms. I felt a hitherto unknown sense of freedom in letting the reins drop and giving the horses their heads. How good it would be to stay here, subject to no one, free as air in these open fields! My heart was a little heavy when, after galloping
some way, I heard the call of the hunting horn in the distance, telling us it was time to set out for home.

To give us a change of scene, the experienced coachman Jonak had chosen a different route back. Another reason was probably that it led for some way through the cool shade of a little wood. And just as everything was turning out well on this successful day, a last surprise, and the best of all, awaited us—as we drove into a hamlet of about twenty cottages, the only road in this remote place proved to be barred by a dozen empty farm carts. Curiously enough, there seemed to be no one at all around to move them away so that our wide and heavy coach could pass; it was as if the ground had opened and swallowed up all the villagers. However, the reason for their unusual absence on a Sunday was soon explained when Jonak, handling his long whip with practised ease, cracked the lash in the air with a report very much like a pistol shot, for a few alarmed people came running. Any misunderstanding was soon happily cleared up—it turned out that the son of the richest farmer in the neighbourhood was getting married today to a poor relation of his, a girl from another hamlet, and the bridegroom’s father, a rather stout man, red in the face in his wish to be attentive, came running out to welcome us from a barn cleared for dancing at the end of the village street barred by all those empty carts. Perhaps he thought that the owner of the Kekesfalva estate, that man of the world, had ordered up his coach and four on purpose to honour him and his son by coming to the wedding, or perhaps his vanity just led him to exploit the fact that we were driving by to enhance his reputation among the other villagers. At any rate, bowing low, he invited Herr von Kekesfalva and his guests to be kind enough to drink a glass of his own home-made Hungarian wine to the young
couple’s health, while the street was cleared for us. For our part, we were in much too good a mood to refuse this well-meant invitation. So Edith was carefully lifted out of the coach and we went in procession, as if celebrating a Roman triumph, down a broad path lined by the respectful villagers, whispering and marvelling, and so into the rustic dance hall.

The dance hall did indeed prove on closer inspection to be a barn cleared for the purpose, and a dais of loose planks standing on empty beer barrels had been erected. Members of the family sat around the bridal couple, enthroned at a long table standing on a low platform and covered with a coarse white linen cloth, with bottles and dishes of food standing on it. The usual local notables, the priest and the village policeman, were there as well. On the dais opposite sat the musicians, Gypsies of romantic appearance with moustaches, playing two fiddles, a double bass and a cimbalom, and the guests thronged the stamped earth of the dancing floor, while the children, who couldn’t get into the crowded barn, watched cheerfully, some from the doorway, some perched on the rafters in the roof, dangling their legs.

Some of the less important family members were asked to move from the table of honour to make room for us, and amazement at the friendliness of their fine visitors was plain to see on the guests’ faces as we mingled easily with the
ordinary
country folk. The bridegroom’s father, swaying with his excitement, fetched a large jug of wine with his own hands, filled glasses, and raised his voice: “Herr von Kekesfalva’s very good health!” The enthusiastic echo of this cry rang out into the village street. Then he brought along his son and the son’s new wife, a shy girl with rather broad hips who made a touching picture in her colourful wedding dress, crowned
with a wreath of white myrtle. Flushed with excitement, she curtseyed clumsily to Kekesfalva and respectfully kissed Edith’s hand. Edith looked very much moved. The sight of a wedding usually affects young girls deeply because it makes them feel a mysterious solidarity with their own sex. Blushing, Edith drew the girl to her, embraced her, and as a sudden thought occurred to her she took a ring from her finger—a narrow, old-fashioned ring of no great value—and gave it to the bride, who was overwhelmed by this unexpected present. She glanced anxiously at her father-in-law, wondering if she ought to accept such a splendid gift, and as soon as he nodded proudly to her she burst into tears of happiness. A great wave of gratitude surged towards us as the simple folk, unused to any luxury, crowded up from all sides; it was clear from their glances that they would have liked to show us some special attention, but no one dared say a word to such distinguished gentlefolk. The old farmer’s wife, tears in her eyes, was stumbling as if tipsy from one guest to another, dazed by the honour shown to her son at his wedding, while the bridegroom, quite bewildered, looked in turn from his wife to us and down at his heavy,
well-polished
boots.

At this point Kekesfalva did the best thing possible by putting an end to what was becoming an embarrassing display of respect. He shook hands warmly with the bridegroom’s father, the young bridegroom himself, and some of the more notable guests, and asked them not to let us disturb their wonderful party. Let the young people go on dancing to their hearts’ content, he asked, nothing could give us greater pleasure than for them to continue enjoying themselves. At the same time he beckoned over the leader of the musical ensemble, who had been waiting in front of the dais with his fiddle tucked under his right arm,
frozen, as it were, while making a respectful bow, gave him a banknote and indicated that he should start playing again. It must have been a note of some high denomination, because the man straightened up as if he had received an electric shock, hurried back to his dais, looked at the other musicians, and next moment the four of them began playing as only Hungarian Gypsies can. The first notes on the cimbalom swept away any self-consciousness. Couples formed instantly, the dancing went on apace, wilder and more exuberant than before—
unconsciously
, all the young men and girls felt they wanted to show us how real Hungarians can dance. All at once the dance hall, respectfully silent a moment ago, was transformed into a heated whirlpool of swaying, leaping, stamping bodies, the glasses on the table clinked at every new bar of music, and the enthusiastic young people danced their hearts out.

Edith looked at the dancing, her eyes very bright. Suddenly I felt her hand on my arm. “You must dance too,” she told me. Fortunately the bride hadn’t yet been drawn back into the swirling crowd, but was still staring, dazed, at the ring on her finger. When I bowed to her she blushed at first at this great, almost excessive honour, but was willing to let me lead her into the dance. Our example encouraged the bridegroom. Prompted by a nudge from his father, he asked Ilona to dance, and now the player of the cimbalom was hammering away on his instrument like a man possessed, while the leader of the ensemble, daemonic with his black moustache, played his fiddle with brio. I doubt whether such bacchanalian dancing was ever seen in the hamlet, before or since, as on that wedding day.

But the cornucopia of surprises wasn’t empty yet. Attracted to us by the handsome present of that ring to the bride, one of those old Gypsy women who are sure to be found at such
festivities made her way up to the table and offered, volubly, to read Edith’s palm for her. Edith was clearly in some difficulty. On the one hand she was genuinely curious, on the other she was ashamed to give way to such mumbo-jumbo in front of so many spectators. I quickly intervened, gently persuading Herr von Kekesfalva and the rest of our party to move away from the table raised on its platform so that no one could overhear the woman’s mysterious prophecies, and anyone interested had no option but to watch from a distance, smiling, as the old Gypsy knelt down, with much incomprehensible muttering, took Edith’s hand and studied it. Everyone in Hungary knows the old trick practised by such women, who give their customers only good tidings so as to profit by the news. But to my surprise Edith seemed strangely agitated by everything the bent old woman said in her hoarse, rapid whisper; I saw her nostrils begin to quiver in the way that always indicated strong emotion in her. Bending lower and lower, she listened, sometimes glancing around to see whether anyone could overhear. Then she beckoned her father over, whispered something to him in imperious tones, and he, as usual doing what she wanted, put his hand into his breast pocket and brought out several banknotes, which he gave to the old woman. The sum must have been enormous by the standards of this village, for the greedy old woman fell on her knees, kissed the hem of Edith’s skirt, and stroked her lame feet faster and faster, murmuring strange invocations. Then she suddenly jumped up as if afraid that someone might take all that money away from her.

“Let’s leave now,” I quickly whispered to Herr von Kekesfalva, noticing how pale Edith had turned. I found Pista, and he and Ilona half-led, half-supported the girl, who was swaying on her crutches, to the coach. At once the music faltered; none of
these good people could let us go without waving and calling goodbye. The musicians came up to the coach and played a final flourish, the whole village shouted and cheered, and old Jonak had some trouble in controlling his horses, which were not used to such a loud noise.