Beware of Pity (5 page)

But strange to say, the closer I come to the little castle, when the white wall around it with the ornamental iron gate are in sight, the more my courage fails me. Just as when you are approaching the dentist’s door you look for an excuse to turn back before ringing the bell, I now want to make my escape quickly. Did it really have to be today? Shouldn’t I consider that Fräulein von Kekesfalva’s letter had settled the whole embarrassing business for good? I instinctively slow down; there is still time for me to turn back. Making a detour is always a welcome notion when you shrink from arriving at your destination, so I leave the avenue and turn off into meadows, crossing the little stream on a rickety plank bridge. First I will make a circuit of the villa outside its wall.

The house behind the high stone wall proves to be an extensive, single-storey late baroque building, painted Schönbrunn yellow in the old Austrian style, with green shutters at the windows. Separated from it by a yard, a few smaller buildings stand close together, obviously to accommodate the servants, the estate’s management staff and the stables. They extend a little way into the large park, of which I saw nothing on that first visit by night. Only now do I notice, looking through the oval bull’s-eye openings in the mighty wall, that the Kekesfalva house is not a modern villa, as the furnishing of the interior made me think at first, but a country house, a traditional gentleman’s residence, the kind of place I had seen now and then in Bohemia when I was riding past on manoeuvres. The most striking feature is its remarkable rectangular tower, slightly reminiscent in shape of an Italian campanile, rising as if it did not really belong here, perhaps all that remains of an old castle that may have stood here long ago. Now, in retrospect, I do remember seeing this strange watchtower quite often from the parade ground, although in the belief that it was the tower of some village church. Only now do I notice that it does not have the usual ornamental little topknot of churches in these parts, and the curious rectangle has a flat roof that may be used as a sun terrace or perhaps an observatory. However, the more aware I become of the old feudal nature of this landed estate, passed on from father to son, the less easy in my mind I feel. To think that I had to make such an unfortunate first appearance here of all places, where they must set great store by etiquette!

But finally, after concluding my circuit of the house and finding myself approaching the wrought iron gate again from the other side, I pull myself together. I walk up the gravel path between trees pruned to stand ramrod straight, lift the heavy,
chased bronze knocker that, in the old way, serves instead of a doorbell here, and bring it down. At once the manservant
appears
—strange to say, he does not even seem surprised by my unannounced visit. Without asking questions, or taking the visiting card I have ready to offer him, he asks me, with a civil bow, to wait in the salon; the ladies, he says, are still in their boudoir but will be with me directly, so it seems there is no doubt that they will receive me. He leads me on like an expected visitor, and feeling uncomfortable again I recognise the salon wallpapered in red where couples danced, and a bitter taste in my throat reminds me that the boudoir with the fateful corner must be next door.

At first, however, cream-coloured double doors delicately adorned with gilt decoration hide the view of the scene of my folly, which is still clearly present to me, but after a few minutes I hear chairs being moved behind that door, whispering voices, some kind of restrained coming and going that indicates the presence of several people. I try to employ the wait in studying the salon: opulent Louis XVI furniture, old tapestries to right and left, and between the glass doors leading straight out into the garden old pictures of the Canal Grande and the Piazza San Marco. Even though I knew little of such things, they look to me valuable. To be sure, I can distinguish nothing of these artistic treasures very clearly, for I am listening intently at the same time to the noises in the room next door. There is a quiet clink of plates in there, a door creaks, now I also think I hear the irregular, dry tapping of crutches on the floor.

At last a still-invisible hand pushes the two halves of the double door apart from the inside. Ilona comes towards me. “How nice of you to come, Lieutenant Hofmiller.” And she is already leading me into the room I know only too well. The lame girl is sitting in the same corner of the boudoir, on the same chaise longue
behind the same malachite-green table (why are they staging a scene that was so painfully embarrassing for me again?), with a full, heavy white fur rug draped over her lap—obviously I am not to be reminded of “that occasion”. With a friendly manner no doubt rehearsed in advance, Edith greets me with a smile from her invalid’s position in the corner. But this first meeting is still an alarming encounter, and from her self-conscious way of offering me her hand across the table, clearly with a little effort, I realise at once that she thinks so too. Neither of us succeeds in bringing out the first words to draw us together.

Fortunately Ilona casts another question into the difficult silence. “What can we offer you, Lieutenant Hofmiller, tea or coffee?”

“Oh, just as you like,” I reply.

“No, no—whatever
you
would rather have, Lieutenant Hofmiller! Please don’t stand on ceremony, it makes no difference to us.”

“Well, coffee then, if I may,” I decide, glad to hear that my voice is reasonably steady.

Clever work on the part of the dark-haired girl to bridge the first tense moments with such a down-to-earth question. But how inconsiderate of her to leave the room next moment to go and give the servant her orders! It means that I am left alone with my victim, which is awkward. Now would be the time to say a few words, to make some kind of conversation, any kind. But I feel as if I have something stuck in my throat, and my eyes must betray my embarrassment, because I dare not look towards the sofa in case she thinks I am staring at the fur covering her paralysed legs. Luckily she proves calmer and more composed than I am, and begins talking with a certain nervous vivacity that I now notice in her for the first time.

“Oh, do sit down, Lieutenant Hofmiller! Move that armchair up. And why not take off your sword—we’re at peace, aren’t we?—and put it down there on the table, or on the windowsill, wherever you like.”

I move an armchair over, rather formally. I still can’t meet her eyes without awkwardness. But she energetically helps the conversation to get going.

“And I must thank you again for the lovely flowers … they are really wonderful. Just see how beautiful they look in that vase. And then … then … I must also apologise for my stupid loss of self-control. I behaved so badly … I couldn’t sleep all night, I was so ashamed of myself. You meant it so kindly … and how could you have any idea? What’s more”—and here she suddenly utters an abrupt, nervous laugh—“what’s more, you guessed my most private thoughts … I was sitting, on purpose, where I couldn’t see the guests dancing, and just as you came up to me I had been wishing so much that I could join in … I adore dancing. I can watch others dancing for hours—watch so closely that I can sense every movement far within me—really, every movement. And then it’s not someone else dancing, I’m dancing myself, turning and bending, yielding, letting myself be carried away, swaying to the rhythm of the dance. Perhaps you can’t even guess how foolish I can be. But I did dance well as a child, I loved dancing—and now, whenever I dream, it’s dancing I dream of. Silly as it sounds, I dance in my dreams, and perhaps it’s a good thing for Papa that … that
this
happened to me, or I would have run away from home to be a dancer. I’m passionate about dance, I think it must be wonderful to use your body, your movements, your whole self to fascinate hundreds and hundreds of people every evening, seizing their imagination, uplifting them … and by the way, to show you how stupid
I am, I collect pictures of the great ballerinas. I have them all: Saharet, Pavlova, Karsavina. I have photographs of them posing in all their roles. Wait, I’ll show you … over there, they’re in that box over by the hearth—that Chinese lacquered box.” Her voice was suddenly sharp with impatience. “No, no, no, there on the left beside the books … oh, how clumsy you are! Yes, that’s it.” I had finally found the box and was bringing it over to her. “Look, that one, the one on top, it’s my favourite picture, Pavlova as the dying swan … oh, if I could only travel and go to see her perform. I think it would be the happiest day of my life.”

The door behind us through which Ilona disappeared begins to move slightly on its hinges. Hastily, as if caught in a guilty act, Edith snaps the box shut with a sharp, dry sound. When she tells me, “Not a word to the others about what I’ve been saying!” it sounds like an order.

It is the white-haired manservant with the neatly trimmed side whiskers, reminiscent of Emperor Franz Josef’s, who carefully opens the door. Behind him comes Ilona, pushing in a lavishly laden tea trolley on rubber wheels. She pours tea and coffee, sits down with us, and I immediately feel safer. The enormous angora cat who has slipped soundlessly into the room with the tea trolley, and begins rubbing around my legs with friendly familiarity, provides a welcome subject for comment. I admire the cat, an exchange of questions and answers begins—how long have I been here, how do I like the garrison, do I know Lieutenant So-and-So, do I often go to Vienna? Soon we have fallen easily into light conversation. After a while I even venture to cast a few sidelong glances at the two girls, so very different from each other. Ilona is already a grown woman, sensuously warm, full-breasted, opulent, healthy; beside her Edith, half
child and half young girl, maybe seventeen years old, maybe eighteen, seems somehow immature. A strange contrast—a man would want to dance with Ilona and kiss her, but to spoil Edith as an invalid, caress her with care, protect and above all soothe her, for she seems very restless. Her face is never for a moment still; now she looks right, now left, sometimes her attitude is tense, then she leans back again exhausted, and she speaks as nervously as she moves, always disjointedly, always staccato, never stopping to pause. Perhaps, I think, this restlessness and lack of self-control is a way of compensating for the forced immobility of her legs, or perhaps a constant slight fever speeds up her gestures and her speech. But I do not have much time to observe her, for she is good at drawing attention to herself with her rapid questions and the light volatility of her remarks. To my surprise, I become involved in a stimulating and interesting conversation.

It lasts for an hour, perhaps as long as an hour and a half. Then the shadow of a figure coming from the salon suddenly falls on me. Someone is approaching cautiously, as if afraid of disturbing us. It is Kekesfalva.

“No, no, don’t get up,” he says, pressing me back into my chair as I am about to rise respectfully to my feet, and then he leans down to his child and drops a quick kiss on her forehead. Once again he is wearing his black coat with its white braid trimming and an old-fashioned cravat; indeed, I never saw him wearing anything else. He looks like a doctor, his eyes discreetly watching behind gold-rimmed glasses. And like a doctor at a patient’s sickbed, he sits down cautiously beside the lame girl. Curiously enough, as soon as he comes into the room it seems more melancholy. The anxious way he sometimes looks sidelong at his child, affectionately scrutinising
her, inhibits our earlier easy discussion, casting a shadow over it. Kekesfalva himself soon senses our self-consciousness, and tries to broach a new subject of conversation. He asks about the regiment, the Captain, enquires after the former colonel, who is now a divisional commander in the War Ministry. He seems to have been surprisingly well informed about our affairs for years, and I don’t know why, but I feel that there is a certain purpose behind the way he lays special emphasis on his close acquaintance with every high-ranking officer in the regiment.

Ten more minutes, I am thinking, then I can unobtrusively take my leave, when there is another quiet knock at the door. The manservant comes in, as quietly as if he were barefoot, and whispers something in Edith’s ear. She flares up angrily.

“Tell him to wait. Or no, tell him to leave me in peace today. I want him to go away, I don’t need him.”

Her vigorous protests embarrass us all, and I stand up with a painful sense of having outstayed my welcome. But she snaps at me as angrily as at the servant.

“No, don’t go away! This really doesn’t matter.”

There is a touch of incivility in her imperious tone, and her father seems to be aware of the awkwardness, for he reproves her—“Now now, Edith …”—with a helpless expression of distress on his face.

At this she herself realises, perhaps because of his dismay, perhaps because I am standing there so uneasily, that she has lost her temper, for she suddenly turns to me.

“Forgive me. Josef really could have waited instead of bursting in like that. It’s just that my daily tormentor is here, the masseur who does stretching exercises with me. Sheer nonsense, one, two, one, two, up, down, down, up. It’s supposed to make me
better some day—our good doctor’s latest idea, and a totally unnecessary nuisance. Pointless, like everything else.”

She looks challengingly at her father, as if blaming him. The old man, embarrassed (he is ashamed of her in front of me), leans over to her.

“But child … do you really think that Dr Condor? …”

However, he stops, because the corners of her mouth have begun to twitch, and her delicate nostrils are quivering. Her lips had looked just the same at our fateful first encounter, and I fear another outburst. However, she suddenly blushes and murmurs with more docility, “It’s all right, there’s no point in it, but I’ll go. Forgive me, Lieutenant Hofmiller. I hope you will come to see us again soon.”

I bow, and am about to take my leave, but she has already had second thoughts.

“Or no, do stay and keep Papa company while I go off, quick march!” She snaps those last two words in sharp, staccato tones, like a threat. Then she picks up the little bronze bell standing on the table and rings it—only later do I notice similar bells all over the house, placed on tables within easy reach for her, so that she can always summon someone without having to wait. The bell rings, shrill and sharp. The manservant, who has discreetly made himself scarce during her outburst, reappears at once.