‘Of course,’ I said involuntarily. It was the first word I had addressed to him. It all seemed to me so obvious and plain.
But the old man did not stir. He sat there rigid, gazing into space with unseeing eyes. I felt that he had not understood a word of what Condor had been saying, for the simple reason that he did not want to understand it: because his whole attention, all his fears, were concentrated on the question: will she ever be cured? Soon? When?
‘But ... but ... what treatment?’ — he always stammered and stuttered when he became agitated — ‘What new treatment? You said something about some kind of new treatment ... What new treatment are you thinking of trying?’ (I noticed at once how he leaped on the word ‘new’, as though therein lay a spark of hope.)
‘Leave that to me, my dear friend. Let me decide what I shall try and when I shall try it. Just don’t press me, don’t keep expecting me to work miracles. Your “case”, as we doctors so disagreeably put it, is, and will continue to be, my major concern. We shall come through all right.’
The old man gazed at him in troubled silence. I could see that it was only with difficulty that he refrained from putting one more of his futile and persistent questions. Condor must also have been affected by the strained silence, for he suddenly rose.
‘Well, I think that’s all for today. I have given you my impressions, anything more would be sheer mumbo-jumbo and quackery. Even if Edith should actually get somewhat more irritable in the next few days, don’t be alarmed. I shall soon put my finger on what is wrong. There’s only one thing for you to do, and that’s to try not to hover round the invalid looking so worried and anxious. And then one more thing: you must take great care of your own nerves. You’re looking rather washed out, and I’m afraid that all this worrying and fussing is only sapping your own strength more than is fair to your daughter. The best thing you can do is to start by going to bed early tonight and taking a few Valerian drops before going to sleep, so that you will wake up fresh tomorrow. That’s all. That brings my visit to an end for today. I’ll just finish this cigar, then I’ll be off.’
‘You’re really ... really going already?’
Dr Condor was firm. ‘Yes, my dear friend. That’s enough for today. I still have another, somewhat jaded, patient to attend to this evening, and I’ve prescribed a long walk for him. Just take a look at me. I’ve been on the go without a break since half-past seven this morning. I spent the whole morning in hospital — we had a strange case there ... but don’t let’s talk of it ... After that I had the train-journey, then I’ve been here the whole afternoon, and we doctors of all people need to get some fresh air in our lungs every now and again so as to keep our heads clear. So please don’t send for your car today, I’d rather stretch my legs. There’s a glorious full moon. Of course I don’t want to take this young man away with me. If, despite your doctor’s orders, you mean to stay up, I expect he’ll keep you company for a while longer.’
Immediately, however, I remembered my mission. No, I declared eagerly, I had to be on duty particularly early next morning, and I ought in any case to have left long since.
‘Well then, if you’ve no objection, we can walk along together.’
And now Kekesfalva’s ashen-grey eyes lit up for the first time. He too had remembered.
‘And I think I’ll go straight to bed,’ he said in a tone of unexpected submissiveness, stealing a look at me behind Condor’s back. The reminder was unnecessary, for I could feel my pulses beating against my cuffs. I knew that the time had come for me to fulfil my promise.
No sooner had Condor and I stepped outside the front door than we involuntarily came to a halt at the top of the flight of steps leading to the garden, for it was an astonishing prospect that met our gaze. While we had been indoors, we had been too preoccupied to think of looking out of the window; and now the complete transformation that had come over the scene took our breath away. An enormous full moon, a smoothly polished silver disc, hung motionless in the starry heavens, and whilst the air, warmed by the heat of a sunny summer’s day, blew sultry upon our faces, a magic winter seemed, thanks to the dazzling radiance of the light, to have suddenly descended upon the world. The gravel gleamed like freshly fallen snow between the double row of trees which, with their dark shadows, flanked the path; gleaming now like glass in the light, now like mahogany in the darkness, they stood there in ghostly rigidity. Never can I remember having felt the moonlight to be so eerie as here in the utter stillness and immobility of this garden drowned in a flood of icy brilliance. So deceptive was the spell of this seemingly wintry light, that instinctively we trod warily on the shimmering flight of steps, as though we were walking on slippery glass. As we made our way along the snowy gravel path, we were suddenly no longer two but four, for ahead of us walked, clearly outlined in the crystal-clear moonlight, our shadows. I found my gaze resting on the two persistent dark companions who, like moving silhouettes, traced out before us our every movement, and it afforded me some satisfaction — one’s feelings are sometimes curiously childish — to see that my shadow was longer, slimmer, I might almost say ‘better’, than the plumpish, squat shadow of my companion. I felt my self-assurance somewhat reinforced by this evidence of my superiority. I know that it takes a good deal of courage to admit such naïveté to oneself. For one’s emotional state is always determined by the most odd and accidental things, and it is precisely the most superficial factors that often fortify or diminish our courage.
We reached the gate without exchanging a single word. In order to close it, we were obliged to look back. The front of the house, a single block of glittering ice, shone as though painted with bluish phosphorus, and this gleaming façade was so dazzling that it was impossible to tell which of the windows was lit from within and which from without, so brilliant was the light shed upon it by the exuberant moon. Not until the gate banged to was the silence broken; and as though encouraged by this earthly sound in the midst of the spectral silence, Condor turned to me with an ease of manner which I had not hoped for.
‘Poor Kekesfalva!’ he said. ‘I keep on reproaching myself for having perhaps been too brusque with him. I know, of course, that he would have liked to keep me hours longer and to ask me a hundred and one questions, or rather the same questions a hundred times over. But I just couldn’t stand any more. It’s been an awful day — patient after patient from morning till night, and moreover cases in which one makes no headway.’
By this time we had turned into the avenue, the trees of which with their shadowy network of foliage were massed together to screen the moon’s rays. All the more glaringly did the icy-white gravel shine out in the middle of the roadway, and we both walked along this bright channel of light. I did not feel that a reply on my part was called for, but Condor seemed quite oblivious of my presence.
‘And then there are days, you know, on which I just can’t stand his insistence. The difficult thing, you know, in our profession, is not the patients; in the end one learns how to manage them, one develops a certain technique. And after all, if patients grumble and plague us with their questions, that’s simply a part of their condition, just as much as a temperature or a headache. We count in advance on their being impatient, we take it as a matter of course, we’re prepared for it, and we have certain soothing phrases and white lies ready to hand, just as we have sleeping draughts and analgesics. But the people who make life so unendurable for us are the relatives, the friends who, so to speak, interpose themselves between doctor and patient and are always clamouring to know the “truth”. They all behave as though their patient were the only person on earth who was ill and as though one ought to give all one’s attention to him, to him alone. I don’t really take Kekesfalva’s questioning amiss, but, you know, when that sort of thing becomes chronic, one’s patience sometimes gives out. Ten times over I’ve told him I have a serious case just now in town, and that it is a matter of life and death. And although he knows that, he telephones day after day and pesters and pes
ters me, and tries to wring some hope from me at all costs. And all the time I know as his doctor how bad it is for him to get worked up like this. I’m far more worried than he suspects, far more. A good thing he doesn’t know how bad matters are!’
I was dismayed. Matters were bad, then? Condor had quite frankly and spontaneously given me the information I was expected to worm out of him. Profoundly disturbed, I pressed him further:
‘Forgive me, Herr Doktor, but you’ll understand how upsetting this is for me ... I had no idea Edith was in such a bad way.’
‘Edith?’ Condor turned to me in utter astonishment. He seemed for the first time to realize that he had been talking to someone else. ‘What d’you mean? Edith? I haven’t said a word about Edith ... You’ve completely misunderstood me. No, no, Edith’s condition is really quite stationary — unfortunately, still stationary. It’s Kekesfalva I’m worried about, more and more worried every day. Hasn’t it struck you how much he’s changed in the last few months? How ill he looks, how he’s deteriorating from week to week?’
‘I really can’t judge that. It’s only during the last few weeks that I’ve had the honour of knowing Herr von Kekesfalva and ...’
‘Ah — quite so. Forgive me ... in that case you can’t have noticed ... But I, who’ve known him for years, was really alarmed today when I happened to glance at his hands. Hasn’t it struck you how transparent and bony they are? When one has frequently seen the hands of dead people, you know, that sort of bluish colour on a living hand always dismays one. And then too — I don’t much like those bursts of sentimentality; the slightest emotion brings the tears to his eyes, the colour leaves his cheeks the moment he begins to worry. It is precisely on men like Kekesfalva, who have in the past been so energetic and ruthless, that giving way to their feelings has such a grave effect. Unfortunately it’s not a good sign when hard men suddenly go soft — yes, I don’t even like to see them grow kind-hearted all of a sudden. Of course, I’ve been meaning for a long time to give him a thorough examination, only I can’t really trust myself to get down to it. For, good God, if one were ever to put the idea into his head that he himself were ill, and the idea, into the bargain, that he might die and leave his child behind a cripple — why, it simply won’t bear thinking of! He’s undermining his own health in any case with this eternal brooding, this frantic impatience ... Really, Herr Leutnant, you misunderstood me — it’s not Edith, but he who is my chief concern ... I’m afraid the old man’s not long for this world.’
I was appalled. I’d never dreamed of such a thing. I was twenty-five years old at the time and I had never yet seen anyone near to me die. So I could not at first grasp the idea that someone with whom I had just been dining, talking, drinking, might the very next morning be lying stiff and stark in his winding-sheet. I realized, too, from a sudden slight stab at the heart, that I had come to be really fond of the old man. In my agitation and embarrassment I tried to make some sort of rejoinder.
‘How ghastly!’ I said, quite distractedly. ‘Absolutely ghastly! Such a distinguished, such a generous, such a kind-hearted man too — the first real nobleman, the first genuine aristocrat I’ve ever met.’
And now a surprising thing happened. Condor came to such an abrupt halt that I, too, involuntarily pulled up short. He looked at me fixedly, his glasses flashing as he veered round sharply. He took several deep breaths before asking me in tones of utter amazement:
‘A nobleman? ... An aristocrat? ... Kekesfalva? Forgive me, Herr Leutnant ... but do you really mean that seriously ... what you said about his being a real Hungarian nobleman?’
I didn’t quite understand his question, but I had a feeling I had said something foolish. So I replied in an embarrassed tone:
‘I can only judge from my own personal experience, and to me Herr von Kekesfalva has at all times shown himself to be most well-bred and gracious ... we’ve always heard Hungarian landowners referred to in the regiment as particularly overbearing ... But ... I ... I never met a more gracious person ... I ... I ...’
I lapsed into silence because I felt that Condor was still peering closely at me. His round face gleamed in the moonlight, the pince-nez, behind which I could only indistinctly see his eyes, looked twice their size; and this gave me an uncomfortable feeling of being a struggling insect under a very powerful microscope. Standing there facing each other in the middle of the road we would have presented a curious picture to any passer-by. Then, lowering his head, Condor strode on and murmured as if to himself:
‘You really are ... an odd fellow, if you’ll forgive my saying so — I don’t mean it in a bad sense. But it’s very odd, you know, you must yourself admit, very odd ... You’ve been coming to the house now, so I hear, for some weeks. And what’s more, you live in a small town, a little hen-coop of a place, where there’s a terrific amount of cackling into the bargain — and you take Kekesfalva for an aristocrat! Do you mean to say you have never, amongst your fellow-officers, heard certain ... well, I won’t say, derogatory — but let’s say remarks to the effect that the less said about his nobility the better? Surely someone has passed that on to you?’
‘No,’ I said vehemently, realizing that I was beginning to get angry (it’s not pleasant to be labelled as ‘curious’ and ‘odd’). ‘I’m sorry — nothing has ever been passed on to me. I have never discussed Herr von Kekesfalva with any of my friends.’
‘Odd!’ murmured Condor. ‘Odd! I always thought he was exaggerating when describing you. And I may as well tell you frankly — it’s obviously my day for making false diagnoses — I was a little suspicious of his enthusiasm ... I couldn’t really believe that you only went to the house because of that first little mishap, and then went again and again simply out of sympathy, out of friendliness. You’ve no idea how the old man is exploited, and I had made up my mind (why shouldn’t I tell you?) to find out what it actually is that takes you to the house. I thought to myself, either he’s a — how shall I put it politely? — a designing young fellow, who is trying to feather his nest, or, if he does go there in good faith, he must be very young emotionally, for it is only on the young that the tragic and dangerous exerts so curious an attraction. Incidentally, the instinct of really young people in that respect is nearly always right, and you were absolutely on the right track ... Kekesfalva is really quite an exceptional person. I know perfectly well all the things that can be said against him, and it seemed to me, if you’ll forgive my saying so, somewhat funny your referring to him as a nobleman. But, if you will believe someone who knows him better than anyone else here, there’s no need for you to feel ashamed of having shown him and that poor child so much friendliness. You needn’t let whatever anyone says bother you; it really doesn’t apply to the touching, pathetic, moving person that Kekesfalva is today.’
Condor had been striding along without looking at me as he said all this. It was only after some time that he once more slackened his pace. I felt that he was reflecting, and did not like to disturb him. We walked along side by side for another four or five minutes in complete silence. A carriage came towards us; we had to step aside, and the clod of a driver stared curiously at the strange couple, the lieutenant and the little, plump, bespectacled gentleman, who were silently walking along the high-road together so late at night. We let the carriage pass; and then Condor suddenly turned to me.
‘Listen, Herr Leutnant! Things half done and hints half given are always bad; all the evil in the world comes from half-measures. Perhaps I’ve let slip too much already, and I should not, in any case, like you to be shaken in your generous outlook. On the other hand, I’ve aroused your curiosity too much for you not to make inquiries of other people, and I am, unfortunately, bound to fear that the information you get will not be very favourable. And then, too, it’s an impossible situation for anyone to go on visiting a house without knowing who the people are — probably you wouldn’t feel any too easy about going there again now that I’ve inadvertently gone and upset you. If it would really interes
t you, therefore, to learn more about our friend, I’m at your disposal.’
‘Why, of course it would.’
Condor took out his watch. ‘A quarter to eleven. We still have two full hours. My train doesn’t go until one-twenty. But I hardly think the road is the place to talk of such matters. Perhaps you know of some quiet corner where we can speak freely?’
I reflected. ‘The best place of all would be the Tiroler Weinstube in the Erzherzog Friedrichstrasse. It has little alcoves where one is left undisturbed.’
‘Splendid! The very place for us,’ he answered, and once more quickened his pace.
Without another word we continued on our way down the high-road. Soon the first houses of the town could be seen lined up on each side of us in the bright moonlight, and, as luck would have it, we did not meet any of my friends in the now deserted streets. I do not know why, but I should have found it disagreeable to be cross-questioned the next day about my companion. Ever since I had been caught up in this strange entanglement I had anxiously concealed every thread that might indicate the way into the labyrinth which, I felt, was drawing me down into ever fresh and more mysterious depths.
The Tiroler Weinstube was a cosy little place, with just a suggestion of ill-repute. Situated in a little out-of-the-way, winding, ancient alley-way, it was the bar of a third-class hotel which was in particular favour with us officers because of the porter’s accommodating habit of deliberately forgetting to trouble guests who required a double room — even in the middle of the day — with all the formalities of registration. A further guarantee that a veil of discretion would be drawn over one’s hours, long or short, of amorous dalliance was provided by the thoughtful arrangement whereby one had no need, in order to reach one’s trysting-place above, to use the conspicuous main entrance (a small town has a thousand eyes), but could, without embarrassment, approach the stairs directly from the bar and thus make one’s way unobtrusively to one’s discreet goal. The full-bodied Terlaner and Muscatel wines, however, which were served in the bar of this dubious little place were beyond reproach, and every evening the townsfolk would sit happily together at the solid bare wooden tables and, over a few glasses of wine, discuss, with greater or less vehemence, the usual affairs of the town or of the world. All round this rectangular, somewhat tawdry room, the unchallenged domain of the worthy drinkers whose only business here was their wine and dull-witted conviviality, was built in, a step higher, a gallery of so-called ‘boxes’, separated from each other by fairly thick, sound-proof partitions, and quite superfluously decorated with poker-work designs and homely drinking mottoes. Heavy curtains shut off these alcoves so completely from the rest of the room that they might almost have been called chambres séparées, and, indeed, to a certain extent, too, they served as such. Whenever the officers of the garrison wished to amuse themselves with a few girls from Vienna without being seen, they would reserve one of these ‘boxes’, and our Colonel, usually a stern disciplinarian, had even expressly approved this wise procedure, whereby civilians were prevented from seeing too much of the carousing of his young officers. The supreme law of the establishment, moreover, was discretion; on the express orders of the proprietor, a certain Herr Ferleitner, the waitresses, who were dressed in Tyrolese costume, were strictly forbidden ever to raise the sacred curtains without clearing their throats noisily beforehand, or in any other way to disturb the gentlemen of the regiment unless expressly summoned by a ring of the bell. Thus both the dignity and the frivolities of the army were most admirably guarded.