by Antal Szerb
“No, I haven’t.”
“Same with me. And were your belongings searched while we were at dinner?”
“Well … the cartridges have been removed from my revolver.”
“Hm. The thought occurs to me … Doctor, would you just check that the parcel we put in your suitcase is still there?”
Though the idea that anything might have been taken out of my luggage seemed improbable, I stepped out of bed, opened my second suitcase—the one I hadn’t yet unpacked—and searched through it, again and again. There was no trace of the parcel.
“Interesting,” Maloney observed. “There are either thieves, or ghosts, walking this house. What do you make of it all?”
But I didn’t see the matter as quite so simple. Had there been thieves on the prowl they would have taken my money, or my cigarette case at the very least, not my revolver cartridges and Maloney’s mysterious little parcel. Once again, my suspicion of the man was strongly aroused.
“Tell me, Maloney—if you don’t mind my asking—what exactly was in that parcel?”
He gave me a searching look.
“So you opened it?”
“Are you mad? Are you suggesting that I am responsible for the loss of your package? Tell me right now: what was in it?”
“Just various rock-climbing things: they wouldn’t mean anything to you. The powder you saw was a kind of resin. To rub on the rope before I use it.”
The next instant he dashed to the door, pressed his ear against it and listened. Now I too could hear footsteps approaching. He stepped back into the middle of the room and, without any introduction, burst out into “Happy days are here again”, beating time with a paper knife on a glass. He made a terrific noise. The footsteps faded into the distance.
“Sorry about that,” he remarked. “I suddenly feel more cheerful. Life is great. This house is almost as good as the jungle. I remember when I was in Labuan, enjoying a quiet game of poker with the major, and this native policeman burst in to say that a band of orang-utans were approaching and had already sacked three houses. Orang-utans can be very nasty when they gang up in this way. There’s always a dominant female with them, and if she gets killed, the rest all run away. Fine, but how does a chap know which of those hairybacks is the old lady? I said to the major: ‘Just leave this to me. I know their little ways.’ I went out, and there they were, a pack of grinning apes … ”
But by then I wasn’t in the mood to wait for Maloney’s story to finish. I was quite convinced that his manic behaviour was deliberate, that there was some purpose concealed under this cloak of idiocy—as with the Brutus we read about at school.
It’s true I am prone to suspicion, but I was certain that he had begun singing when the footsteps approached in order to establish an alibi: to show that he was with me and not making any trouble, not getting into any mischief; he was just having a little singsong …
“Sorry,” I said. “Can we leave the dominant female for some other time? Would you kindly explain why you’re in climbing gear at this time of night? In the films, by the way, it’s what the hotel thieves wear … And in any case, you haven’t explained how you got to my room.”
“Oh, that’s simple. You know, as we arrived I noticed that there was a balcony up here on our floor, with carved figures taking the weight of the one above on their heads. I immediately felt I just had to climb up there. I’ve never done bearded stone statues before. And then I couldn’t get to sleep, I was so upset by the unfriendly reception we got from the Earl. Anyway, night climbing is my speciality. So I togged up and went out on to the balcony.”
“And climbed up?”
“No, that’s my point. I got out on the balcony, and found that the whole castle was surrounded.”
“What?”
“Oh yes. A horseman was standing at the gate, with a torch in his hand. He spotted me, and started shouting at me.”
“What was he saying?”
“I’ve no idea. He spoke some really strange local dialect. Actually, he only said one word, but I didn’t understand even that. But just that one word was pretty unpleasant. So I came back inside.”
“And then?”
“Then I tried to get back to my room, and met this thingy … this apparition … in the corridor. I started to get curious. I thought I’d come and ask you. You’re such a clever person, I was interested to see what you’d make of it all. So, what do you think?”
“What do I think? ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio Than are dreamed of in your philosophy’.”
“Why do you call me Horatio? Is that a compliment or an insult?”
“Whichever you choose. And now I must wish you a more peaceful good night.”
“Good night, Doctor. And don’t dream about strange figures in fancy dress.”
He left, and I went back to bed, absolutely exhausted. I felt like a shipwreck victim finally washed up on the obligatory desert island.
But I couldn’t sleep. Too tired even to think, I lay in a sort of comatose restlessness, if there is such a thing, for what seemed hours on end.
Something was happening. Something was definitely happening. The Parcae were spinning their threads. The fate of the House was alive and active in one of the rooms; a serious crisis in the history of the Pendragons was about to unfold.
And there stood—or rather lay—I, János Bátky from Budapest, with my endless premonitions and fears, helpless, not knowing a thing, confused and defenceless, at the very heart of the plot.
Suddenly I heard such an extraordinary noise I virtually flew out of bed and rushed to the window.
Maloney had not lied. Outside the window, with halberd and torch, a horseman in black galloped away into the darkness.
Next morning the sun shone so benignly on the fabled green lawn of the park that I thanked God once more that I was in Britain. The sun rarely shines in these islands, but when it does the effect is so wonderful it is as if it were smiling down on a new-created world.
I was still shaving when Osborne entered my room. After the dismal night I had passed his appearance was almost as refreshing as the sunshine itself. His whole being radiated that special quality of youth that is the greatest treasure of these islands, and unique to them. Surely nothing ill can dwell in a house where a young man like that can feel so contented.
“Hello, Doctor. I trust you had a good night. The saying is, whatever you dream about on your first night here will come true.”
“Well, as far as that’s concerned, I had a most interesting night. I’m not even sure what was dream and what was reality. I’m glad of the chance to speak to you about it in private. I tell you, some very strange things took place.”
“Strange things? We’ve had none of those here in two hundred years, unfortunately. I can’t speak for the time before that, especially when we were still up in Pendragon. Llanvygan is the most petty bourgeois place in the whole United Kingdom.”
“My notions of the petty bourgeois are somewhat different.”
“Well, you’d better tell me about your little adventures, then.”
“Where shall I start? First of all, didn’t you feel the Earl received us, how shall I say, rather coolly?”
“Oh no, not at all. In England, as you know, it’s a point of principle that a guest should be received with the least possible fuss, to make him feel at home. But perhaps my uncle did overdo it slightly.”
He was deep in thought.
“But you are right, up to a point,” he continued. “My uncle practically never invites anyone, and you must have made a great impression on him to be asked. Cynthia and I were delighted when he told us—we hoped he might be abandoning his habitual reclusiveness—and we were surprised that he wasn’t more pleased to see you.”
“Could you suggest a reason for it?”
“Of course. He is completely—as it used to be called—of a melancholic humour. At times he is immensely benign, the kindest man on earth. Then he draws back into his shell. T
here’ve been times when the three of us have been here and he hasn’t spoken to us once in six weeks, and he certainly wasn’t angry with us. He locks himself away in his rooms. We aren’t allowed in there. The whole of the second floor is his.”
“And what does he do up there, during those times?”
“I believe he works on his special animals. My uncle is a sort of amateur zoologist. But he never talks about it. He does sometimes go out for a stroll, but he never speaks to anyone; in fact I don’t think he even recognises people. And you’re not allowed to speak to him. On one occasion, you know, after the episode when he is said to have revived the Earl of Warwick, he chased a journalist up a tree because he asked for an interview. It seems yesterday was another of his bad days. But you mustn’t take it amiss. You must make yourself at home here, as much as you possibly can.”
“Thank you. But what would you say if a giant in fancy dress patrolled outside your bedroom door at night?”
Osborne roared with laughter.
“My dear man, you are far too sensitive. At night all Llanvygan servants are giants in fancy dress. An ancient ruling requires the Earl of Gwynedd to maintain thirty night-watchmen, complete with halberds, wherever he resides. Even their garments are prescribed. There’s nothing unusual in that. Britain is full of these old medieval statutes. Anyway, thirty men with halberds are a great deal more practical than the knights in armour Lord Whatsisname has to keep permanently at the ready. Or the trumpeter who has to play non-stop whenever the king hunts in the vicinity of some peer or other. Not to mention the fistful of snow one Scottish lord has to supply to the court every year. Does that reassure you?”
“Not completely. But while we’re on the subject, I’ll tell you what else has been going on.”
“What, more horrors? I begin to envy you, Doctor. You foreigners have all the luck. I’ve lived here for three years and not one table has danced the tango in my honour.”
“Please, you must take me seriously. The cartridges were removed from my revolver. A packet Maloney entrusted to me has vanished from my suitcase. At night, a horseman stands outside the house with a flaming torch. Is that what usually happens here?”
Osborne was again deep in thought, and did not reply until urged to do so. Then, very quietly and with a look of self-importance on his face, he said:
“Tell me, Doctor, do they teach Geography in Hungary?”
“Of course they do,” I answered, somewhat irritably. “And much more thoroughly than in England.”
“Then you should have learnt that all Welshmen are mad. In England, every primary schoolchild knows this. I have no idea what has got into my uncle, nor do I bother my head about it. One fool can’t fathom the thoughts of another. Possibly he doesn’t even know about these things. The butler is just as crazy; none of the staff is completely sane. A certain mild abnormality is required of anyone who crosses the threshold of Llanvygan. It’s the tradition. It’s why I felt free to invite Maloney.”
“And the Earl me. Thanks very much.”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t concern myself with these trifles. You can be sure that by tonight your cartridges will all be back in place. The butler probably made a bet with the cook. It’s happened before. But the horseman you must have dreamed. I would have known about him too, don’t you think?
“Please believe me,” he went on. “For the last two hundred years nothing remarkable has happened to anyone living here. At best, a few minor eccentricities, little incidents of no consequence, much to my regret.”
Slightly reassured, I went down to breakfast. I found Maloney already at the table. He made no comment on our nocturnal encounter.
Cynthia Pendragon, now dressed rather more casually, seemed to me altogether less formidable than she had the night before. This time I studied her rather more calmly. Even setting aside Pendragon, Llangyvan and several centuries of glorious English history, she was very attractive.
The loveliest of her features was her forehead. A high, clear brow dominated the face, lending it a certain piquancy. It was a broad, rational, honest face, with large blue eyes. The upper lip, with a touch of aristocratic grace, protruded slightly forward over the lower.
After the meal, Osborne and Maloney went off to play golf, and I prepared to head up to the library. The stony-faced butler, with his Franz Joseph whiskers, was already waiting for me.
To my great surprise Cynthia had not gone with the golfers, as I had expected in view of her background. Instead she fell in with me, announcing that she would show me round. I cannot say I was entirely delighted. The Mohammedans excluded women from Paradise, and I would exclude them from libraries, especially the pretty ones. Their mere presence obstructs my reading.
“Are you fond of books?” I asked, foolishly.
“Books are my hobby, indeed my obsession. And Welsh folklore. In fact, I’ve always wanted to be schoolteacher in a mountain village and spend my life doing ethnographical research. But my uncle thought it unsuitable. I mean the schoolteaching, not the research.”
This was not exactly the image I had formed of the Earl’s niece. Somehow I would have preferred her to have confessed to be unable to spell. But it seemed intelligence was yet another sobering Pendragon legacy.
We had reached the library.
It was an extremely long and narrow room, with countless books lining the walls, the majority in the uniform binding embossed with the Pendragon-Rosicrucian coat of arms.
I was filled with the tenderness I always feel—and which nothing can match—when I encounter so many books together. At moments like these I long to wallow, to bathe in them, to savour their wonderful, dusty, old-book odours, to inhale them through my very pores.
With genuine pride, Cynthia pointed me to the finest treasures of the library, the illuminated Welsh codices. She was proudest above all of those few written not in Latin but in the native language.
“You can see what a life’s work this could be for me,” she said, “to edit and publish these manuscripts—which exist nowhere else—with commentaries. It would be a major contribution to Welsh literature.”
“It certainly would. But can you imagine the work it would entail? It’s a job for elderly professors, not for young—and beautiful—patrician ladies.”
She blushed.
“You obviously take me for one of those English girls who answer ‘yes’ and ‘no’, and love dancing, and have winsome, empty smiles.”
“God forbid!” I said. “One has only to look at you to see how intelligent you are.”
But in truth, I lied. She was far too pretty for me to suppose any such thing. However, since it seemed her foible to be intelligent, I would have to woo her from that angle. For me, as it happened, this promised to be easier than if she had been interested only in sport.
Next she showed me the Persian codices, collected at the end of the last century by one of the Earls who had been in the tropics. I knew a little about them, having seen them at the great Persian Exhibition at Burlington House. There were some twenty of them and I stumbled from one ecstasy to the next. Little did I imagine what an active part they would play in my own personal history. In my excited bibliomania I forgot the first rule of English good manners, which strictly bars the didactic, and lectured my hostess on everything I knew about Persian books and illustrations—not that it was very much.
Cynthia listened with rapt attention. I don’t think she was actually much interested in all the technical details I chattered on about, but she seemed to enjoy the performance.
It probably wasn’t often that anyone talked to her about these profound, and rather dull, things, and she was immensely flattered.
Cynthia was a fairy on a magical island, and our friendship was progressing with the sort of speed you’d expect at a well-attended party, after champagne, and after midnight.
But what is champagne beside a really old tome? In one hand I held an original Caxton, in the other two Wynkyn de Wordes—not to mention the Continental
incunabula, and two Aldines enthroned on a separate shelf.
What a wonderful thing is a book! It simply sits there on the shelf, looking like nothing in any way special, and saying not a word. You open it, and you still know nothing about it, because incunabula have no title-pages. Then you glance at the back, at the colophon, and discover that you are holding a Caxton in your hands—an archduke, a Pope. Is there any human being who can carry self-effacement to that level of perfection?
I spent the morning familiarising myself with the more noteworthy volumes. Then the gong summoned us to lunch. In my overflowing happiness I sang Cynthia a Hungarian folksong about ripening ears of corn.
“You Continentals … you’re so … different,” she murmured dreamily.
“I’ve known English people who loved books.”
“That’s not what I mean. With you there’s still … passion.”
And she blushed scarlet.
Over lunch Maloney and Osborne talked golf, and we planned various excursions. The Earl did not appear.
We were sitting over our coffee and brandy when the local vicar, the Rev Dafyd Jones, was announced. He was extremely frail, and very nervous, with a hunted look in his eye.
“Excuse me for intruding. In point of fact I was hoping to speak with the Earl, but he won’t see anyone.”
“Not even you?” Cynthia asked with surprise.
“I don’t think he’s in,” said Osborne.
“He was seen this morning, walking in the direction of Pendragon,” said the vicar. “I thought he might be back for lunch. I’m very, very sorry. I shall be off now.”
And with a great sigh, he sat down.
“Is there something amiss in the village?” asked Cynthia.
“Amiss … well, no, strictly speaking, there isn’t. Only superstition, the ancient curse of our people. It seems nothing can drive it from these mountains,” he intoned.
Osborne pricked up his ears.
“Well, tell us about it! Do please join us in a drink, Vicar, and tell us the story. Is that table at your sister’s dancing about again?”
