Here he put the letter into his pocket and walked on with his hands behind his back. Afternoon strollers lingered in the bare and withered park, where only a handful of hawthorn and rosebushes still managed to survive. The lawn was parched yellow from the heat, strewn with rubbish and scattered sheets of newspaper. Ákos sat down on a bench and spread the letter over his knees.
Skylark's spelling was impeccable and she wrote in the clear, orderly Hungarian she had been taught at the Ladies’ College. Her style, however, was a little wooden. As soon as she took a pen in her hand, her mode of expression changed and she fell under the spell of textbook composition. At such times she could always see her former teacher, the strict Mrs Janecz, standing before her in a starched white collar and black tie. She became so terrified of making mistakes that she chose words she'd never dream of using in everyday conversation.
Her writing lost any appearance of naturalness and took on a tone more elevated and enthusiastic than she intended.
Ákos reread the long letter in which his daughter gave a detailed account of all that had happened so far.
Thus:
Tarkő Plain 4 September 1899
Monday evening, half past six o'clock
My dear, sweet parents,
Forgive me for not having written to you earlier, but I have until this moment been so very busy with all the many joys of life in the plains, and my hospitable relations have provided so very much for my entertainment, that it is only now I have been able to find time for correspondence.
I have been searching for a pen for days.
Yesterday I found the only one in the house on Uncle Béla's desk, but even this was rusty and the inkwell had, in the great heat, run completely dry. Cousin Berci at last placed this pencil at my disposal. Thus I am forced to write in pencil. For this too I beg your forgiveness.
I shall begin at the beginning.
The journey was most agreeable. As the train departed and you, my dear parents, disappeared before my eyes, I entered my compartment in which my two polite travelling companions already sat, a young man and an aged Roman Catholic priest. I was at once absorbed by the passing landscape, the pleasing variety and fresh colours of which claimed my full attention. I observed the beauties of nature, which only began to unfold in all their true splendour beyond the boundaries of our town, addressing my very spirit with peaceful, consoling words. With nature I conversed for the entire duration of my journey.
I reflected on the past, my thoughts devoted, above all, to you. Time flew by and I arrived punctually. They awaited me with a carriage. In the evening I enjoyed an appetising supper and convivial conversation in the circle of my relations.
I received a hearty welcome from all — Uncle Béla, Aunt Etelka and Cousin Berci.
Only Tiger seemed to take no pleasure in my arrival.
This good and faithful dog did not recognise me and went on barking, snarling and growling for some time. I didn't even dare venture outside alone for several days. Then this morning on the veranda, I finally succeeded in placating her. I dipped my plain-cake in the milk and gave it to her. Now we are the best of friends.
It is seven years since my last visit, in which time much has changed. Can you imagine, there is now a garden on the hill, with tropical plants and rhododendrons? There is also a winding path leading down to the brook, from which they have cleared away all the bulrushes and on which one may even row a boat. Only in spring, of course, for now it is quite dry. In a word, the place is quite divine.
Berci, whom I had not seen since he visited us in Sárszeg when he was eleven, has just matriculated from a private establishment in Budapest. He passed his examinations, with some difficulty I am told, and will now study at the School of Agriculture in Magyaróvár.
I find Uncle Béla a little changed. His hair is hoary at the temples, and I had somehow expected him to look different. It was hard to get used to him at first and I kept looking at him with a smile. He would look back at me, also with a smile. “Have I grown old?” he asked. “No,” I replied, “not in the least.” At this everyone began to laugh, including Uncle Béla.
Aunt Etelka scolds him continually for his smoking, but it seems as if she'll never persuade him to give the habit up. But he doesn't eat supper any more, and only has a cup of milk in the evening, without sugar, and a slice of aleuron-bread, which he always offers me, in fun of course.
I'm still his little favourite. He sits me down next to him, kisses and cuddles me and says what he always used to say to me when I was a little girl, “Never fear, Skylark dear, good old Uncle Béla's here.” At this we both giggle.
All through supper they ask me to talk about you. They were most amused by how worried you were about me. “A bad penny…” said Uncle Béla, with that sweet humour of his.
We chatted until almost midnight, when they showed me to the spare room. I soon fell asleep in the nice, soft bed.
I awoke at dawn to an infernal racket. I could hear shrieking out on the veranda. Guests had arrived from Budapest, the Thurzó girls, whom they had invited long before, but who had never turned up. At breakfast they introduced themselves and asked if I'd allow their four large suitcases to be taken into the spare room. I gladly granted them their request. They spent the whole morning there unpacking. As I prefer to be alone, I recommended that they stay in the spare room, while I moved in with Aunt Etelka for a few days.
Since then I've been sleeping on the divan, beside Aunt Etelka, but it's much more pleasant this way. I could never really become friendly with these girls. Zelma, the eldest, is such a little secessionist! She smokes cigarettes and doesn't wear a corset. She changes costume three times a day, once for lunch, once for dinner and once again for tennis. She laughs at me because I bring home a large bunch of wild flowers every day.
She finds wild flowers ugly. She likes only camellias and orchids.
Berci would appear to be courting the younger sister. She's still only a little girl, sixteen years old. They hide away together in the house, then steal out in the morning, running off unchaperoned into the forest, returning awfully late.
Yesterday Aunt Etelka asked me to go with them, but I shan't accept that role any more. What children! It would seem that they're actually quite serious. Uncle Béla teases them cruelly at table. Berci goes quite red, but Klári doesn't.
The following day another guest arrived, Feri Olcsvay, who, I fancy, may have taken an interest in Zelma. He at least is an attentive and courteous young man. He spent a long time talking to me. We even worked out that we are very distantly related. I looked at his signet ring and from the lily surmised that we belong to the same original family — the Boksas, isn't it? He maintains, however, that the background on their coat of arms is not scarlet like ours, but gold, whereas the lily isn't gold, but scarlet. In any case, it's not sure whether he descends from the Olcsvays of Kisvárad or Nagyvárad. No one has ever been able to shed any clear light on this. His father believes they descended from the Kisvárad branch, but in the National Museum they told him he probably came from the Nagyvárad Olcsvays. Poor boy, now he really doesn't know where he stands at all. I told him to turn to Father, who'd be able to decide the matter at once. Feri promised to look Father up when he's next in Sárszeg.
Otherwise we're having a splendid time. It is quite enchanting to wake to the sounds of the plain, to the dreamy tinkle of cowbells and the cooing of turtle doves. And those darling yellow chicks who hide away cheeping under the wings of the brooding hens. How sweet life is in the country! How delightful their work must be! They're preparing for the harvest and have already brought the barrels out of the cellar. Uncle Béla is busy fumigating them stave by stave. The crop promises to be good, and they say there'll be an excellent festival.