Ákos did not speak.
By now his wife was waiting to hear more. She almost longed for him to speak, to come out with everything at last. She sensed that the hour of reckoning had finally arrived. It was something she had often imagined, but never believed would really happen, least of all to her and at a time like this. She sat down in the armchair opposite, every part of her trembling. Yet she was still resolute, even a little curious. She did not interrupt when her husband began to speak again.
Ákos took up where he had left off.
“And wouldn't it be better? For her too, poor thing. And for us. Do you know how much she's suffered? Only I know that, with this father's heart of mine. What with one thing and another. The continual whispering behind her back, the laughter, the scorn, the humiliation. And we too, Mother, how much have we suffered? We waited one year, two years, hoping, as time passed by. We believed it was all a matter of chance. We told ourselves things would get better. But they only got worse. Always worse and worse.”
“Why?'
“Why?” echoed Ákos. Then, in the quietest of voices, he replied, “Because she's ugly.”
The word had been uttered. Spoken for the first time. Then silence. A hollow silence resounded between them.
The woman leaped to her feet. No, this was not what she had imagined after all. Whenever they talked about her daughter, carefully avoiding this one issue, she always thought that one day they'd nevertheless return to it, to discuss it in greater detail, point by point, over several days perhaps, she and her husband, and maybe the odd relative. Béla, Etelka, a kind of committee almost, but not like this, not so openly, with such vulgar, prosaic simplicity. Her husband's words had put a sudden end to the possibility of any further argument or discussion. It hurt her, disgusted her, this merciless sincerity. Her husband had insulted a woman, had insulted her own flesh and blood. And, as if confronted by nothing more or less than this one insult, she cried out angrily, resentfully:
“No. No!'
“But yes. Yes! She's ugly. Frightfully ugly,” Ákos shouted, revelling in every word. “Ugly and old, poor creature. Like this,” and he pulled the most hideous of faces. “As ugly as I am.”
He struggled out of the armchair to reveal himself in his true light, and stood beside his wife.
Thus Skylark's aging parents stood face to face, barefoot, almost naked, with no more than a shirt between them. Two shrivelled bodies from whose embrace a daughter had once been born. They both trembled with emotion.
“You're drunk,” said the woman contemptuously.
“I'm not drunk.”
“It's blasphemy.”
“Even if she were lame,” Ákos roared, “or a hunchback, or blind, she couldn't be uglier,” and now he was really crying; thick, hot tears washed his ash-smudged face, his tormented soul.
The woman, however, drew herself up to her full height.
“Enough,” she said suddenly, with an entirely unfamiliar severity of tone, and with such purpose in her eyes that she seemed a complete stranger. “Enough!” and here she raised her voice. “I absolutely forbid you to say such things about my daughter. She is my daughter. Our daughter, and I have to defend her against you. Shame on you!'
“What?” Ákos stammered, recoiling.
“I won't have it,” said the woman, beating her fist on the table. “I simply won't stand for it. You spoke of nonsense earlier on. Well, here's your nonsense.”
Ákos awoke from his drunken stupor, as if the day were beginning to dawn within him.
“All right then,” he conceded, “let's be reasonable. I'm a reasonable man, after all.”
“Well, you're not a bit reasonable right now. You come home at all hours, turn the place upside down, throw money all over the floor, try to set my house on fire and then talk all kinds of nonsense. What you need is a good night's sleep.” With that she made straight for the bed.
“Mother,” said Ákos, calling her back. “Stay a while longer,” he begged.
The woman stopped still.
“What do you want?” she demanded. “With all this crying, all this shouting? I really can't understand you.”
Her voice was cold and stern.
She paused. Then, a little more gently:
“All right, so she won't marry. So what? Plenty of girls remain single. She's thirty-five years old, someone may still come along. You never know. Just when we least expect it. Do you want me to approach people in the street? Or put an advertisement in the paper? For a Vajkay girl? Come on, for heaven's sake.”
Mother stopped talking. Ákos waited for her to go on. Her words did him good. The crueller the better. He wanted more, only harder, sharper.
After a while the woman continued:
“Or say she does get married. Just for the sake of argument. Suppose she does. To whoever proposes. Because there's always someone. Do you really think that marriage is such a heaven these days? Janke Hernád got married. Mrs Záhoczky told us all about it. How she came to the last Ladies’ Society ball, her eyes red from weeping. Married some card-playing nobody who gambled the whole dowry away in half a year. And now where are they? Magda Proszner's husband beats her. Beats her, I tell you, and drinks. As for Biri Szilkuthy, you know her story. She was here today, pouring her heart out. Shame you didn't hear her. Is that what you want so badly? No, let her stay here with us. She'll never be as happy anywhere else. If that's God's will. After all, she's so used to us now.”
Out in the street, directly beneath their window, drunkards were whooping and bawling. Perhaps a group of Panthers, making their way through the night. They waited for the commotion to die down.
Mrs Vajkay pondered, always returning to the same point of departure.
“Ridiculous, the things you said. Hasn't she got everything she could possibly desire? She has nine dresses, two of which I've just had made for her. And five pairs of shoes. When she asked for that lovely blue feather boa last autumn, I bought it for her at once, even though it was frightfully expensive, fourteen forints. We've always given her all we could, haven't we, according to our means. It's true we had to economise here and there, but life is hard. And everything I've ever brought into this house is hers, her dowry, no one else so much as lays a finger on it. I set aside my every penny, and go on working in my old age, depriving myself of all good things so that she should have all she desires, the very best in life. And we brought her up well, didn't we? She finished school, I taught her the piano. I know she didn't take it very far, but everyone can see that she's an educated child. And look at her needlework. Most parents would be only too proud. Look at all these lovely tablecloths and doilies. All her own work. It was sinful what you said. Sinful and stupid.”
Now she seemed to rummage for something in her memory. There was a long pause before she continued:
“When she was five she fell down the attic steps and bumped her head. They thought she had concussion and a fractured skull. Remember, we even called the specialist from Pest. For two whole months I pressed that ice-cold chamois to her poor little head. I was utterly exhausted, nearly fell to pieces. And you accuse me? Even now I take her everywhere. She's my only friend. What would my life be like without her? All I know is that I love her, and couldn't love anyone more.”
Then she launched a new assault, turning to face her husband.
“And you love her too, Father. You love her very much. You can say what you like, you silly old thing. When she fell that time, you yourself telegraphed for the doctor, running off at midnight like a madman. And you jumped for joy when the doctor said he'd no longer be needed. And think of all you did last year when she had that upset stomach. It was always you who took her to school, even when she was a big girl. And if she wasn't back by exactly half past twelve you were always scared she'd been run over. You bought her all those thick, warm clothes, so she shouldn't catch cold, and it was you who made her wear those awful thick stockings, poor thing. You were frightfully funny, you know. Your daughter and I had a right old laugh at you. Ah, the giggles we had together. Isn't that so?'