Skylark Read Free Page A

on the veranda and called in unison:
    “Skylark!'
    A girl sat on a bench by the flowerbeds, beneath the horse-chestnut tree. She was crocheting a tablecloth from a ball of yellow cotton.
    Only her black hair could be seen, casting–like the leaves of the horse-chestnut tree upon the ground below–a heavy shadow on about two-thirds of her face.
    She did not move at once. Perhaps she hadn't heard.
    In any case, she liked to sit like this, head bowed, peering at her work even when she had tired of it. The experience of many long years had taught her that this posture suited her best.
    Perhaps she heard some sound, but still did not look up. She governed herself with all the discipline of an invalid.
    This time they called louder:
    “Skylark!'
    Then louder still:
    “
Skylark!
'
    The girl raised her eyes to the veranda, where, on the top step, her mother and father stood waiting.
    They had given her that name years ago, Skylark, many, many years ago, when she still sang. Somehow the name had stuck, and she still wore it like an outgrown childhood dress.
    Skylark breathed a deep sigh–she always sighed thus deeply–wound up her ball of yellow cotton, dropped it in her work basket and set off towards the little arbour overgrown with vine leaves. So it was time, she thought; the train would soon be leaving; tonight she'd be sleeping at her uncle's on the Tarkő plain. She waddled along a little like a duck.
    The elderly couple watched with fond smiles as she drew near. Then, when her face finally revealed itself between the leaves, the smiles paled slightly on their lips.
    “It's time to go, my dear,” said Father, looking at the ground.

II
in which we walk the length of Széchenyi Street to the railway station and the train pulls out at last
    They passed beneath the row of poplars lining Sárszeg's only tarmacked street, Széchenyi Street, running in one straight line to the railway station. They might just have been taking one of their daily walks: Mother to the right, Father to the left and Skylark in between.
    Mother talked about how she had packed the toothbrush only at the last minute, and explained where she had put this and that. Father carried a white striped woollen blanket and a flask he had filled with good well-water from home, for the journey.
    Ákos Vajkay said nothing. He tramped along in silence, looking at his daughter.
    She wore an enormous hat with outmoded dark-green feathers, a light dress and, to protect herself from the scorching sun, opened a pink parasol which sifted shards of light across her face.
    Skylark was a good girl, Ákos would often say, to himself as much as anyone else. A very good girl, his only pride and joy.
    He knew she was not pretty, poor thing, and for a long time this had cut him to the quick. Later he began to see her less clearly, her image gradually blurring in a dull and numbing fog. Without really thinking any more, he loved her as she was, loved her boundlessly.
    Five, ten years must have passed since he had abandoned all hope of one day giving Skylark away in marriage. The idea no longer even crossed his mind. Yet whatever happened to the girl affected him profoundly. Even if she simply changed her hairstyle, or put on a winter coat at the end of autumn or a new dress for the spring, he could be miserable for weeks before he grew accustomed to her altered appearance.
    And Ákos was miserable now. He pitied his daughter, and took his pity out on himself. He watched her intently, almost offensively, still unable to get used to her face, at once both plump and drawn, the pudgy nose, the flared, horsy nostrils, the severe, masculine eyebrows and the tiny watery eyes which somehow reminded him of his own.
    He had never really understood women, but knew only too well that his daughter was ugly. And not just ugly any more, but withered and old. A veritable old maid.
    It was only in the flood of almost theatrically rosy sunlight cast by the parasol that this became irrevocably