summer and after midnight the cold mist spread a damp breath through the rooms. All of a sudden the objects seemed to take on meaning, as if to prove that everything in the world acquires significance only in relation to human activity and human destiny.
They regarded the outer hall, the flowers on the table which had been set down in front of the fireplace, and the arrangement of the armchairs.
“That leather chair stood on the right,” he said.
“You remember so clearly?” asked the nurse, her eyes blinking.
“Yes,” he said. “Konrad sat there in it under the clock, by the fire. I sat in the middle, facing the fire, in the Florentine chair, and Krisztina opposite, in the armchair my mother brought with her.”
“You’re so exact,” said the nurse.
“Yes.” The General leaned against the banisters, looking down. “In the blue crystal vase there were dahlias. Forty-one years ago.”
“You certainly remember.” The nurse sighed.
“I remember,” he said calmly. “Is the table laid with the French porcelain?”
“Yes, the flowered service,” said Nini.
“Good.” He nodded, reassured. Now for a time they both stood silently observing the scene that was displayed before them, the great reception room below, the imposing pieces of furniture which had been guarding a memory, a fateful hour, or even a moment, as if until one particular second these dead objects had had no existence beyond the physical properties of wood, metal, and cloth, and then, suddenly, on a single evening forty-one years ago, they had been filled with life and meaning and had acquired a totally new significance. And now, as they sprang to life again like freshly wound automata, these objects were remembering.
“What will you serve our guest?”
“Trout,” said Nini. “Soup and trout. A cut of beef and salad. A guinea-fowl. And a flambéed ice. The cook hasn’t made it for more than ten years. But perhaps it will be good,” she said, worried.
“Make sure it turns out well. Last time there were also crayfish,” he said quietly, apparently directing his words downstairs.
“Yes,” said the nurse calmly. “Krisztina liked crayfish, no matter how they were prepared. There were still crayfish in the stream back then. But not anymore. And I cannot send to town for them at this time of night.”
“Pay attention to the wine,” the General murmured conspiratorialy. The nurse instinctively moved closer and bent her head to hear better, in the intimate way that only longtime servants and family members do. “Have the ’86 Pommard brought up from the cellar, and some of the Chablis for the fish. And a bottle of the old Mumm, a magnum. Do you remember?”
“Yes.” The nurse thought for a moment. “But all we have left is the brut. Krisztina drank the demi-sec.”
“One mouthful. Always one mouthful with the roast. She didn’t care for champagne.”
“What do you want from this man?” asked the nurse.
“The truth,” said the General.
“You know it perfectly well.”
“I do not know it,” he said loudly, untroubled by the fact that the manservant and the chambermaid stopped arranging the flowers and looked up at him. But then they glanced back down and their hands set to work again automatically.
“The truth is precisely what I don’t know.”
“But you know the facts,” said the nurse sharply.
“Facts are not the truth,” retorted the General. “Facts are only one part of it. Not even Krisztina knew the truth. Perhaps Konrad. . . . And now I am going to get it from him,” he said calmly.
“What are you going to get from him?”
“The truth,” he said abruptly, and then was silent.
When the manservant and the chambermaid had left the hall and they were alone up above, the nurse, too, leaned her forearms against the banisters, as if the two of them were standing on a mountaintop admiring the view. Speaking the words down into the room where three people had sat once in front of the fire, she
They regarded the outer hall, the flowers on the table which had been set down in front of the fireplace, and the arrangement of the armchairs.
“That leather chair stood on the right,” he said.
“You remember so clearly?” asked the nurse, her eyes blinking.
“Yes,” he said. “Konrad sat there in it under the clock, by the fire. I sat in the middle, facing the fire, in the Florentine chair, and Krisztina opposite, in the armchair my mother brought with her.”
“You’re so exact,” said the nurse.
“Yes.” The General leaned against the banisters, looking down. “In the blue crystal vase there were dahlias. Forty-one years ago.”
“You certainly remember.” The nurse sighed.
“I remember,” he said calmly. “Is the table laid with the French porcelain?”
“Yes, the flowered service,” said Nini.
“Good.” He nodded, reassured. Now for a time they both stood silently observing the scene that was displayed before them, the great reception room below, the imposing pieces of furniture which had been guarding a memory, a fateful hour, or even a moment, as if until one particular second these dead objects had had no existence beyond the physical properties of wood, metal, and cloth, and then, suddenly, on a single evening forty-one years ago, they had been filled with life and meaning and had acquired a totally new significance. And now, as they sprang to life again like freshly wound automata, these objects were remembering.
“What will you serve our guest?”
“Trout,” said Nini. “Soup and trout. A cut of beef and salad. A guinea-fowl. And a flambéed ice. The cook hasn’t made it for more than ten years. But perhaps it will be good,” she said, worried.
“Make sure it turns out well. Last time there were also crayfish,” he said quietly, apparently directing his words downstairs.
“Yes,” said the nurse calmly. “Krisztina liked crayfish, no matter how they were prepared. There were still crayfish in the stream back then. But not anymore. And I cannot send to town for them at this time of night.”
“Pay attention to the wine,” the General murmured conspiratorialy. The nurse instinctively moved closer and bent her head to hear better, in the intimate way that only longtime servants and family members do. “Have the ’86 Pommard brought up from the cellar, and some of the Chablis for the fish. And a bottle of the old Mumm, a magnum. Do you remember?”
“Yes.” The nurse thought for a moment. “But all we have left is the brut. Krisztina drank the demi-sec.”
“One mouthful. Always one mouthful with the roast. She didn’t care for champagne.”
“What do you want from this man?” asked the nurse.
“The truth,” said the General.
“You know it perfectly well.”
“I do not know it,” he said loudly, untroubled by the fact that the manservant and the chambermaid stopped arranging the flowers and looked up at him. But then they glanced back down and their hands set to work again automatically.
“The truth is precisely what I don’t know.”
“But you know the facts,” said the nurse sharply.
“Facts are not the truth,” retorted the General. “Facts are only one part of it. Not even Krisztina knew the truth. Perhaps Konrad. . . . And now I am going to get it from him,” he said calmly.
“What are you going to get from him?”
“The truth,” he said abruptly, and then was silent.
When the manservant and the chambermaid had left the hall and they were alone up above, the nurse, too, leaned her forearms against the banisters, as if the two of them were standing on a mountaintop admiring the view. Speaking the words down into the room where three people had sat once in front of the fire, she