When at last Swithin reached the Goldene Alp, he found his brother and
friend standing uneasily at the door. Traquair, a prematurely dried-up
man, with whiskers and a Scotch accent, remarked, “Ye're airly, man!”
Swithin growled something unintelligible, and swung up to bed. He
discovered a slight cut on his arm. He was in a savage temper—the
elements had conspired to show him things he did not want to see; yet
now and then a memory of Rozsi, of her soft palm in his, a sense of
having been stroked and flattered, came over him. During breakfast next
morning his brother and Traquair announced their intention of moving on.
James Forsyte, indeed, remarked that it was no place for a “collector,”
since all the “old” shops were in the hands of Jews or very grasping
persons—he had discovered this at once. Swithin pushed his cup aside.
“You may do what you like,” he said, “I'm staying here.”
James Forsyte replied, tumbling over his own words: “Why! what do
you want to stay here for? There's nothing for you to do here—there's
nothing to see here, unless you go up the Citadel, an' you won't do
that.”
Swithin growled, “Who says so?” Having gratified his perversity, he felt
in a better temper. He had slung his arm in a silk sash, and accounted
for it by saying he had slipped. Later he went out and walked on to the
bridge. In the brilliant sunshine spires were glistening against the
pearly background of the hills; the town had a clean, joyous air.
Swithin glanced at the Citadel and thought, 'Looks a strong place!
Shouldn't wonder if it were impregnable!' And this for some occult
reason gave him pleasure. It occurred to him suddenly to go and look for
the Hungarian's house.
About noon, after a hunt of two hours, he was gazing about him blankly,
pale with heat, but more obstinate than ever, when a voice above him
called, “Mister!” He looked up and saw Rozsi. She was leaning her round
chin on her round hand, gazing down at him with her deepset, clever
eyes. When Swithin removed his hat, she clapped her hands. Again he
had the sense of being admired, caressed. With a careless air, that sat
grotesquely on his tall square person, he walked up to the door; both
girls stood in the passage. Swithin felt a confused desire to speak in
some foreign tongue. “Maam'selles,” he began, “er—bong jour-er, your
father—pare, comment?”
“We also speak English,” said the elder girl; “will you come in,
please?”
Swithin swallowed a misgiving, and entered. The room had a worn
appearance by daylight, as if it had always been the nest of tragic or
vivid lives. He sat down, and his eyes said: “I am a stranger, but
don't try to get the better of me, please—that is impossible.” The
girls looked at him in silence. Rozsi wore a rather short skirt of black
stuff, a white shirt, and across her shoulders an embroidered yoke; her
sister was dressed in dark green, with a coral necklace; both girls had
their hair in plaits. After a minute Rozsi touched the sleeve of his
hurt arm.
“It's nothing!” muttered Swithin.
“Father fought with a chair, but you had no chair,” she said in a
wondering voice.
He doubled the fist of his sound arm and struck a blow at space. To his
amazement she began to laugh. Nettled at this, he put his hand beneath
the heavy table and lifted it. Rozsi clapped her hands. “Ah I now I
see—how strong you are!” She made him a curtsey and whisked round to the
window. He found the quick intelligence of her eyes confusing; sometimes
they seemed to look beyond him at something invisible—this, too,
confused him. From Margit he learned that they had been two years in
England, where their father had made his living by teaching languages;
they had now been a year in Salzburg.
“We wait,” suddenly said Rozsi; and Margit, with a solemn face,
repeated, “We wait.”
Swithin's eyes swelled a little with his desire to see what they were
waiting for. How queer they were, with their eyes that gazed beyond him!
He looked at their figures. 'She would pay for dressing,' he thought,
and he tried to imagine Rozsi in a skirt with proper flounces, a thin
waist, and hair drawn back over her ears. She would pay for dressing,
with that supple figure, fluffy hair, and little hands! And instantly
his own hands, face, and clothes disturbed him. He got up, examined
the pistols on the wall, and felt resentment at the faded, dusty room.
'Smells like a pot-house!' he thought. He sat down again close to Rozsi.
“Do you love to dance?” she asked; “to dance is to live. First you
hear the music—how your feet itch! It is wonderful! You begin slow,
quick—quicker; you fly—you know nothing—your feet are in the air. It is
wonderful!”
A slow flush had mounted into Swithin's face.
“Ah!” continued Rozsi, her eyes fixed on him, “when I am dancing—out
there I see the plains—your feet go one—two—three—quick, quick, quick,
quicker—you fly.”
She stretched herself, a shiver seemed to pass all down her. “Margit!
dance!” and, to Swithin's consternation, the two girls—their hands on
each other's shoulders—began shuffling their feet and swaying to and
fro. Their heads were thrown back, their eyes half-closed; suddenly the
step quickened, they swung to one side, then to the other, and began
whirling round in front of him. The sudden fragrance of rose leaves
enveloped him. Round they flew again. While they were still dancing,
Boleskey came into the room. He caught Swithin by both hands.
“Brother, welcome! Ah! your arm is hurt! I do not forget.” His yellow
face and deep-set eyes expressed a dignified gratitude. “Let me
introduce to you my friend Baron Kasteliz.”
Swithin bowed to a man with a small forehead, who had appeared softly,
and stood with his gloved hands touching his waist. Swithin conceived
a sudden aversion for this catlike man. About Boleskey there was that
which made contempt impossible—the sense of comradeship begotten in the
fight; the man's height; something lofty and savage in his face; and
an obscure instinct that it would not pay to show distaste; but this
Kasteliz, with his neat jaw, low brow, and velvety, volcanic look,
excited his proper English animosity. “Your friends are mine,” murmured
Kasteliz. He spoke with suavity, and hissed his s's. A long, vibrating
twang quavered through the room. Swithin turned and saw Rozsi sitting
at the czymbal; the notes rang under the little hammers in her hands,
incessant, metallic, rising and falling with that strange melody.
Kasteliz had fixed his glowing eyes on her; Boleskey, nodding his head,
was staring at the floor; Margit, with a pale face, stood like a statue.
'What can they see in it?' thought Swithin; 'it's not a tune.' He
took up his hat. Rozsi saw him and stopped; her lips had parted with a
faintly dismayed expression. His sense of personal injury diminished;
he even felt a little sorry for her. She jumped up from her seat and
twirled round with a pout. An inspiration seized on Swithin. “Come and
dine with me,” he said to Boleskey, “to-morrow—the Goldene Alp—bring
your friend.” He felt the eyes of the whole room on him—the Hungarian's
fine eyes; Margit's wide glance; the narrow, hot gaze of Kasteliz;
and lastly—Rozsi's. A glow of satisfaction ran down his spine. When he
emerged into the street he thought gloomily, 'Now I've done it!' And not
for some paces did he look round; then, with a forced smile, turned and
removed his hat to the faces at the window.
Notwithstanding this moment of gloom, however, he was in an exalted
state all day, and at dinner kept looking at his brother and Traquair
enigmatically. 'What do they know of life?' he thought; 'they might be
here a year and get no farther.' He made jokes, and pinned the menu to
the waiter's coat-tails. “I like this place,” he said, “I shall spend
three weeks here.” James, whose lips were on the point of taking in a
plum, looked at him uneasily.