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00_Angiotensin II.556_pre 7/3/06 4:05 pm Page i

Angiotensin II
Receptor Antagonists
Current Perspectives
00_Angiotensin II.556_pre 7/3/06 4:05 pm Page iii

Angiotensin II
Receptor Antagonists
Current Perspectives
SECOND EDITION

EDITED BY
GIUSEPPE MANCIA MD
PROFESSOR AND CHAIRMAN
DEPARTMENT OF MEDICINE
UNIVERSITY MILANO-BICOCCA
SAN GERADO HOSPITAL
MONZA, MILANO
ITALY
CRC Press
Taylor & Francis Group
6000 Broken Sound Parkway NW, Suite 300
Boca Raton, FL 33487-2742

© 2006 by Taylor & Francis Group, LLC

CRC Press is an imprint of Taylor & Francis Group, an Informa business

No claim to original U.S. Government works

Version Date: 20130325

International Standard Book Number-13: 978-1-4822-0780-4 (eBook - PDF)

This book contains information obtained from authentic and highly regarded sources. While all reasonable
efforts have been made to publish reliable data and information, neither the author[s] nor the publisher can
accept any legal responsibility or liability for any errors or omissions that may be made. The publishers wish to
make clear that any views or opinions expressed in this book by individual editors, authors or contributors are
personal to them and do not necessarily reflect the views/opinions of the publishers. The information or guid-
ance contained in this book is intended for use by medical, scientific or health-care professionals and is provided
strictly as a supplement to the medical or other professional’s own judgement, their knowledge of the patient’s
medical history, relevant manufacturer’s instructions and the appropriate best practice guidelines. Because of
the rapid advances in medical science, any information or advice on dosages, procedures or diagnoses should be
independently verified. The reader is strongly urged to consult the drug companies’ printed instructions, and
their websites, before administering any of the drugs recommended in this book. This book does not indicate
whether a particular treatment is appropriate or suitable for a particular individual. Ultimately it is the sole
responsibility of the medical professional to make his or her own professional judgements, so as to advise and
treat patients appropriately. The authors and publishers have also attempted to trace the copyright holders of all
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00_Angiotensin II.556_pre 7/3/06 4:05 pm Page v

Contents

List of Contributors vii

Preface xi
1. Angiotensin II antagonists in acute and post-acute
myocardial infarction 1
Gianna Fabbri and Aldo P Maggioni
2. Comparative pharmacology of angiotensin II (AT1)
receptor antagonists 13
Peter A van Zwieten
3. Stimulation of AT2 receptors: role in the effect of
angiotensin II receptor antagonists 31
Heiko Funke-Kaiser, Ulrike Muscha Steckelings, and
Thomas Unger
4. The use of angiotensin II antagonists in combination
treatment of hypertension 47
Bernard Waeber, François Feihl, and Hans R Brunner
5. Angiotensin II antagonists in the treatment of patients
with renal impairment or failure 69
Luis Miguel Ruilope and Alejandro de la Sierra
6. The antidiabetic effect of angiotensin II receptor
antagonists: evidence, mechanisms, and clinical
significance 85
Theodore W Kurtz
7. Angiotensin II antagonists, diabetes, and metabolic
syndrome 99
Guido Grassi, Fosca Quarti Trevano, and Giuseppe
Mancia
8. Angiotensin II antagonists and protection against
subclinical cardiac and vascular damage 111
Enrico Agabiti-Rosei, Maria Lorenza Muiesan, and
Damiano Rizzoni
00_Angiotensin II.556_pre 7/3/06 4:05 pm Page vi

vi Contents

9. Angiotensin receptor blockers for chronic heart

failure 127
John GF Cleland and Huan Loh
10. Cerebrovascular prevention by angiotensin II receptor
antagonists 173
Massimo Volpe and Giuliano Tocci
11. Past and ongoing trials with angiotensin II
antagonists: data and perspectives regarding the
treatment of hypertension 189
Sverre E Kjeldsen

Index 209
00_Angiotensin II.556_pre 7/3/06 4:05 pm Page vii

Contributors

Enrico Agabiti-Rosei MD
Department of Medical and Surgical Sciences
University of Brescia
Brescia
Italy

Hans R Brunner MD
Division of Clinical Pathophysiology
University Hospital
Lausanne
Switzerland

John GF Cleland MD
Department of Cardiology
University of Hull
Kingston-upon-Hull
UK

Alejandro de la Sierra MD
Hypertension Unit
Hospital Clínic
Barcelona
Spain

Gianna Fabbri MD
ANMCO Research Center
Florence
Italy
00_Angiotensin II.556_pre 7/3/06 4:05 pm Page viii

viii Contributors

François Feihl MD Huan Loh MBBS

Division of Clinical Pathophysiology Department of Cardiology
University Hospital University of Hull
Lausanne Kingston-upon-Hull
Switzerland UK

Guido Grassi MD Aldo P Maggioni MD

Department of Clinical Medicine, Prevention ANMCO Research Center
and Applied Biotechnologies Florence
University of Milano-Bicocca Italy
Milan
Italy Giuseppe Mancia MD
Department of Clinical Medicine, Prevention
Heiko Funke-Kaiser MD and Applied Biotechnologies
Center for Cardiovascular Research (CCR) University of Milano-Bicocca
Institute of Pharmacology and Toxicology Milan
Charité – Universitätsmedizin Berlin Italy
Berlin
Germany Maria Lorenza Muiesan MD
Department of Medical and Surgical Sciences
Sverre E Kjeldsen MD PhD FAHA University of Brescia
Chief Physician and Professor Brescia
Department of Cardiology Italy
Ullevaal University Hospital
Oslo Damiano Rizzoni MD
Norway Department of Medical and Surgical Sciences
and University of Brescia
Adjunct Professor Brescia
Division of Cardiovascular Medicine Italy
University of Michigan
Ann Arbor Luis Miguel Ruilope MD
Michigan Hypertension Unit
USA Hospital 12 de Octubre
Madrid
Theodore W Kurtz MD Spain
Professor and Vice Chair
Department of Laboratory Medicine Ulrike Muscha Steckelings MD
University of California Center for Cardiovascular Research (CCR)
San Francisco, California Charité – Universitätsmedizin Berlin
USA Berlin
Germany
00_Angiotensin II.556_pre 7/3/06 4:05 pm Page ix

Contributors ix

Giuliano Tocci MD Peter A van Zwieten MD

Faculty of Medicine Academic Medical Centre
University of Rome University of Amsterdam
Rome Amsterdam
Italy The Netherlands

Fosca Quarti Trevano MD Massimo Volpe MD

Department of Clinical Medicine, Prevention Professor of Cardiology
and Applied Biotechnologies Faculty of Medicine
University of Milano-Bicocca University La Sapienza of Rome
Milan Rome
Italy Italy

Thomas Unger MD Bernard Waeber MD

Center for Cardiovascular Research (CCR) Division of Clinical Pathophysiology
Institute of Pharmacology and Toxicology University Hospital
Charité – Universitätsmedizin Berlin Lausanne
Berlin Switzerland
Germany
00_Angiotensin II.556_pre 7/3/06 4:05 pm Page xi

Preface

Following their introduction into the medical

armamentarium, angiotensin II antagonists have progressively
gained ground and are now essential therapeutic tools, which
are used to treat a variety of diseases. In the world of
evidence-based medicine, this has been made possible by the
design, implementation and completion of a large number of
important studies. These studies have shown that this group
of drugs offer protection against conditions such as
hypertension, heart failure, post-myocardial infarction,
primary and secondary prevention of stroke and prevention or
management of diabetes and its renal complications. An
update on this large new body of information is the aim of
this book, which follows 6 years after the first edition.

During this period pathophysiological and clinical research

has enormously increased the body of evidence on the clinical
use of these drugs. First, angiotensin II antagonists have been
definitively shown to be effective hypertensive agents both
when used alone and when used in combination with several
other drugs. Second, it has been shown that the action of
these drugs offers a large nephroprotective effect in diabetes,
the appearance and progression of renal damage being
effectively delayed by their long-term use. Third, angiotensin
II antagonists oppose the harmful effects of angiotensin II
may offer a special protection against the occurrence or the
recurrence of cerebrovascular disease. All this has been
accompanied by trial evidence indicating that these drugs are
useful therapeutic tools in patients recovering from a
myocardial infarction or those experiencing heart failure both
in the absence or presence of ACE-inhibitors. Finally,
angiotensin II antagonists have been shown to prevent or
00_Angiotensin II.556_pre 7/3/06 4:05 pm Page xii

xii Preface

delay the appearance of diabetes as well as to oppose the progression and favour the regression of
subclinical organ damage. This is a fundamental aspect of future preventive strategies, which aim
to maintain patients at low risk rather than having to intervene when a high risk and thus partly
irreversible condition has already occurred.

This second edition of the book on angiotensin II antagonists, just as the first, is written by
worldwide renowned experts in the pathophysiological and clinical aspects of cardiovascular
disease. I hope its readers will find the book interesting and that it meets its intended goal.

A special word of gratitude is due to our publisher, Alan Burgess and Catriona Dixon,
Production Editor, for their valuable assistance, which made publication possible.

Giuseppe Mancia
01_Angiotensin II.556 7/3/06 4:05 pm Page 1

Angiotensin II antagonists in
acute and post-acute
myocardial infarction
Gianna Fabbri and Aldo P Maggioni

1 The role of ACE-inhibitors

Drugs which interfere with the renin–angiotensin–
aldosterone system (RAAS) such as angiotensin converting
enzyme inhibitors (ACEIs) have been available to clinicians
for more than 20 years. ACEIs have been shown to be
effective in treating essential hypertension, renal disease, and
left ventricular systolic dysfunction as well as in improving
survival after acute myocardial infarction. The first study that
showed the efficacy of the ACEI captopril in improving the
survival of patients with post-myocardial infarction (MI) left
ventricular systolic dysfunction was published in 1992.1 After
this study the value of ACEI in reducing mortality rates and
major non-fatal cardiovascular events in patients with post-
MI heart failure/reduced ventricular systolic function or both
has been clearly established by other randomized clinical trials
and their overview2–4 (Figure 1.1). On the basis of this
evidence, these drugs are now recommended in patients with
MI complicated by left ventricular systolic dysfunction, heart
failure, or both. A different approach of using ACEI in
patients with acute MI was tested in the same period. Nearly
100 000 patients with MI were treated within the first 36
hours from the onset of symptoms with ACEI irrespective of
the presence of left ventricular systolic dysfunction.5–8 This
early unselected approach was associated with a significant
mortality reduction, namely in the first 7 days from the
beginning of treatment.9 Finally, the indication for ACEI was
further broadened to treat patients at high cardiovascular
risk.10–12
01_Angiotensin II.556 7/3/06 4:05 pm Page 2

2 Acute and post-acute MI

SAVE AIRE TRACE

radionuclide Clinical and/or radiographic Echocardiographic
EF  40% signs of HF EF  35%

0.40 All-cause mortality

0.35

0.30
Probability of event

0.25 Placebo
ACE
0.20

0.15

0.10
Placebo: 866/2971 (29.1%)
0.05 ACEI: 702/2995 (23.4%)
OR: 0.74 (0.66–0.83%)
0
Years 0 1 2 3 4
ACEI 2995 2250 1617 892 223
Placebo 2971 2184 1521 853 138

Figure 1.1

Effect of ACEIs on all-cause mortality in post-myocardial infarction patients with congestive HF or LV

dysfunction. Adapted from Flather et al.4

A more specific approach: angiotensin receptor blockers

The inhibition of the renin–angiotensin system could have an alternative approach with the more
recently developed angiotensin receptor blockers (ARBs). This class of drugs can offer a more
complete blockade of the actions of the angiotensin II and improve the tolerability profile of this
group of drugs. There are several reasons why an ARB might offer a more complete protection
against angiotensin II and a better tolerability than an ACEI. Angiotensin II can be produced by
ACE-independent pathways (chymase, kallikrein, cathepsin) and AT1 receptor blockade would
make more angiotensin II available to stimulate AT2 receptors and perhaps other receptor subtypes.
During treatment with ARBs there is a sharp increase in angiotensin II that works at the AT2
receptors, producing vasodilation and inhibitory effects on cell growth. The blockade of AT1
receptors at the same time as stimulation of the AT2 has been shown to induce nitric oxide
production and may increase generation of kinins at tissue sites. The elevation of the bradykinin
levels with ACEI, even if it could contribute to the therapeutic benefits of ACEI, is associated with
some of the adverse effects of these drugs such as cough, angioedema, and skin rash.13

The incontrovertible role of ACEI in heart failure and myocardial infarction has been a
determinant in the evaluation of the effects of ARBs in these conditions: the need for direct
01_Angiotensin II.556 7/3/06 4:05 pm Page 3

The role of ACE-inhibitors 3

comparison, including formally conducted tests for ‘non inferiority’ has implications in trial
design, patient selection, choice of ACEI and dose, sample size, and end points.14

ARBs and myocardial infarction

ARBs in myocardial infarction have been evaluated according to the following approaches:

• head-to-head comparison with ACEI based upon the possible better tolerability of ARBs
and the more specific and complete inhibition of the renin–angiotensin system (two
trials)15,16
• add-on strategy (combination therapy) based upon the potential benefits of bradykinin and
on the fact that, with the combination therapy, the rise in angiotensin II which occurs with
ARBs (negative feedback) is reduced by ACEI (one trial).16

The OPTIMAAL trial was designed to test the hypothesis that losartan would be superior or
non-inferior to captopril in decreasing all-cause mortality in high-risk patients after acute
myocardial infarction. In this study 5477 patients with evidence of heart failure (HF) or left
ventricular ejection fraction 35% were randomized a mean of 84.9 hours after the beginning
of symptoms of MI to either losartan or captopril. The mean follow-up duration was 2.7 years.
The trial selected the same dosage tested in heart failure in the ELITE II study: target dosage
was 50 mg daily for losartan and 50 mg three times daily for captopril.17 The study was event-
driven and terminated after 946 deaths occurred. At the end of the follow-up period the rate of
all-cause mortality was not significantly different in the two groups of patients (18.2% for
losartan vs 16.4% for captopril; RR  1.13, 95% CI  0.99–1.28). No significant differences
in the secondary and tertiary end point were shown. The secondary end point, sudden cardiac
death or cardiac arrest, occurred in 8.7% of patients treated with losartan and in 7.4% of those
treated with captopril (RR  1.19, 95% CI  0.98–1.43); fatal or non-fatal reinfarction rate
was 14% vs 13.9% in losartan and captopril, respectively (RR  1.03, 95% CI  0.89–1.18).
In the OPTIMAAL study the primary end point and all secondary end points showed a trend
favoring captopril over losartan. Losartan was significantly better tolerated than captopril as
shown by the rate of permanent discontinuations of drug: 17% vs 23% (hazard ratio
(HR)  0.70, 95% CI  0.62–0.78). The conclusions of the authors were that in these
patients, treatment with losartan conferred no further benefits in comparison with captopril.
The findings of a trend toward superiority of captopril for all-cause mortality did not satisfy the
trial’s criteria for non-inferiority. For this reason, a possible superiority of placebo vs losartan
could not be excluded.

Among potential explanations for the OPTIMAAL results, the most obvious possibility is that
captopril is superior to the ARB losartan in patients with left ventricular (LV) systolic
dysfunction or heart failure after MI. A second possibility is that the OPTIMAAL protocol was
not optimal due to the type of population chosen or to the dose of losartan.
01_Angiotensin II.556 7/3/06 4:05 pm Page 4

4 Acute and post-acute MI

The first possibility is supported by the meta-analysis of Jong et al, which showed no difference
in mortality for ARB vs placebo in patients with heart failure.18 In this paper, 17 trials involving
12 469 patients with heart failure were included, the pooled outcomes were all-cause mortality
and hospitalization for heart failure. There was only a trend in benefit of ARBs over placebo in
reducing mortality (OR  0.68, 95% CI  0.38–1.22) and, when compared directly with ACEI,
ARBs did not appear superior in reducing either mortality or hospitalization (OR  1.09, 95%
CI  0.92–1.29 and OR  0.95, 95% CI  0.80–1.13, respectively). The effect of ARBs when
compared with placebo (with or without background ACEI therapy) and ACEI in patients with
heart failure has been analyzed in a recently published meta-analysis by Lee et al;19 24 trials
involving 38 080 patients were included. The analysis revealed that ARBs treatment was
associated with:

1. Reduced total mortality and HF hospitalization in comparison with placebo (OR  0.83,
95% CI  0.69–1.00 and OR  0.64, 95% CI  0.53–0.78, respectively).
2. No differences vs ACEI in all-cause mortality (OR  1.06, 95% CI  0.90–1.26) and HF
hospitalization (OR  0.95, 95% CI  0.80–1.13).
3. Reduced HF hospitalization (OR  0.77, 95% CI  0.69–0.87), in a comparison of ARBs
plus ACEI combination vs ACEI alone, without a significant reduction in total mortality
(OR  0.97, 95% CI  0.87–1.08).

Because the comparison of ARBs versus placebo was, in this analysis, heavily influenced by the
CHARM-Alternative,20 the authors performed a sensitivity analysis by excluding data from that
study: there was a non-statistically significant reduction in all-cause mortality (OR  0.62, 95%
CI  0.36–1.07), whereas the HF hospitalization outcome remained significantly lower with
ARBs (OR  0.53, 95% CI  0.30–0.97).

The most likely protocol-related explanation for the findings of OPTIMAAL is the choice of dose of
losartan. The dose of captopril was well supported by the results of the SAVE study, whereas the
dose of losartan was chosen with much less supporting data. The ELITE I trial21 showed a
superiority of 50 mg of losartan vs captopril in terms of mortality, but the trial was underpowered to
test the effect of losartan on hard end points such as mortality. When an appropriately sized trial was
planned (ELITE II), there was no evidence of superiority of losartan vs captopril, such as in
OPTIMAAL. Different results were observed when a higher dosage of losartan was tested.

The results of the LIFE22 and RENAAL studies23 showed the beneficial effects of losartan when
used at the dosage of 100 mg. In support of the hypothesis that the dose of OPTIMAAL could
be inadequate are also the results of the IRMA study, which suggests that a dose response can
exist with the ARB irbesartan in patients with diabetes, hypertension, and microalbuminuria. In
this trial, 300 mg of irbesartan resulted in a superior renoprotective effect and in a trend toward
a reduction of cardiovascular events as compared with 150 mg of irbesartan.24 An adjunctive
problem in the OPTIMAAL trial could have been the relatively slow uptitration of the study
01_Angiotensin II.556 7/3/06 4:05 pm Page 5

The role of ACE-inhibitors 5

medication. Post-MI LV remodeling has two phases.25–26 The first phase is the first 3–7 days after
the infarction and consists of scar stretching: this process accounts for a significant proportion of
long-term LV dilation and can be partially reversed by the early initiation of therapy with
captopril.27 The second phase, which progresses more slowly, consists of myocardial hypertrophy
and ventricular shape distortion and can be effected by an ACEI at any time after MI. Many
studies which included post-MI patients showed that ACEI exerted their beneficial effects on
survival in the first week after MI.28 In the OPTIMAAL study, patients were randomized an
average of 84.9 hours after MI to either losartan 12.5 mg once a day or captopril 12.5 mg three
times a day and uptitrated to 50 mg daily of losartan after an average of 8–9 days post-MI, long
after the early phase of remodeling and the proven effects of ACEI and probably of ARB.

The VALIANT study investigated the effect of valsartan alone, captopril alone, or the combination
of the two drugs. The population of the trial comprised patients with at least one of the
characteristics necessary to be enrolled in the three reference studies AIRE, SAVE, and TRACE in
which ACEI were shown to be effective in improving survival. Patients had to be enrolled between
12 hours and 10 days after the onset of symptoms of an acute MI and had to have evidence of LV
systolic dysfunction (ejection fraction 40% at radionuclide ventriculography or 35% at
echocardiography or an echo wall motion index 1.2 measured according to the method adopted
by the TRACE investigators), and/or clinical evidence of heart failure.

The trial had been designed to enrol 14 500 patients. Being event-driven, 2700 deaths should be
reached to provide a power of 86–95% to detect a reduction of 15–17.5% in all-cause mortality.
In the case that valsartan emerged as non-superior to captopril, the study protocol planned to
assess a non-inferiority hypothesis. On the basis of the reduction in mortality with the use of
ACEI in previous trials (26% reduction in the overview of the three major trials SAVE, AIRE,
TRACE), the threshold indicating the non-inferiority for valsartan was fixed at 1.13. This
threshold allows us to preserve at least 55% of the survival benefit of an ACEI. Patients were
enrolled and randomly assigned in a 1:1:1 ratio to the three treatment arms by 931 participating
centers from 24 countries. Valsartan was started at the dosage of 40 mg bid, whereas captopril at
the proven dosage of 25 mg tid. Doses were then gradually increased to their maximal dosage
(valsartan alone, 160 mg bid; captopril alone or in combination, 50 mg tid; valsartan in
combination, 80 mg bid) in four steps over 90 days. The primary end point of the study was all-
cause mortality. The secondary end point was the combination of death from cardiovascular
cause, recurrent myocardial infarction, or hospitalization for heart failure (Figure 1.2).

Over the median follow-up period of 24.7 months, the mortality rates in the valsartan,
captopril, and combination groups were 19.9%, 19.5%, and 19.3%, respectively, showing,
therefore, no significant differences among the three groups.29

The rate of the secondary composite end point (cardiovascular death, recurrent MI, heart
failure) also did not differ significantly: 31.1%, 31.1%, and 31.9% in the three groups. In the
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 Sebastian laughed good-naturedly:
“These too are good people, only different from you on the other
side of the river. We have time, you are in a hurry. You are for ever
wanting new-fashioned things. Somebody who reads newspapers
told the chaplain that your son spoke at the Town Hall. Now you
want avenues, lamps, brick-built houses.... What are we coming to?”
The builder looked deeply and calmly into his brother’s eyes.
“Brother Sebastian, we have to change or time will beat us.”
The clockmaker became embarrassed.
“Ah, but old things, old ways are so pleasant.”
Christopher Ulwing pointed to the loving-cup.
“This too is old, but this has a right to remain because it is
beautiful. Do you remember, our father too made some like this. The
time may come when you will get a lot of money for it. I should like
to buy it myself.”
Sebastian looked anxiously at his brother.
“Perhaps you won’t sell this either.” The builder again became
impatient. “You buy to do business, but when it comes to selling....”
The clockmaker took the dove-shaped cup into his hand. He held
it gently, tenderly, as if it were a live bird. Then he shook his head.
“No, not yet. I will sell it another day.”
“Why not now?”
“Because I want to look at it for some time,” said Sebastian gently,
as if he were ashamed of himself.
“That’s the way to remain poor. To keep everything that is old,
avoid everything that is new. Do you know, Brother Sebastian, you
are just the same as Buda....”
“And you are just like Pest,” retorted Sebastian modestly.
They smiled at each other quietly.
Anne meanwhile was playing at the tool table and dropping
wheels and watch-springs into the oil bottle.
Uncle Sebastian did not want to spoil her pleasure but watched
every movement of hers anxiously. When the child noticed that she
was observed, she withdrew her hand suddenly. She stared
innocently at the walls.
“I am bored,” she said sadly, “I don’t know what to do. Do tell me
a story.”
“I don’t know any to-day,” said Uncle Sebastian.
“You always know some for you read such a lot....” While saying
this she drew from the pocket of Uncle Sebastian’s coat a well-worn
little green book.
“Demokritos, or the posthumous writings of a laughing
philosopher.” This was Sebastian Ulwing’s favorite book.
“Here you are!” cried Anne, waving her prey triumphantly. “Now
come along, tell me a story.”
The clockmaker shook his head. It still weighed on his mind that
he and the builder could never understand each other. He was proud
of his brother. He felt his will, his strength, but that was wellnigh all
he knew about him. Had he rejoiced, had he suffered in life? Had he
ever loved, or did he have no love for anybody?... He thought of
Barbara, his brother’s dead wife, whom Brother Christopher had
snatched from him and taken to the altar, because he did not know
that he, Sebastian, had loved her silently for a long time. His
forehead went up in many wrinkles.... We human beings trample our
fellow creatures under our feet because we don’t know them.
Anne took his hand and wrung it slowly. “Do tell me a story, do!”
Inside, in front of the courtyard window, the builder turned the
pages of an old book.
Uncle Sebastian sat down and lifted Anne into his lap. Casting
occasional glances on his brother’s face, as if he were reading in it,
he began to tell his story.
“It happened a long, long time ago, even before I was born, in the
time of the Turkish Pasha’s rule. A gay city it was then, was Buda. In
every street shops dealing in masks and fancy dresses were opened.
When Carnival time came, folk used to walk a-singing in the streets
of the castle; old ones, young ones, in gaudy fancy dress, with little
iron lamps—such a crazy procession! The fun only stopped at the
dawn of Ash-Wednesday. All fancy dress shops were closed and
bolted. All were locked, except one in Fortune’s Street which
remained open even after Ash-Wednesday—all the year round.
“Singly, secretly, people went to visit it, at night, when the castle
gates had been closed and the fires at the street corners put out.
Among the buyers were some that had haughty faces. These bought
themselves humble-looking masks. The cruel men bought kind ones,
godless men pious ones, the stupid clever ones, the clever simple
ones. But the greatest number were those who suffered and they
bought masks which showed a laughing face. That is what
happened. It is a true story,” growled Uncle Sebastian, “and it is just
as true that those who once put a mask on never took it off again.
Only on rare occasions did it fall off their faces, on dark nights when
they were quite alone, or when they loved, or when they saw
money....”
Again he looked at his brother’s face and then continued in a
whisper:
“The business flourished. Kings, princes, beautiful princesses,
priests, soldiers, burghers, everybody, even the Town Councillors,
went to the shop. Its reputation had even spread down to the lower
town. People from the other side of the Danube came too. After a
time, the whole world wore masks. Nobody talked about it but all
wore them and the people forgot each other’s real faces. Nobody
knows them any more. Nobody....”
Uncle Sebastian didn’t tell any more and in the great silence the
ticking of the clocks became loud.
“I didn’t like that story,” said Anne, “tell me about naughty children
and fairies. That’s prettier....”
The clockmaker probably did not hear the child’s voice. He sat in
his low chair as if listening for someone’s steps, the steps of one
who had passed away. He thought of his tale, of his brother, of
Barbara, of himself.
The builder closed the book. He got up.
“Let us go. It is late.”
 And the two Ulwings took leave of each other for the winter.
On the bridge over the Danube the sixteen lamps were already
alight. Their light dropped at equal distances into the river. The
water played for a time with the beams, then left them behind. It
continued its way in darkness towards the rock of St. Gellert’s
Mount. Only the chill of its big wet mass was perceptible in the
night.
The snow began to fall anew. A light flared up here and there in
the window of a house near the shore. The sound of horns was
audible on the Danube.
On the bridge, Anne suddenly perceived her father. Young Ulwing
walked under the lamps with a girl. They were close together. When
they saw the builder and the child they separated rapidly and the girl
ran in haste to the other side of the bridge.
Christopher Ulwing called his son.
Leaning against the railing, John Hubert waited for them; he was
for ever leaning on something. When they reached him, he took hold
of the little girl’s free hand as if he wanted to put her between
himself and his father.
Anne was afraid. She felt that something was going on in the
silence over her head. She drew her shoulders up. The two men did
not speak for a long time to each other. They walked with unequal,
apparently antagonistic steps and dragged the trembling child
between them.
It was Christopher Ulwing who broke the silence. He shouted
angrily:
“You promised not to go to her while I was alive! Can’t I even
trust your word?”
“But, sir, don’t forget the child is here!”
“She won’t understand,” retorted the builder sharply.
Anne understood the words quite clearly, but what she heard did
not interest her. Her thoughts were otherwise engaged. She felt
keenly that two hands opposed to each other were pressing her on
either side and that some community of feeling had arisen between
her father and herself. They both feared someone who was stronger
than they.
“I went to meet you, sir,” grumbled John Hubert, “and met her by
chance on the bridge.”
Christopher Ulwing stopped dead.
“Is that the truth?”
“I never told lies.” Young Ulwing’s voice was honest and sad. It
sounded as if he laid great weight on what he said because it had
cost him so dear.
The builder, still angry, drew out his snuff box. He tapped it
sharply and opened it.
For ever so long there had lived in this box a quaint old tune. It
woke at the blow and the snuff box began to play.
“Confound it,” exclaimed Christopher Ulwing, and tapped it again
to silence it, but the box continued to play.
The two men, as though they had been interrupted by a comic
interlude, stopped talking. The builder returned the box into his
pocket. Anne bent her head close to her grandfather’s coat. There
was now a sound in it as if a band of little Christopher’s tin soldiers
were playing prettily, delicately, far, far away.
Florian was waiting with a lantern at the bridgehead on the Pest
side. Many small lamps moved through the silence. Snow fell in the
dark streets.
But now Anne was leaning her tired head fully on her
grandfather’s pocket. “More!” she said gently over and over again
and inhaled the music of the snuff box just as Mamsell Tini breathed
in the lavender perfume from her prayer book.
 CHAPTER III
Winter came many times. Summer came many times. The children
did not count them. Meanwhile an iron chain bridge had grown
together from the two banks of the Danube. Even when the ice was
drifting it was not taken to pieces; it was beautiful and remained
there all the year. The Town Council had planted rows of trees along
the streets. Oil lamps burnt in the streets at nightfall and the Ulwing
house no longer stood alone on the shore. The value of the ground
owned by the great carpenter had soared. Walls grew up from the
sand. Streets started on the waste land, stopped, went on again.
Work, life, houses, brick-built houses, everywhere.
Everything changed; only Ulwing the builder remained the same.
His clever eyes remained sharp and clear. He walked erect on the
scaffoldings, in the office, in the timber yard. He was a head taller
than anybody else. They feared him at the Town Hall and the
contractors hated him. He quietly went on buying and building and
gradually the belief became a common superstition that everything
the great carpenter touched turned into gold.
Indoors, in the quiet safe well-being of the house, the marble
clock continued to tick monotonously, but the children had long ago
lost the belief that it was a lame dwarf who hobbled through the
rooms. For a long time Christopher had even realized that there
were no fairies. His grandfather had told him so. He shouted at him
and took him by the shoulders:
“Do you hear, little one, there are no fairies to help us. Only
weaklings expect miracles, the strong perform miracles.”
Little Christopher often remembered his grandfather killing his
fairies. What a terrible, superior being he seemed to be! He felt like
crying; if there were no fairies, he wondered, what filled the
darkness, the water of the well, the flames? What lived in them? And
while he searched in bewilderment his eyes seemed to snatch for
support like the hands of a drowning man.
He grew resigned, however, and called the “world’s end” the
timber yard, just like any grown-up. Under his rarely moving eyelids
his pale eyes would look indifferently into the air. Only his voice
showed signs of disillusion whenever he imitated his seniors and
spoke in their language of doings once dear to him.
The years passed by and the magic cave under the wall of the
courtyard became a ditch, the terrifying iron gate an attic door and
the stove fairies ordinary flames. The piano mice too came to an
end. When a string cracked now and then in the house, Christopher
opened his eyes widely and stared into the darkness which had
become void to him.
“Anne, are you asleep?”
“Yes, long ago.”
“I had such a funny dream ... of a girl. She raised her arms and
leaned back.”
“Go to sleep.”
Before Christopher’s eyes the darkness (forsaken by dwarfs and
fairies since he had given up believing in them) became
incomprehensibly populated. He saw the girl of whom he had
dreamt, her face, her body too. She was tall and slender, her bosom
rigid, she lifted both her arms and twisted her hair like a black mane
round her head. Just like the sister of Gabriel Hosszu before the
looking-glass when he peeped at her last Sunday through the
keyhole.
“Anne....”
The boy listened with his mouth open. Everything was silent in the
house. Suddenly he pulled the blanket over his head. He began to
tell stories to himself. He told how the King wore a golden crown and
lived up on the hill in a white castle. It was never dark in the castle,
tallow candles burnt all the night. His bed was guarded by slaves,
slaves did his lessons for him, slaves brought a dark-eyed princess to
him. Chains rattled on the princess. “Take them off!” he commanded.
“You are free.” The princess knelt down at his feet and asked what
she should give him for his pardon. “Take your hair down and twist it
up again,” he said, said it quite simply and smiled. And the princess
took her hair down many times and many times twisted it up
again.... He fell asleep and still he smiled.
He got into the way of dreaming stories. If, while day-dreaming,
somebody addressed him unexpectedly, it made him jump and
blush, as though caught in the act of doing wrong. Then he would
run to his school books and try hard to do some work. He learned
with ease; once read, his lesson was learnt, but he could not fix his
attention for any time. Instead of that, he drew fantastic castles,
girls and long-eared cats on the margins of his copy book. While he
was thus engaged, his conscience was painfully active and reminded
him incessantly that he was expected to study the reign of King Béla
III or the course of the tributaries of the Danube. Perspiration
appeared upon his brow. In his terror he could not do his work.
Every boy up to the letter U had already been called up in school
and he was sure that his turn would come next day.
As he had expected, he was questioned and knew nothing. A fly
buzzed in the air. He felt as though it buzzed within his head. The
boys laughed. Gabriel Hosszu prompted aloud, Adam Walter held his
book in front of him, the master scolded. But, when the year came
to an end, nobody dared to plough the grandson of Ulwing the
builder. Christopher began to perceive that some invisible power
protected him everywhere. The master told him the questions of the
coming examination. For a few coloured marbles Gabriel Hosszu
prompted him in Latin. For a half penny little Gál, the hunchback, did
his arithmetic homework.
“Things end by coming all right,” thought Christopher, when the
terrifying thought of school intruded while he drew cats or modelled
clay men in the garden instead of doing his homework.
“That boy can do anything he likes,” said old Ulwing, delighted
with Christopher’s drawings, and locked them carefully away in one
of the many drawers of his writing-table.
 This frightened Christopher. What did the grown-up people want
to do with him? He lost his pleasure in drawing and gave up
modelling clay men in the courtyard. He became envious of Anne.
She had little to learn and nobody expected great things from her.
About this time Anne began to feel lonely. Her bewildered eyes
seemed in search of explanations. She grew fast and her silvery fair
hair became darker as if something had cast a shadow over it.
Mrs. Füger pushed her spectacles up into the starched frills of her
bonnet and looked at her attentively.
“Just now you held your head exactly as your mother used to.
Dear good Mrs. Christina!”
Hearing this, Anne, who stood in the middle of the back garden,
leaned her head still more sideways. However, it puzzled her that a
person who was still a child could possibly resemble somebody who
was so very old as to have gone to heaven. Mrs. Füger smiled
strangely. In her old mind, Anne’s mother, who had died young,
could not age and remained for ever so; while this young girl, who
had no memory of her mother, thought of her as incredibly old.
“Mrs. Christina was sixteen years old when young Mr. Ulwing
asked Ulrich Jörg for her hand. Sixteen years old. When she came
here she brought dolls with her too. She would have liked to play
battledore and shuttlecock with her husband in the garden. Every
evening she would slip in here and ask me to tell her stories.”
As if she had been called, Anne ran across Mrs. Henrietta’s
threshold. The house smelt of freshly scrubbed boards. Many
preserve bottles stood in a row on the top of the wardrobe. Now and
then, the cracking of a dry parchment cover would interrupt the
silence. Anne crouched down on a footstool and surveyed the room.
It was full of embroidery. “Keys” was embroidered in German
character on the keyboard, “Sleep well” on a cushion and “Brushes”
on a bag.
“The Fügers must be very absent-minded people,” mused the little
girl; “it is obvious what all these things are meant for, and yet they
have to label them.”
 Mrs. Henrietta sighed. She could sigh most depressingly. When
she did so, her nostrils dilated and she shut her eyes.
“Many a time did Mrs. Christina sit here and make me tell her
ghost stories. She loved to be frightened—like a child. She was
afraid of everything: of moths, of the cracking of the furniture, of the
master’s voice, of ghosts. At night she did not dare to cross the
garden; Leopoldine had to take her hand and go with her.”
“Leopoldine? Who was she?”
“My daughter.” Mrs. Füger’s eyes wandered over a picture hanging
on the wall of the bay window. It represented a grave with weeping
willows, made of hair, surrounded by an inscription in beads: “Love
Eternal.”
“Is she in heaven too?”
“No. Never mention her. Füger has forbidden it.”
“Why?”
“Children must not ask questions.”
“Mamsell always gives the same answer and says God will whisper
to me what I ought to know. But God never whispers to me.”
“Mrs. Christina talked just like that. She too wanted to know
everything. When the maids cast fortunes with candle drippings she
was for ever listening to their talk. Then she blushed, laughed and
sang and played the piano. Then the men in the timber yard stopped
work.”
Anne drew her knees up to her chin.
“Could she sing too?”
Mrs. Füger made a sign of rapture. “Sing? That was her very life.
She entered this place like a song, and left it like one. It rang
through the house and before we could grasp it, it was gone.”
The little girl did not hear the old lady’s last words. She was gone
and suddenly found herself in her mother’s room. She knelt down on
the small couch. There hung on the wall the portrait, which she had
always seen, but which she now examined for the first time.
 The delicate water-colour represented a girl who seemed a mere
child. She looked sweet and timid. Her auburn hair, parted by a
shining line in the middle, was gathered by a large comb on the top
of her head like a bow; ringlets fell on the side of her face. The
childish outline of her shoulders emerged from a low-cut dress. Her
hand held a rose gracefully in an uncomfortable position.
Anne felt that if she came back she could talk to her about many
things of which Mamsell and all the others seemed ignorant. She
thought of the daughters of Müller the apothecary, of the Jörgs and
the Hosszu families, Gál the little hunchback, of the son of Walter
the wholesale linen-draper, the Münster children. All had mothers.
Everybody—only she had none.
And then, like a cry of distress, she spoke a word, but so gently
that she did not hear it, just felt it shape itself between her lips.
Nearer and nearer she bent to the picture and now she did hear in
the silence her own faint, veiled voice say the word which one
cannot pronounce without bestowing a repeated kiss on one’s lips in
uttering it: “Mamma!”
She turned suddenly round. Something like a feeling of shame
came over her for talking aloud when there was nobody in the room,
nothing but a ray of the sun on the piano.
Anne slid down from the couch and opened the piano. It was
dusty. She stroked a key with her little finger. An unexpected sound
rose from the instrument, a warm clear sound like the flare of a
tinder box. It died down suddenly. She struck another key; another
flare. She drew her hand over many keys; many flares, quite a din.
She put her head back and stared upwards as if she saw the flaring
little flames of the notes.
Somebody stroked her face. Her father.
“Would you like to learn to play the piano?”
She did not answer. It was without learning that she would have
liked to play and to sing, so beautifully that even the men in the
timber yard would lay down their work.
John Hubert became thoughtful.
 “All the Jörgs were fond of music. Music was the very life of your
mother.”
Gently Anne opened her blue eyes with a green glitter in them.
“Yes,” she said with determination, “I want to learn.”
Next day, a gentleman of solemn appearance came to the house;
his name was Casimir Sztaviarsky. He was at that time the most
fashionable dancing and music master in town. He wore a coal-black
wig, he walked on the tip of his toes, he balanced his hips and
received sixpence per hour. He mentioned frequently that he was a
descendant of Polish kings. When he was angry he spoke Polish.
After her lessons, Anne learned many things from him. Sztaviarsky
spoke to her about Chopin, the citizens’ choir in Pest, Mozart,
grandfather Jörg who played the ’cello well and played the organ on
Sundays in the church of the Franciscan friars.
The little girl began to be interested in her grandfather Jörg to
whom she had not hitherto paid much attention. He was different
from the Ulwings. The children thought him funny and often looked
at each other knowingly behind his back while he was rubbing his
hands and bowing with short brisk nods to the customers of his
bookshop.
Anne blushed for him. She did not like to see him do this and her
glance fell on grandfather Ulwing. He did not bow to anybody.
Ulrich Jörg’s bookshop was at the corner of Snake Street. A seat
was fixed in the wall near the entrance in front of which an apple
tree grew in the middle of the road. The passing carriages drove
round it with much noise.
Anne thrust her head in at the door. Ulwing the builder removed
his wide-brimmed grey beaver.
The perfume of the apple-blossom filled the shop. Grandfather
Jörg came smiling to meet them; he emerged with short steps from
behind a bookcase which, reaching up to the ceiling, divided the
shop into two from end to end. The front part was used by ordinary
customers. Behind the bookcase, shielded from the view of the
street, some gentlemen sat, mostly in Magyar costumes, on a sofa
near a tallow candle and conversed hurriedly, continuously.
They were more numerous than usual. A young man, wearing a
dolman, sat in the middle on the edge of the writing table. His neck
stretched bare from his soft open shirt collar. His hair was
uncombed, his eyes were wonderfully large and aflame.
For the first time in her life Anne realized how beautiful the human
eye could be. Then she noticed, however, that the young man’s
worn-out boots were battering the brass fittings of Grandfather
Jörg’s writing table while he was speaking and that his disorderly
movements upset everything within his reach. She thought him
wanting in respect. So she returned to the other side of the
bookcase and resumed the reading of the book her grandfather had
chosen for her. It was about a Scotch boy called Robinson Crusoe.
More people came to the shop. Nobody bought a book. And even
the old men looked as if they were still young.
The feverish, clumsy man behind the bookcase went on talking
and at times one could hear the heels of his boots knock against the
brass fittings. Anne did not pay any attention to what he said. The
book fascinated her. One word, however, did reach her ears several
times from behind. But the word did not penetrate her intellect. It
just remained a repeated sound.
In the middle of the shop stood a gentleman. He had a bony face
and he wore a beard only under his chin. And from the pocket of his
tight breeches a beribboned tobacco pouch dangled.
The man next to him urged him on. “You can speak out, we are
among ourselves.”
The man with a bony face showed a manuscript. “I have searched
in vain since this morning. People are afraid for their skins. There is
not a printer in Pest who dares set up this proclamation.”
Ulrich Jörg leaned over the paper. His bald head reflected the light
and the wreath of yellowish white hair round his ear moved in a
funny way.
 “This is not a proclamation,” somebody whispered. “This means
revolution!”
Ulrich Jörg stretched out his hand.
“My printing works will see this through.” He said this so quietly
and simply, that Anne could not understand why all these gentlemen
should throng suddenly round him. But when she cast her eyes on
him, he no longer looked funny. His small eyes glittered under the
white eyelashes and his face resembled that of St. Peter in her little
Bible.
Two boys rushed past the door. With shrill voices they shouted:
“Freedom!”
Anne recognised the word she had heard from behind the
bookcase. Mere boys clamoured for it too. How simple! Everybody
wanted the same thing. Freedom! Somehow it seemed to her that
there was some connection between that word and another. Youth!
And yet another. Whatever was it? She thought of the awkward
youth’s feverish eye.
From the direction of the Town Hall people came running down
the street; artisans, women, students, servants. The actors of the
German theatre were among them too. Anne recognised the robber-
knight and the queen. The queen’s petticoat was torn.
“Hurray for the freedom of the press. Down with the censor!”
Ulwing the builder, who till then had seemed indifferent, nodded
emphatically. He thought of the censor at Buda, then he could not
help smiling to himself: from what a small angle does man
contemplate the world, the world that is so wide!
The pavement resounded with many hurried steps. More people
came. They too were running, gesticulating wildly, colliding with
each other. All of a sudden, a voice became audible outside, a voice
like that of spring, penetrating the air irresistibly.
Somebody spoke.
The bookshop became silent. The men rose. The voice came to
fetch them. The windows of the houses on the other side of the
street were opened. The voice penetrated the dwellings of the
German burghers. It filled the stuffy rooms, the mouldy shops, the
streets, and whatever it touched caught fire. This voice was the
music of a conflagration.
Christopher Ulwing went to the door. He stopped at the threshold.
Behind him the whole shop began to move. Men thronged beside
him into the street. Ulrich Jörg hurried with short, fast steps side by
side with the big-headed shop assistant. All ran. The builder too,
unable to resist, began to run.
From the street he shouted back to Anne: “You stay there!”
The bookshop had become empty and the little girl looked
anxiously around; then, as if listening to music, she leaned her head
against the door-post. She could not see the speaker, he was far
away. Only the sound of his voice reached her ear, yet she felt that
what now happened was strangely new to her. A delightful shudder
rippled down her back. The voice made her feel giddy, it rocked her,
called her, carried her away. She did not resist but abandoned
herself to it and little Anne Ulwing was unconsciously carried away
by the great Hungarian spring which had now appealed to her for
the first time.
When the invisible voice died away, the crowd raised a shout. A
student began to sing at the top of his voice in front of the shop. All
at once, the song was taken up by the whole street, a song which
Anne was to hear often in days to come. The student climbed the
apple tree nimbly and waved his hat wildly. His face was aflame; the
branches swayed under his weight and the white blossoms covered
the pavement.
Anne would have liked to wave her handkerchief. She longed to
sing like the student. General, infinite happiness was floating in the
air. People embraced and ran.
“Freedom!”
A quaint figure approached down the street. He crawled along the
walls with careful, hesitating steps. He stopped every now and then
and looked anxiously around. His purple tail-coat fluttered
ridiculously, white stockings fell in thick folds over buckled shoes.
 Anne felt embarrassed, afraid. She had never yet seen Uncle
Sebastian like this in the street, in Pest. Involuntarily, she shrank
behind the door. “Perhaps he won’t see me. Perhaps he will walk
on....” And the thought of the feverish eyes, and the word she had
connected with youth.... And the voice.... Uncle Sebastian was so old
and so far away.
Anne cast her eyes down while the rusty buckles of a pair of
clumsy shoes came slowly nearer and nearer on the pavement.
The student in the tree roared with laughter.
“What sort of scarecrow is this? What olden times are a-walking?”
Anne became sad and tears rose to her eyes.
“He is mine!” She sobbed in despair and opened her arms towards
the old man.
Uncle Sebastian had noticed nothing of all this. He sat down on
the bench in front of the bookshop, put his hat on the ground and
wiped his forehead for a long time with his enormous gaudy
handkerchief.
“I just came here in time. What an upheaval! What are we coming
to! What will be the end of this?”
Again Anne felt a wide gulf between herself and the old man, and
she moved all the closer up to him so that people who laughed at
Uncle Sebastian might know that they belonged together.
 CHAPTER IV
Wind had removed the vernal glory of the apple tree in front of the
bookshop in Snake Street. Summer passed away too.
Anne leaned her forehead against the window pane. A sound
came from outside as if a drum were being beaten underground.
The heavy steps of the new national guard rang rhythmically along
the ground. The house heard it too and echoed it from its porch.
In those times soldiers were frequently seen from the window,
and when Mamsell Tini took Anne to the school of the English nuns,
the walls were covered with posters. Crowds gathered before them.
People stretched their necks to get a glimpse. Anne too would have
liked to stop, but not for anything in the world would Mamsell Tini
let her do so.
“A respectable person must never loiter in the streets.”
A boy stood on the kerb of the pavement.
“What is there on those posters?” Anne asked as she passed.
“War news ...” and the boy began to whistle. An old woman
passed on the opposite corner. She was wiping her eyes on the
corner of her apron.
“War news....” Anne stared at the old lady and these words
acquired a sad significance in her mind.
At dinner she watched her grandfather and father attentively. They
talked of business and in between they were perfectly calm and ate
a hearty meal.
“Everybody is just the same as ever,” she reflected. “Perhaps the
war news is not true after all.” Suddenly all this was forgotten. Her
father just mentioned that the children would take dancing lessons
every Sunday afternoon in Geramb’s educational institute.
 “It is a smart place,” said John Hubert. “Baron Szepesy’s young
ladies go there and Bajmoczy the Septemvir’s daughters.” He
pronounced the name “Bajmoczy” slowly, respectfully, and looked
round to see the effect it produced on his audience.
Next Sunday, Anne thought of nothing but the dancing school,
even when she was at Mass. She stood up, knelt down, but it meant
nothing to her. She traced with her finger the engraved inscription
on the pew: “Ulwing family.” And they alone were allowed to sit in
this pew though it was nearest the altar.
Gál, the wine merchant, stood there under the pulpit, and Mr.
Walter the wholesale linen merchant of Idol Street had no pew. Even
the Hosszu family sat further back than they, though they owned
water mills and the millers of the Danube bowed to them.
Anne classified the inhabitants of the parish according to their
pews. During the exhibition of the Host, while she smote her chest
with her little fist, she decided that her grandfather ranked before
everybody else.
All this time, Christopher Ulwing inclined his head and prayed
devoutedly.
When Anne looked up again, she saw something queer. Though
turning towards the altar, little Christopher was looking sideways.
She followed his eyes; her glance fell on Sophie Hosszu. Sophie
leaned her forehead on her clasped hands. Only the lovely outline of
her face was visible. Over her half-closed eyes her long black
eyelashes lay in the shade.... Christopher, however, now sat stiffly,
with downcast eyes, in the pew. Anne could scarcely refrain from
laughing.
Later the hours seemed to get longer and longer and it appeared
as if that afternoon would never come to an end. The children
became fidgety. The maid brought some leather shoes from the
wardrobe; Anne addressed her reproachfully:
“Oh, Netti, don’t you know? To-day I am to wear my new prunella
boots!”
 Her apple-green cashmere frock was hanging from the window
bolts. The black velvet coat was spread on the piano. Since last year
Anne had occupied her mother’s former room. The nursery had
become the boy’s sole property. Christopher too was standing in
front of the mirror. He was parting his fair, white-glimmering hair on
one side; it was so soft it looked as if the wind had blown it
sideways. He was pleased with himself and while he bent his soft
shirt collar over his shoulders he started whistling. He never forgot a
melody he had once heard. He whistled as sweetly as a bird.
The rattle of wheels echoed under the porch. The two “pillar men”
glanced into the windows of the fast receding coach.
In Sebastian Square, in front of Baroness Geramb’s educational
institute, three coaches were waiting. On one of them a liveried
footman sat beside the coachman. This filled Christopher with envy.
He thought that it would be a good idea to bring Florian, too, next
Sunday.
“Mind you don’t forget to kiss the ladies’ hands!” said John Hubert
while they crossed a murky corridor. Then a tall white-glazed door
led into a sombre dark room. Crooked tallow candles lit it up from
the top of the wardrobes. Their mild light showed Sztaviarsky,
hopping on tiptoe to and fro, and a row of little girls in crinolines and
boys in white collars. Between the wings of another door and in the
adjoining room ladies and gentlemen sat on uncomfortable chairs.
Through lorgnettes on long handles, they inspected each other’s
children.
Christopher at once perceived Sophie Hosszu among the grown-up
people. Though Gabriel had told him she would be there, it gave him
a shock.
“Go and kiss hands,” whispered John Hubert. The boy leant
forward with such zeal that he knocked his nose into the ivory hand
of the Baroness Geramb. He also kissed the other ladies’ hands.
When he came to Sophie he stared for a moment helplessly at the
young girl. Sophie snatched her hand away and laughed.
“But, Sophie!” said Baroness Geramb in her expiring voice and the
ringlets dangled on the side of her face. She was not pleased with
her former pupil. Christopher tripped over a hooped petticoat, and in
his embarrassment felt as if he wanted to cry.
In the other room, Sztaviarsky held the two tails of his alpaca
evening suit high up in his hands. He was showing one of the
Bajmoczy girls how to bow.
“Demoiselle Bertha, pray, pray, attention,” and then he murmured
something in Polish.
There was a commotion at the door. “Mrs. Septemvir” Bajmoczy
went to her daughter. Her silk dress rustled as it slid along the floor.
She was tall and corpulent; her head was bent backwards and she
always looked down on things.
This irritated Sztaviarsky all the more. He sucked his cheek in and
looked round in search of a victim. “Demoiselle Ulwing, show us how
to make a bow!”
“But I don’t know yet....” Anne said this very low, and had a
feeling as if the floor had caught hold of her heel. She could only
advance slowly on tiptoe. She bent her head sideways and her side
ringlets touched her shoulders. Her hand clung to her cashmere
petticoat.
The silence was interrupted by Sztaviarsky’s voice:
“One.... Two ... complimentum.”
Meanwhile John Hubert sat solemnly on a high, uncomfortable
chair and, contrary to his habit, kept himself erect and never leaned
back once. It seemed to Anne that he nodded contentedly.
Everybody nodded. How good everybody was to her ... and she
started to go to Bertha Bajmoczy. But the Pole stopped her with a
sign. The lesson continued.
Studies in school suffered seriously that week. Twice Christopher
was given impositions.
The Sundays passed.... In the Geramb educational institute’s cold,
sombre drawing room the children were already learning the
gavotte.
It was towards the end of a lesson. The crooked tallow candles on
the top of the wardrobe had burnt nearly to the end. Sztaviarsky
was muttering Polish. Bertha Bajmoczy, wherever she stepped,
tripped over her own foot. All of a sudden, she began to weep. The
young Baroness Szepesy ran to her; Martha Illey stood in the middle
of the room and laughed wickedly; Anne had to laugh too. The boys
roared.
“Mes enfants.... Silence!” Baroness Geramb’s voice was more
expiring than ever and her face was stern.
Silence was restored. Bertha wiped her eyes furiously. She
happened to look at Anne.
“Since she came here everything has gone wrong.”
Clemence Szepesy nodded and pinched her sharp nose. Anne paid
no attention to this. She looked at her father in surprise. He stood
beside Sophie Hosszu, leaning against the high, white panel of the
door. While he talked, he kept one of his hands stuck in his
waistcoat, which was adorned with many tiny flowers. With the
other he now and then smoothed his thick fair hair back from his
brow which it bordered in a graceful curve. He smiled. Until now
Anne had never noticed that her father was still a young man.
The dancing lesson was over. Walking down the poorly lit
staircase, she heard more talk behind her. Just where the curving
staircase turned, she was hidden from those coming from above.
“Her grandfather was an ordinary carpenter,” said Clemence
Szepesy.
“Par exemple, what is that, a carpenter?”
“It’s the sort of fellow,” came the voice from above, “who worked
last spring on the beams of our attics.”
“Really such people ought not to be admitted into gentlefolks’
society.” It was Bertha’s voice.
At first, Anne did not realise whom they were discussing—only
later. How dared they speak like that of her grandfather! Of Ulwing,
the master builder! Of him who sat in the first pew in church and
before whom even the aldermen stood bare-headed!
She turned round sharply. Those behind found themselves
suddenly face to face with her. They slunk away to the balustrade.
Anne gazed at them bewildered, then her countenance became sad
and scared. She had just discovered something vile and dangerous
that had been hitherto concealed from her by those she loved. She
was taught for the first time in her short life that people could be
wicked; she had always thought that everybody was kind. Her soul
had till then gone out with open arms to all human beings without
discrimination; now it felt itself rebuffed.
On the drive home she sat silently in the coach. Her father spoke
of the Septemvir Bajmoczy and his family. He pronounced the name
respectfully, with unction. This irritated Anne at first. But her father’s
and her brother’s content pained her only for an instant. She set her
teeth and decided that she would not tell them what had happened
on the staircase. She felt sorry for them, more so than for herself,
and for the sake of their happiness and peace of mind she charitably
burdened her maiden soul with the heavy weight of her first secret.
 CHAPTER V
Sunday had come round again. Christopher went alone with his
father to the dancing lesson.
“I should like to stay at home,” said Anne, in her timid, veiled
voice. She looked so imploring that they let her have her way.
At the usual hour in the afternoon the bell sounded at the gate.
Uncle Sebastian stood between its pillars.
Anne ran to meet him. From his writing table the builder nodded
his head.
“Sit down.” He continued to write close small numbers into a linen-
bound book. He did not put his pen down till Netti appeared with
coffee on the parrot-painted tray. The steam of the milkcan passed
yellow through the light of the candle. The smell of coffee
penetrated the room. The two old men now talked of days gone by.
“Things were better then,” growled Uncle Sebastian every now
and then, without ever attempting to justify his statement.
Meanwhile he dipped big pieces of white bread into his coffee. He
brushed the crumbs into his hand and put them into his waistcoat
pocket for the birds.
It struck Anne that her grandfather never spoke to Uncle
Sebastian as he spoke to adults, but rather in the way he had with
her and Christopher. At first he seemed indulgent, later he became
impatient.
“So it was better then, was it?” And he told the tale of some noble
gentleman who had had one of his serfs thrashed half-dead because
he dared to pick flowers under the castle window for his bride. The
girl was beautiful. The gentleman looked at her and sent the serf to
the army against Buonaparte as a grenadier—for life.
“Nowadays, the noble gentlemen go themselves to war, and in our
parts they even share their land with their former serfs. Do you
understand, Sebastian? Without compulsion, of their own free will.”
“Are we noble too?” asked Anne from her corner of the check-
covered couch.
The two old men looked at each other. They burst into a good-
humoured laugh. The builder rose and took a much-worn booklet
out of the writing desk. On the binding of the book a double-headed
eagle held the arms of Hungary between its claws.
“This is my patent of nobility. I have sold neither myself nor
anybody else for it.”
Anne opened the book and spelt out slowly the old-fashioned
writing:
“Pozsony. Anno Domini 1797.... Christopher Ulwing. Sixteen years
old. Stature: tall. Face: long. Hair: fair. Eyes: blue. Occupation: civil
carpenter.”
Anne blushed.
“That was I,” and the master builder put his hand on the passport.
Then, with quaint satisfaction, he looked round the room as if
exhibiting with his eyes the comfort he had earned by his labour. For
the first time Anne understood this look which she had observed on
her grandfather’s face on countless occasions.
“I am a free citizen,” said Christopher Ulwing. The words
embellished, gave power to his sharp, metallic voice. Unconsciously,
Anne imitated with her small head the old man’s gesture.
The thoughts of Sebastian Ulwing moved less quickly. They stuck
at the passport.
“Do you remember?...” These words carried the old men beyond
the years. They talked of the mail-coach which had overturned at
the gate of Hatvan. Of the mounted courier from Vienna, how they
made him drunk at the Three Roses Inn. The gunsmith, the
chirurgeon and other powerful artisans held him down while the bell-
founder cut his pig-tail off though there was a wire inside to curl it
up on his back.
The builder got tired of this subject. He became serious.
 “It was all pig-tails then. People wore them in their very brains.
Withal, times are better now....”
Sebastian Ulwing shook his head obstinately. Suddenly his face lit
up, as if he had found the reason for all his statements.
“We were young then.” He uttered this modestly and smiled. “My
head turns when I remember your putting shingles on the roof of
the parish church. You sat on the crest-beam and dangled your feet
towards the Danube. Wouldn’t you get giddy now if you were sent
there!”
Anne, immobile, watched her grandfather’s hand lying near her on
the table. And as if she wanted to atone for the injury inflicted by
the strange girls, she bent over and kissed it.
“What’s that?” Christopher Ulwing withdrew his hand absent-
mindedly.
Anne cast her eyes down, for she felt as if she had exhibited a
feeling the others could not understand.... Then she slipped
unobserved out of the room.... In the sunshine room a volume lay
on the music chest. On the green marbled cover were printed the
words “Nursery Songs,” surrounded by a wreath. On the first page a
faded inscription, Christina Jörg, Anno 1822. Anne sat down to the
piano. Her small fingers erred for some time hesitatingly over the
keys. Then she began to sing sweetly one of the songs:

Two prentice lads once wandered

To strange lands, far away....

Shy, untrained, the little song rose. Her voice, veiled when she
talked, rang out clear when she was singing. She herself was struck
by this difference and it seemed to her that till this moment she had
been mute all her life. She felt elated by the discovery of the power
to express herself without risking the mocking derision of the others;
now her grandfather would not draw his hand away from her.
 Two prentice lads once wandered,
To strange lands, far away....

Uncle Sebastian rose from his armchair and carefully opened the
dining-room door. For a long time, the two old men listened....
Christopher came home from the dancing class. He rushed to
Anne noisily. His eyes gleamed with boyish delight. A faded flower
was stuck in his buttonhole. His hand went for ever up to the flower.
He talked and talked, leaning his elbows on the piano. Anne looked
at him surprised; she found him handsome. Half his face was hidden
by the curls of his girlish hair. His upper lip was drawn up slightly by
the upward bent of his small nose. This gave him a charming,
startled expression, not to be found in any other member of the
Ulwing family. Instinctively, Anne looked at her mother’s portrait....
In the evening when bedtime came, Christopher searched
impatiently for his prayer book. He could not find it. He hid the
flower under his pillow.
For a long time, he lay with open eyes in the dark. Once he
whispered to himself: “Little Chris, I hope to see you again soon,”
and in doing so he tried to imitate Sophie’s intonation. Then he drew
his hand over his head slowly, gently, just as Sophie had done while
speaking to his father.
He went into a peaceful rapture. He repeated the stroking, the
words “Little Chris....” He repeated it often, so often that its charm
wore off. It was his own voice he heard now, his own hand he felt.
They ceased to cause a pleasant tremor; tired out, he went to sleep
over Sophie’s flower.
When Ulwing the builder went next morning into the dining-room
it was still practically dark. He always got up very early and liked to
take his breakfast alone. A candle burned in the middle of the table
and the flickering of its flame danced over the china and was
reflected in the mirror of the plate chest. The shadows of the chair-
backs were cast high up on the walls.
Christopher Ulwing read the paper rapidly.
 “Nonsense,” he thought. “Send an Imperial Commissioner with full
powers from Vienna? Why should they?” There was no other news
besides that in the newspaper, crowded though it was with small
print. As if the censor were at work again.
He carried the candle in his hand into the office. A big batch of
papers lay on the table. John Hubert’s regular, careful handwriting
was visible on all of them. The builder bent over his work, his pen
scratched spasmodically.
Facing him, the coloured map of Pest-Buda in its gilt frame
became lighter and lighter. The whitewashed wall of the room was
covered with plans. A couch stood near the stove and this was all
covered with papers.
Steps clattered outside in the silent morning. Occasionally the
shadow of a passing head fell on the low window and then small
round clouds ran over the paper under Christopher Ulwing’s pen.
Others came and went. Time passed. All of a sudden many furious
steps began running towards the Danube. The blades of
straightened scythes sparkled in the sun.
The servants ran to the gate.
“What has happened?”
A voice answered back:
“They have hanged the Imperial Commissioner on a lamp post!”
“No—they have torn him to pieces....”
“They stabbed him on the boat-bridge.”
“Is he dead?” asked a late-comer.
The builder put his pen down. He stared at the window as if an
awful face were grinning frightfully at him. “It has been coming for
months. Now it has happened....” Without any reason he picked up
his writings and laid them down again. He would have to get
accustomed to this too. His crooked chin disappeared stiffly in the
fold of his open collar and he resumed the addition of the numbers
which aligned themselves in a long column on the paper.
Outside they sang somewhere the song Anne had heard for the
first time from Grandfather Jörg’s shop. In the kitchen Netti was
beating cream to its rhythm. And in the evening, just as on any
other day, the lamps on the boat-bridge were lit, not excepting the
one on which a man had died that day. Its light was just as calm as
the other’s. The streets spoke no more of what had happened. In
the darkness the Danube washed the city’s bloody hand.
 CHAPTER VI
On Saturday a letter came from Baroness Geramb. There would be
no more dancing classes.
All the light seemed to go from Christopher’s eyes.
“But why?” said he, and hung his head sadly.
“Dancing is unbecoming when there is a war on.”
“So it is true? The war has come,” thought Anne, but still it
seemed to her unreal, distant. Just as if one had read about it in a
book. A book whose one-page chapters were stuck up every
morning on the walls of the houses.
It was after Christmas. The Danube was invisible. A dense, sticky
fog moved on the window panes. Christopher ran out shivering into
the dark morning. As usual, he was late; he had to leave his
breakfast and eat his bread and butter in the street. He had no idea
of his lesson. Behind him Florian carried a lantern. On winter
mornings he always lit the boy’s way till he reached the paved
streets.
On the pavement of the inner town a bandy-legged old man got in
front of Christopher. On one arm he had a large bundle of grimy
papers while a pot of glue dangled from the other. People in silent
crowds waited at the corners of the streets for him; when they had
read the fresh posters they walked away silent, dejected.
“What is happening? What do they want with us?” they asked.
People began to understand the grim realities of war; what was
happening now roused their understanding. They thronged in front
of the money-changers’ shops. Soldiers’ swords rattled on the
pavement. Everybody hurried as if he had some urgent business to
settle before nightfall.
Anne was at her music lesson when a huge black and yellow flag
was hoisted on a flagstaff on the bastions of Buda. In those times,
flags changed frequently.
“Freedom is dead,” said Sztaviarsky and cursed in Polish.
“Freedom!” Anne thought of the two feverish eyes. So it was for
freedom’s sake that there was a war? She now looked angrily on the
Croatian soldiers whom the Imperial officers had quartered on them.
The red-faced sergeant was eating a raw onion in the middle of the
courtyard. The soldiers, like clumsy big children, were throwing
snowballs. They trod on the shrubs, made havoc of everything. They
made a snow-man in front of the pump and covered the head with a
red cap like the one worn by Hungarian soldiers; then they riddled it
with bullets....
The snow-man had melted away. Slowly the lilac bushes in the
garden began to sprout. The Croatians were washing their dirty linen
near the pump. They stood half-naked near the troughs. The wind
blew soapsuds against their hairy chests.
All of a sudden an unusual bugle call was heard; it sounded like a
cry of distress. Anne ran to the window. Soldiers were running in
front of the house. In the courtyard the Croatians were snatching
their shirts from the trough and putting them on, all soaking. They
rode off after the rest and did not come back again.
A few days later, Anne dreamed at night that there was a
thunderstorm. Towards morning there was a sound in the room as if
peas by the handful were being thrown against the window panes—
many, many peas. Later, as if some invisible bodies were precipitated
through the air, every window of the house was set a-rattling.
“Put up the wooden shutters!” shouted the builder from the porch.
Christopher came breathlessly up the stairs. “School is closed!” His
pocket bulged with barley sugar and he was stuffing it into his
mouth, two pieces at a time.
John Hubert, who had run to school for Christopher, arrived
behind him. His lovely, well-groomed hair was hanging over his
forehead and the correct necktie had slipped to one side of his collar.
Gasping he called Florian and had the big gate locked behind him.
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