Kosztolányi Dezső - a translation from me

Dear all, I've come accross this short story a few days ago. It found me for no adequate reason so I decided that the encounter was because I had to share it with you. The writer is Kosztolányi Dezső and is called 'Öreg barackfa'. It is literature, although none of the words, word combinations or expressions differ significantly from the language we use everyday. I tried to give back the meaning on the surface and in behind - pls consider it as one of my attempts at translating Hungarian literature into English... Any suggestions grammatical- or otherwise are welcomed. Thanks. Kosztolányi Dezső, as you might have read in the Wikipedia was basically a poet. He did write poetry and although he is not my favourite poet at all, this piece of writing struck me in the heart. Update: Thanks Annina, for the grammatical and stylistic review.

Dezső Kosztolányi: An old apricot tree - a short story.

Mrs. Barber had the flat fixed up this autumn. When all the rooms have been re-painted and cleared up she noticed that the drawing room is still dark. In the courtyard, right in front of the window stood an old apricot. She made up her mind and called for a hand from the neighbours and addressed him:

- Cut this out.

The dayman leant a ladder to the tree and slowly began the sawing.

He started with the head. Large branches fell down, rattling, one after the other. Twigs uttered certain sighs of leaves.

This was when Mr. Barber arrived home.

- What is that you are getting done?

- I'm getting it cut out.

- Why?

- Because it took the light away. See how it becomes lighter already.

- Do you not regret the tree?

- The tree was old.

- How old it is?

- At least twenty.

- For how long do apricots live?

- I haven't the faintest idea.

Mr. Barber went into the library-room, fetched an encyclopaedia. He read out aloud:- 'Apricot. (Prunus Armeniaca). Has an average lifespan of thirty years.' So - he said thoughtfully -, it's just like as it was me.

-Tush!

-Yes, it is. I am now forty. First off comes my head, then my arms and thighs.

-It hardly had any fruits.

-But it blossomed.

-Oh, but you could not eat its fruits. Remember how small and sour those apricots were.

-Yet she bore them each year. Poor old lass. It was not her fault. She was quite diligent, you see. And do you believe that she does not feel all that's going on now?

-Perhaps.

-A scientist in India has discovered the central nervous system of trees. These can communicate. They use signs. It's only we that don't understand them...

The couple went out to the garden. The dayman was pulling out the trunk. The branches and twigs lay there on the ground, with leaves still green. The leaves whispered in the September wind.

- As if the tree was still alive - said the woman.

-It's the hair of the dead - said the man.

Later on, when the whole tree was chopped up and brought down to the basement as firewood for the winter, they both returned to the drawing room.

- It is definitely lighter here - added the woman - Isn't it?

- Sure.

- Positive! Be honest. Have you ever seen so clearly here at seven in the evening?

- No.

-Bessy! - Mrs. Barber called for the maid - It is lighter here, isn't it?

-Oh, really so, Madame.

-Well, wait for the winter. That's when we will really see.

Husband and wife settled in front of the window. They watched the space where the old apricot used to be and where only a fresh pile of ground heaped. They were speechless for a long time.

- Tell me - told the woman - isn't it lighter here?

- Absolutely - answered the man -, it is much lighter.

After that they stopped talking.

They both felt that it was much, much darker now.