While from Laszlo’s darting fingers the music still laughed and danced, Klara suddenly straightened up. Deeply sensitive, she had become aware of a slight movement in the salon beyond her: it was the Kanizsays getting ready to leave to catch the night train. Slowly she moved to the centre of the room from where she could see what was going on in the drawing-room and where she too could be seen.
The old Kanizsays were now saying goodbye. The princess went with them to the entrance hall and all the others followed to pay their respects, kiss hands, and say farewell to the guests of honour. After they had gone the princess turned to Laszlo.
‘How beautifully you play, Laci!’ she said. ‘Quite beautifully! I wish I had been able to hear and enjoy it more. You really do play well!’ and she touched her nephew’s cheek affectionately. ‘What a pity it’s so late! God knows I’m tired today.’ And, giving her hand to be kissed she started upstairs followed by the girls.
As they reached the first landing Klara looked back at Laszlo, lips parted again as they had been at the library window, as if she wanted to tell him something. She stood there just for a moment, and then she too was gone.
The next morning Laszlo slept late and it was already after ten when he awoke. Those few minutes with Klara in the library, and the release he had found in playing his music to her, had given a new turn to the doubts that had tortured him the day before. He was still not entirely happy about Montorio, but his doubts were now alloyed with new thoughts, new ideas, new hopes.
What had been Klara’s intention in standing so close to him at the library window? How slowly she had turned towards him! What was the question behind the deep look she had given him? Would she really have been angry if he had kissed her then? And later, at the piano, why had she remained standing, never looking at him, rather than sitting beside him as she had the previous evening? It was impossible that he could have in some way offended her for at the window …? And yet she had never once looked at him as he played! Again, when she gazed down from the stairs, had he imagined that her lips framed an unspoken question?
These thoughts had chased through his mind until he fell asleep, and were still with him when he awoke. Yet the world seemed better after a good night’s sleep and, as he lay in bed and stretched, he decided that he would stay on until Sunday evening for by then he would have found time to say so many things.
He dressed quickly, remembering that the girls usually came downstairs about eleven. When he was dressed he went to the library. There it would be the most natural thing in the world to glance through the great albums that lay open on the library tables, and from there, too, one could look out into the garden and hear steps on the stairs and in the entrance hall.
In the library all was silence and peace. On the upper shelves the books glowed mysteriously in the light from the long windows and the parquet floor that had seemed like ice in the twilight shone golden in the winter sun. The gilded titles on the leather-bound books glinted in the light. One side of the great room, that opposite the windows, was brilliantly lit, while the rest of the room which was not directly reached by the sunlight seemed dim in comparison; the doors to the entrance hall and the little spiral stair which led to the upper gallery were deep in shadow. The loveliness of the morning seemed a good omen to Laszlo as he stood there and waited to see what the day would bring.
After about a quarter of an hour Szabo the butler came in and in his ceremonial tones said: ‘Her Grace has asked if the noble Count would be so good as to visit Her Grace in her sitting-room upstairs!’ He then bowed with all the dignity of a court official and left the room.
‘What on earth is all this about?’ thought Laszlo. ‘What can I have done for Aunt Agnes to issue one of her summonses?’ He recalled the many occasions in his youth when regal commands would come from his aunt whenever any of the children were to be scolded into obedience.
Full of apprehension, Laszlo hurried upstairs by way of the little circular stair to the gallery and down the corridor that led to the small sitting-room out of which opened the princess’ bedroom. He was relieved to find his aunt, not on the fatal sofa but sitting in an armchair by the window.
‘My dear, dear Laci, come in! You’ve been here for five days and we’ve had no chance to talk.’ She stroked his hair as he bent to kiss her hand and then kissed him lightly on the forehead. She smiled fondly at him.
Nothing in her manner showed how worried she really was. It had only been the previous evening when her suspicions had been aroused. During the whole shooting party the princess had been disturbed and mystified by Klara’s indifference to Montorio’s wooing. A word or a glance from her and the prince would have offered marriage at any time during the last three days, but though Klara had entertained him obediently it was clear that she had only done what she had been told to do and that she had skilfully side-stepped any opportunity for the prince to declare himself. Why had she done this? What was the explanation for this behaviour, when everything depended on her, and only on her. It could not be mere caprice, for the princess knew her stepdaughter well enough to know that she was never capricious. Only one other reason was possible – the girl must have a ‘crush’ on someone else! That was it! Elle a un béguin! … but who?
Then the princess remembered how she had been told that on the first day of the shoot, before she had had her little talk with Klara, her stepdaughter had been twice with Laci during the afternoon instead of beside Montorio. And after Peter and Magda had rejoined her after saying goodbye to Prince Louis, it had been some time before Klara and Laszlo had come in together. Then there had been that long session at the piano after dinner the previous evening after which she had noticed a peculiar expression on the girl’s face, as if she were wrapped in remote dreams. Emotion was not good for young girls; neither was too much music. Young people should not remain alone together for long periods unless there were swarms of guests to occupy them! It was only the faintest of suspicions, barely formulated; nevertheless the princess decided that she must act at once. If it were true, no good would come of it. For this reason that she had sent for her nephew, and she would talk to him very sweetly.
‘Peter has told me what a great task you have undertaken at the Academy, how hard you study!’ The princess made it clear from her manner and way of speaking that she approved and sympathized with the path he had chosen. ‘Why should everyone feel they have to go into politics? It is wonderful if someone has a talent and wants to develop it. Dear Laci, I’m sure you will do great things with your music. You have a great talent! Still, it wasn’t very kind of you not to let us know you were back from Transylvania, not to write or send us word. You know how I’ve always been like a mother to you, don’t you! I was rather hurt, you know, but it doesn’t matter. At least you have been with us now.’ She was carefully to say ‘have been’ in the past tense, but Laszlo, starved of affection, was so grateful to her, so appreciative of her kindness to him, that the nuance escaped his attention.
Kissing her hand again to show how touched he was by her kind words he begged forgiveness for his neglect of them in Budapest and began to pour out to her all his plans and ambitions, what the professors had said of his work and, as always when he spoke of music, he became carried away by his enthusiasm, describing his visions of a new kind of music, of daring new forms and harmonies.
Though she hardly understood anything of what he was telling her the princess listened to him with apparent attention only occasionally interjecting an encouraging word: ‘Ah, how interesting that would be!’ or ‘Dear Laci, that’s beyond me!’
‘I love your enthusiasm, your devotion to your music. You must promise to play for me next time you come!’ This time Laszlo noticed what she was saying, the little phrase ‘next time you come’ tolled in his ears, for was he not planning to stay now, was he not here, ready, and could play for her that afternoon? But his aunt went on, not giving him the chance to speak: ‘What a pity, as you’re taking the midday train that there won’t be anoth
er chance today! I’ve ordered the big carriage for you, so you’ll be quite comfortable!’
The princess was still smiling, but her look was implacable, and her words were an order, severe and irreversible.
Laszlo felt suddenly cold, too stunned to find words.
‘Of course. Yes … the midday train. I don’t have much time!’
The princess, having delivered her broadside, continued to speak in the gentle, affectionate tone she had adopted since her nephew had come to her room. But though she talked gently, pouring the ointment of family affection into the wound she had herself just inflicted, she was watching Laszlo’s face with close attention. Was he in love with Klara? Was he courting her in secret? Princess Agnes still did not know, and Laszlo, accustomed as an orphan to hide his feelings in public, was careful to keep his face expressionless and not to allow anything in his words or manner to betray him. Blandly, therefore, he talked on for a little while and then rose to say goodbye.
‘I really must go and pack!’ he said as he bent over his aunt’s hand.
He closed the door of his aunt’s little sitting-room slowly, with perfect control, and then, though the main stair was closer he went automatically back to the library by the way he had come. After such a heavy, totally unexpected blow only his feet knew where they were leading him; in his mind he could only think: They’ve thrown me out! They’ve simply thrown me out! The words drummed in his brain: They’ve simply thrown me out!
He found himself on the little library stair and there, leaning against the carved railing, stood Klara.
‘Good morning, Laci,’ she said, coming towards him and holding out her hand. ‘I love to look down from here. Everything looks so different, so beautiful!’
Laszlo leaned on the smooth balustrade, with Klara so close that their shoulders touched. ‘Look down there,’ she went on. ‘See how strange it is, it only shines where the sun touches.’
They stood together in silence. Laszlo thought: I should take her in my arms now. Kiss her! One kiss at least before they throw me out! But before he could make a move the girl stirred slightly, straightened up and took a few steps along the library’s upper gallery. Then she turned, stood once more against the balustrade, her body leaning back: ‘These are all old French novels from the eighteenth century. Poor stuff, all very silly – but look how beautiful the bindings are!’
Again they stood side by side in silence, and again Laszlo thought: If only she’d look at me! If only she’d look at me as she did yesterday and I could be sure she would not be angry, then I would kiss her before they throw me out!
But again the moment passed, and Klara moved away, back across the landing, and stood in front of a door that faced that of the princess’s sitting-room. Leaning back against the doorway, she looked once more up into Laszlo’s face, her whole expression one of mute questioning, of expectancy. Now! thought Laszlo, Now! Take her in your arms, you ass, and kiss her! It’s obvious that’s what she wants, what she’s yearning for! As these thoughts crossed his mind, he glanced involuntarily at the door to his aunt’s room. Would she come out and for ever banish him from the house?
Perhaps Klara sensed what was in his mind, for she drew away and said lightly: ‘You’ve never seen my new little home? Papa’s just had this room done up for me.’
She opened the door and went in. It was a small room with just one window, furnished with English furniture upholstered in floral glazed chintz: even the walls were covered in the same material.
‘Isn’t it pretty? It’s so cool and smooth to the touch; I love to touch it!’
Laszlo stepped into the room behind her. They stood together by a chest of drawers. The girl raised her ringers to the wall. ‘It’s fresh and cool, just as if it had been iced!’ With the movement, her breast touched the young man’s arm. They were very close.
Now, at last, he put his arms round her and drew her even closer. Their lips met and for a long time they were sealed together in a long hungry kiss. Klara’s hand went up to Laszlo’s shoulder, her fingers searching the nape of his neck, caressing. Their kiss could have lasted forever for she seemed to promise herself to him with the last drop of strength in her. Her body was soft, yielding, seemingly without bones, nothing but melting flesh, yearning for fulfilment; and it was his, only his. Only when they had no more breath left did they draw apart.
‘You must go!’ whispered Klara. ‘Leave now, at once!’ Her arms held him away from her. ‘Go now! They’ll be looking for you. The carriage is already waiting.’
All along the bumpy country road to the railway station and in the train compartment itself, Laszlo felt himself to be riding on a soft billowing pink cloud. He felt no movement and saw nothing of the country, though it was bathed in a clear sober light and the fields and meadows stood out clearly in the bright winter sunshine. Everything around him had the unreality of a fairy tale and even when the carriage darkened as the train entered the station at Fehervar, it seemed the effect of magic and not because the carriage was in the shade of the station roof. Sitting looking out of the window as the train moved on, he saw nothing of the lake, bordered with ice, nothing of the reeds on the shore, nothing that passed before his eyes. Everything was a dream-land invisible to all but him.
Even the quite modest speed of the train was like a dizzying vortex. Laszlo felt as if he were borne on wings, being hastened to a blissful unknown paradise. Before his eyes there was the image of Klara looking at him with her mute, appealing gaze before she had lowered her lids over her ocean-coloured eyes in the ecstasy of their kiss.
He arrived at Budapest after what seemed like a journey of a few seconds only, still in the same disordered fever. By now it was night and the lights of the twin cities that were connected by the bridges over the great river were reflected a thousand-fold by the water beneath, a feast of glittering splendour placed there expressly to celebrate his joy.
When Laszlo arrived back at the house near the Museum, the porter’s assistant collected his bags from the fiacre while Laszlo himself ran ahead carrying only his gun-case. Once back in his little flat Laszlo hurriedly unpacked, putting his coats on their hangers and the other things in drawers, helter-skelter, not noticing what he was doing nor how crumpled everything was. And crumpled everything was, for when he had hurried to his room at Simonvasar he had thrown all his things into the suitcases, boots, jackets, evening clothes, shirts, pushing them down in no order, punching them and even stamping on the cases to close them with as much passion as if Montorio, the dead body of the vanquished Montorio, had been inside.
As soon as the cases had been emptied he went into the living-room, no longer minding the shabbiness of his humble little rented room. Now he gloried in it for it it seemed only right and suitable that it should be from here that he should start his road to fame, to dazzling success, to world-wide triumphs – and, above all, to Klara, that angel he would possess for ever and ever. Everything that he might obtain in life, the conquest of music, of society, the fame would only be an ornament, a wreath of gold and silver treasure to pile at her feet, to enhance her beauty, a diadem to crown her radiant head. Everything would be a tribute to Klara.
He paced up and down the little room, clasping his hands, flinging wide his arms, the fever which had mounted in him ever since the kiss in her room increasing in intensity until he could have climbed the walls to embrace the whole world.
He went over to the window and flung it open, the cold evening air rushing in as he gazed out over the darkness of the garden, past the huge block of the Museum to a dark shape in the distance: the Kollonich Palais. Ah! There he would at last be accepted, not as a childhood playmate, not as an amusing fellow who entertained the family and who, like a gramophone, could make music when people were bored, not as an elegant dancing partner or a useful shot; and, above all, not as a poor relation! No! He would be there by right as Klara’s fiancé, her bridegroom and finally, though he hardly dared formulate the thought, so radiant did it seem, as her husban
d!
Laszlo stood for a long time before the open window. Outside the lights shone on the boulevard; streetcars, brakes screeching and bells tinkling, approached and faded away; smoke hung over the houses, opalescent, shimmering. The roof-tops stretched away into an infinite distance and he felt himself floating above the city, a Power, a presence that lorded itself over all before him. Gone for ever was the feeling of inferiority that had subdued and depressed him for so many years. Klara’s kiss had absolved him from all previous misery.
And so, oblivious of the menace of the cold night air that swirled around him, Laszlo stood at the open window, arms flung wide in a gesture that embraced the whole universe.
PART THREE
Chapter One
BALINT DID NOT GO BACK to Transylvania until the middle of December. Then he took the night train from Budapest, which was supposed to leave at eleven in the evening and, at six in the morning, arrive at Kolozsvar where he would find his rooms ready for him, with a hot bath, breakfast, and more sleep if he wanted it. However, the winter of 1904–5 was exceptionally severe and Balint’s train, which could not leave until the Vienna express had arrived, was late departing.
Waiting for the train to start Balint thought about the events of the previous days and found it impossible to sleep. While all around him trains shunted and clanked in monotonous repetition of the same noises, he felt like a fugitive, as if he were running away, fleeing from the need to decide which side he should take.
They Were Counted (The Writing on the Wall: the Transylvanian Trilogy) Page 21
