Naturally it was the picture of Klara that he had conjured up and thought about; Klara as a child, Klara as a schoolgirl, Klara as a young woman still unawakened. He saw her with white socks and flat-heeled shoes, her hair streaming over her shoulders. He saw her in pigtails, long-legged and skinny, but with huge shining eyes, radiant in a white lace dress standing under the towering, brightly lit Christmas tree. It was so vivid that he could not bear the memory and had got up from the window seat, turned off the lights in the shabby little room, and lit one tiny candle on the artificial shop-bought tree that he placed on the drawing board that served as his work table. As one candle burned out he lit another and, gazing into its minute flame, tried to make his lonely Christmas Eve last as long as possible. In this way he nursed his sorrow and transformed the Holy Night of joy into an agonized vigil of self-torment.
Near the tree he had placed a teapot and a bottle of rum so that he could get himself drunk, for if he drank enough he knew that he would be able to sleep and so forget. But when the last candle had burned out and he was forced once again to turn on the lights, there was still some rum in the bottle. With uncertain fingers he poured all that remained into the last of the tea, swilled it down and went to bed. He slept until noon, heavily and without dreaming, and when he went back into the little sitting-room he found that the electric light was still burning and that the room was filled with the stifling smell of burnt candle-wax.
For Laszlo Christmas Eve had been the darkest moment of this sorrowful period. Later, with the new-found self-confidence that he learned at the gaming tables, with his appointment as elotancos and his growing social success, he began once again to feel the elation with which he had returned from Simonvasar filled with the knowledge that he was loved by Klara. Of course he no longer went to the Academy of Music; there was no time, for if he was to sleep at all he could not get up before midday, and in the afternoons there were too many visits to pay and too much to organize. He told himself that once Carnival was over he would go back into seclusion, as he had done the previous autumn, and then he would be able to catch up with his studies. Until then it would be impossible. In the meantime he was living a wonderful life and soon, very soon, the Kollonich family would arrive, Klara with them, and he would be able to lay at her silk-clad feet every flower, every melody, every dance and every new social success that he had achieved since they had last met. In the middle of February she and her mother would be back from Paris where they had gone to buy clothes. In a few days he would see her again.
Suddenly they had arrived. There was to be a ball in the evening, a so-called ‘picnic-dance’ in the lower rooms of the Casino. Laszlo stood at the entrance to the smaller of the drawing-rooms to greet the mothers and daughters and their escorts, for on such occasions the elotancos acted as host. At first he did his job automatically, almost formally, for all his attention was riveted on the great doors which opened on to the street. He held himself as straight as he knew how so as to show to the best advantage the new tail-suit he had recently ordered from England, that suit which moulded his shoulders so well, and the snow-white waistcoat which emphasized the slimness of his waist. Indeed he looked at his best, very slim and tall, closely shaven, his wavy brown hair impeccably brushed, a saffron yellow carnation on the silk of his broad lapel, a figure worthy to greet a princess!
There was such a crowd in the entrance hall that he could no longer see the doors. Even so he knew at once when Klara arrived. He could not see her, but he knew she was there and his heart beat faster. In a few seconds there she was, moving serenely in the wake of her mother, and to Laszlo it was as if the room were suddenly filled with a light of dazzling brilliance in the centre of which stood Klara. It was as if all this glitter emanated from somewhere inside her pale shoulders, irradiating her white tulle balldress in much the same way that Virgin saints are portrayed as the centre of flickering golden flames that make everything around them fade to dull insignificance. The diamond at the centre was Klara, with her full mouth and smiling eyes, and no one, no one but she, existed in the whole wide world.
The princess swept forward and patted Laszlo’s face with two white-gloved fingers.
‘Laci! My dear nephew, how manly you have become!’ she said, though her eyes remained cold, and she moved on, accepting as her due the homage with which she was greeted by those already assembled in the drawing-room. Laszlo took Klara’s hand, so soft that it seemed to melt in his palm. She smiled, but did not speak, and he knew only from the gentle pressure of her seemingly boneless fingers, that she too was filled with remembrance of their last sweet moments together. Then, as she moved on in the wake of her mother, a wave of happiness rushed through Laszlo’s whole being. Swiftly he strode over to the entrance of the ballroom and called to the musicians to strike up a waltz. Seeing his cousin Magda Szent-Gyorgyi nearby he seized her by the arm, rushed her on to the deserted floor, and immediately whirled her in an elaborate reverse across the highly polished golden parquet. In a moment they were joined by other couples and the ball had begun. But for Laszlo there was only one thought: ‘She is here! At last she is here, here!’ And every time they turned to the rhythm of the music the beat seemed to echo: ‘Here! Here! Here!’
It was now the height of the season, and balls to which ‘everyone’ went were held nightly. Laszlo saw Klara every day, though always in a crowd of people, beneath huge brightly-lit chandeliers and surrounded by a multitude of other young girls all dressed in the colours of spring flowers. They were never alone and could never exchange two words that were not overheard by others, although at the supper which always followed the quadrille Laszlo would invariably sit on Klara’s right. Since he had become the dance leader Laszlo never asked any girl to partner him for the quadrille, for, as he had explained to everyone, in directing the complicated movements of that dance the elotancos was bound constantly to leave his partner and this was hardly fair to any girl unlucky enough to be chosen by him! Laszlo made this announcement so dogmatically that everyone saw the logic of his argument and believed it to be the truth. It was not, of course. The real reason was that the quadrille and the supper that followed it were traditionally linked and a young man was expected automatically to escort his quadrille partner to the supper-room and sit with her. Laszlo wanted to remain free so that when Klara sat down he would be able to join her party without having to bring another girl with whom he would have to talk and gossip and flirt. Though Klara and he never discussed this manoeuvre it was perfectly clear between them that Klara would see to it that her own partner sat on her left and that she would keep the chair on her right for Laszlo. It was an unwritten law and it worked perfectly.
For both Klara and Laszlo the last two hectic weeks of Carnival passed as swiftly and as fleetingly as a dream.
During Lent, even though there were no public balls, Budapest society remained in their town houses and amused themselves with luncheons and small, informal evening parties. Most of the great houses were known for their political allegiances and in these would be received principally those whose politics matched those of the host and hostess. Sometimes the men would retire in little groups discussing party tactics, but in those houses where the head of the family was a party leader, or who hoped to be the next party leader, the hostess and her daughters would also take an active part in the discussions, especially with those whose loyalty was suspect or whom they hoped to recruit to their side – for who could contradict or give the lie to opinions, however half-baked, if they issued from lovely red lips and were accompanied by glances from smiling eyes that hinted at promises far removed from the world of politics?
All this passed Laszlo by, for he saw only the social side of these daily gatherings. No one bothered him with politics, for everyone knew that though he was a popular man-about-town, an elegant dancer and one of their own kind, he was not a figure cut out for law-making or party disputes. He was also rather silent, but no one thought any the worse of him because he did not talk about politic
s. As a result he enjoyed himself as he never had before, for he could see Klara every day, talk to her, even if others were with them, and delight in watching whatever she did whether walking about, standing, or sitting and eating ice-cream.
Gyeroffy was now invited out every night, not only to soirées and receptions but also to dinner parties – something that had rarely happened to him in the past. So much was he in demand that for the first time in his life he had to carry a pocket diary of his engagements.
At some houses the fashion was for musical evenings, at which either professional singers from the Opera or famous musicians would be engaged to perform or the singer or pianist would be a gifted society amateur. Among those the most frequently asked to sing was the beautiful Fanny Beredy. When Fanny was going to perform she would bring her own accompanist, a little shrivelled-up old maid who slipped in unnoticed by a side door and who, when Fanny was ready, was to be found already seated at the piano like a small heap of crumpled black chiffon.
One night the old lady sent word at the last moment that she was ill and could not come. If Laszlo had not at once offered to take her place Fanny’s performance would have had to be cancelled; and so it happened that by coming to her rescue he found himself unexpectedly admitted to her intimate circle. Throughout the Carnival season they had often met, but it had always been casually, as slight acquaintances in the same social group. He had kissed her hand, exchanged greetings, and they had occasionally danced together – but they had never come closer. When they talked, Fanny would look at him with a faintly mocking smile in those huge slanting eyes which so reminded him of a beautiful Siamese cat, but she would never call him to her or press him to stay if he started to move away from the group in which they found themselves. On the contrary she had always been the first to insist that he returned to his duties. Only from afar had she followed him with half-closed, seemingly sleepy eyes.
‘I’m indeed fortunate to accompany you again, Countess!’ said Gyeroffy as they moved towards the piano. ‘I would do it no matter when, with the greatest of pleasure!’
‘I am sure you are far too busy …’ she paused, ‘… with other more important things!’ and she laughed, a deep, throaty laugh which underlined the ambiguity of her words. Laszlo wondered what she had meant. Was she referring to his love for Klara or to the endless preoccupations that went with his position as leading dancer? Or could she have been referring to the fact that despite having received formal invitations he had never appeared at her house but only dropped visiting cards without coming in to pay a call? Strictly, of course, this had been mildly impolite on his part, but Fanny was too much a woman of the world to take offence. She had a deep knowledge of men and she knew that if a man were deeply in love he was better left alone. After all one only had to wait; keep in touch, but wait. That was the wisest policy, and perhaps when the time was ripe, then …? Fanny was sure that things would not go smoothly for Klara and Laszlo. If she waited – and if she still wanted him – maybe then. She would see.
As soon as Fanny started to sing, her warmth, musicianship and the beauty of her voice enchanted Laszlo as much as it had at Simonvasar. Her understanding of the music was sublime, her phrasing exquisite and she gave herself so totally to what she was doing that after a while Laszlo felt that she could have been the Muse Euterpe herself. When Fanny stopped singing he sensed that the music had created a special bond between them, and he wondered if the beautiful Countess Beredy felt the same.
‘If you’re free on Wednesday, Gyeroffy, do come to dinner! I always have a small party on Wednesday evenings. Just a few friends. Interesting, intelligent people. Do come … if you’re not doing anything else.’
Laszlo consulted his diary. ‘Wednesday. Yes, I’m free on Wednesday.’
‘Well, come then! Half-past eight. Black tie, not evening dress; it’s only a small party.’ Fanny spoke quite simply, in a cool manner quite devoid of coquetry. She then turned and walked over to where her audience were still gathered. The men crowded round her offering their congratulations, though to most of them this was merely a form of homage offered to her beauty rather than true appreciation of her singing. Fanny accepted their praise with a gracious smile. She did not look back to where Laszlo still stood beside the piano.
Laszlo moved over to rejoin Klara.
‘How beautifully she sings!’ he said enthusiastically as he sat down next to her.
‘I hate that cat!’ said Klara, but Laszlo did not hear what she said for the music still thundered in his head and he could think of nothing else.
Chapter Two
THE FOLLOWING WEDNESDAY Gyeroffy drove up to the old fortress of Buda, to the ancient town house of the Beredy family. This was an exquisite small palace built during the reign of the Empress Maria Theresia for a rich merchant’s family and later converted into an aristocrat’s town house by joining many small rooms together to make big ones. After mounting a rather narrow stairway the guests had to pass through a long gallery that overlooked the courtyard to reach a superb drawing-room whose windows opened over the fortifications of the old town. This is where Fanny always received her guests, and where Laszlo, for the first time, made the acquaintance of her husband.
Count Beredy never went out in society though he was often absent from home on business. He gave the impression of being an elderly man though in fact he was only about twenty years older than his young wife. He was broad, fat and moved slowly and heavily. What hair he still possessed was dyed reddish blond, as were the few bristles between nose and mouth that passed for a moustache. He was a man of few words and had a disconcerting habit of looking at whoever he might be talking to with a fixed stare. He had lips so thin that his mouth resembled a mere incision on the skin, and his plump fingers were covered in valuable rings, as if he felt the need to prove his wealth by a display of enormous diamonds.
At Fanny’s dinner there were only two other women present, both poor relations of the hostess. One was a pretty but insipid young woman while the other was an older spinster lady who must once have been good-looking. Both were dull and boring, but both made a great show of their love of music for the sake of the rich cousin who invited them to her house. They were only distant relations, but Fanny had picked them out because they were always free when she needed other women at her table and because they would never pose any threat of competition to the hostess. They laughed when they should, smiled incessantly, never interfered or criticized, ‘adored’ music and occasionally were heard to say ‘Wonderful!’ or ‘Splendid!’ at suitable intervals during the performance. In the cast-lists of historical dramas they would have figured as First Lady and Second Lady; and if they had names no one remembered them.
The male guests were more interesting and each in his way distinguished or important. The principal among them, the first day that Laszlo went to dinner, was old Count Karoly Szelepcsenyi, an ex-minister, privy counsellor and friend of the Emperor, for whom he had often acted as a personal envoy. He possessed numerous decorations of which the most sought-after was the Order of the Golden Fleece and, as this must be worn at all times, its miniature golden emblem was pinned to the lapel of his dinner jacket. He sat on Fanny’s right. He was about sixty years old, but his fair hair and blond beard were only touched with grey at the temples. He was powerfully built, with wide shoulders and the chest of an athlete. There was not an ounce of fat on him and it was said that to keep trim he worked with a fencing master for at least an hour a day. It was said that his garconnière was like a museum, filled not only with the masterpieces of the past but also with paintings and bronzes by modern artists, most of them now famous but who were unknown when Count Karoly had bought their works. Very few people had actually seen the collection, except for certain ladies who never spoke of it. He was, in fact, a real collector who bought for his own pleasure and not as a socially competitive gesture. His love of music was equally eclectic. In the sixties he had championed Wagner and he was now enthusiastic about the music of Richard St
rauss and Ravel.
On Fanny’s left was seated Count Alfons Devereux, descendant of the English soldier of fortune who had run through the traitorous Wallenstein and who had been rewarded for that, and for the devastation he had caused in the Thirty Years War, by an over-generous grant of land in Hungary. Just as his ancestor had been known for his fatal accuracy with the lance, so the present Devereux – Fonzi to his friends – could kill with his tongue. He was about forty and had started life as a diplomat, though he had soon abandoned this career, perhaps because his superiors had not appreciated the deadly accuracy of his wit. Also present was a poet, Gyorgy Solymar, then quite unknown to the general public, partly because his work appeared only in privately printed limited editions, but also because he wrote in several other languages as well as in Hungarian. In French he would write in the style of Verlaine, while in German he would write in the style of Rilke. He was a talented dilettante rather than a dedicated poet, but this perhaps made him more acceptable in society than if he had been a real master.
There were two other guests as well as Laszlo. One was Tamas d’Orly, great grandson of the Baron d’Orly who had emigrated from France during the revolution and married into a rich Hungarian family. D’Orly had no known occupation, but he played the piano beautifully, executing at sight the most difficult of pieces with ease and fluency. If his playing seemed slightly mechanical and lacking in poetry, he was always reliable and his knowledge of music was extensive and cultivated. Often he would sit at the piano and play soft roulades and impromptu pieces of his own while the others talked.
They Were Counted (The Writing on the Wall: the Transylvanian Trilogy) Page 41
