The other was Imre Warday.
Szelepcsenyi, Devereux, Solymar and d’Orly often came to see Fanny in the afternoons, though usually on different days. Each entertained her after their own fashion. The ex-minister would talk about new trends in art; Devereux would recount the latest society scandal; d’Orly discussed music and Solymar would clothe his admiration for the lovely countess in panegyrics of elegantly chosen words. Only Warday never came in the afternoons. He crossed the Beredy threshold once a week and that only for the Wednesday dinners. That he was not encouraged to come at other times was quite understandable as he never seemed to have anything to say. This handsome young aristocrat was in truth extremely boring. True, he was also exceptionally good-looking, well-groomed, healthy and possessed of a wonderful figure; but he would stand about gazing with dull eyes that seemed to have been brushed into his face in faded water-colours, clearly quite unable to follow the rapid, sparkling witty converse that was going on all around him. If he laughed at some lightning joke it was always too late and because he had seen others laughing and realized that mirth was expected of him; and he could not join in the discussions on music or art because he knew nothing of these subjects. There was, as it happened, one subject on which he could have uttered, and this was farming. He was of the few young landowners who had been to the Agricultural Academy at Ovar. Mealybugs, Italian locusts, diseases of wheat and corn, artificial manure and gluten content of cereals were all subjects on which he could have discoursed for hours – but as such matters were taboo in the intellectual artistic atmosphere of Fanny’s salon he held his peace and said nothing. People sometimes wondered why Fanny invited this dull young man to her house when all the other guests were so witty and amusing.
Fanny’s dinner parties were perfect in every respect. The house reflected the personality of its mistress. The drawing-room was painted pale grey with grey silk damask on the walls, and it was filled with comfortable modern sofas and chairs heaped with sugar-pink silk cushions. The rest of the furniture was of different styles, but each piece was in exquisite taste and of impeccable workmanship. The room was welcoming and obviously lived-in. The walls of the long gallery were panelled in wood that had also been painted grey and were lined with wide divans covered in a vivid, poison-green brocade. These too were strewn with a multitude of cushions, lemon-yellow and black, so that the guests could recline in comfort to listen to Fanny’s singing – for it was here that she gave her recitals. When she stood in the soft light, with her back to the dove-grey walls, her red-gold hair looked like an aureole of flame round her beautiful, enraptured face. It was the perfect setting for her very individual style of beauty.
The dining-room was the best of the backgrounds that Fanny had created for herself. Psychologically it was totally in keeping with its function. The walls were covered with cloth so dark that it was difficult to tell whether it was black or grey or red, and the ceiling was painted the same colour. Only the dining table was brightly lit, with two many-branched candelabra and powerful electric lights so shaded that away from the table the room was in deep shadow. The brilliant light picked out the faces of the guests, enhanced the flower arrangements and was reflected from every facet of the highly polished silver, the cut-glass crystal goblets, the snow-white china plates decorated only with gold, the sculpted salt-cellars, fruit-bowls and, above all, from the gold and the silver of the cutlery. Fanny’s table service was unique. It had been made in France in the most advanced rococo taste, every piece bearing the stamp of Juste-Aurel Meissonier. Every knife and fork and spoon was as heavy as a small cudgel and each piece was slightly different from the others, all of them masterpieces in their own right. Fanny had made her husband buy it for her for a sum so huge that even he had blenched when it was mentioned to him. But they had been on their honeymoon and he was still in love with her, so he had complied. It was supposed to have been made for the Pompadour. However it was not the beauty of the objects with which the table was furnished, nor the excellence of the food and wine, nor the rarity and heavy scent of the imported flowers which ensured the perfection of Fanny’s dinners. It was rather the strange contrast between the glittering pageant laid out on the table and the cool mysterious darkness that surrounded the island of sophistication in the centre.
Laszlo felt this keenly as soon as he was seated near the spinster cousins. For him this contrast represented the triumph of a pleasure-seeking society, symbolized by the fact that mankind should be brilliantly lit while around was outer darkness. He shivered as he took his place, his face to the world but his back to a murky shadow that held who knew what untold terrors. The guests were served in total silence and the servants were all but invisible. A dish would appear at Laszlo’s side, only to disappear again as if unheld by human hand. In front was everything that was good and beautiful. There was pleasure for every sense, for the eyes, the taste, the nose; every object was perfect in itself; the flowers a triumph of nature; the crystal and silver the work of dedicated masters; the virginal whiteness of the starched linen cloth and above all the pale pink roses, heavy with scent and denuded of their leaves, seemed to blush in maidenly shame to find themselves set down among the chefs d’æuvre of man’s art. Opposite him in even more provocative nudity, the bare flesh of Fanny’s arms, her neck and shoulders and the faint swelling of her breasts from which at any moment the silk of her dress might fall to reveal the voluptuous promise beneath. And yet, thought Laszlo, behind all this lay the uncertainty of real life; bleak, cold, cruel, unrelenting and evil. In front was every pleasure that man could invent: food to be savoured with knowledge, wine to drive one to ecstasy, beauty, colour, light and the rosy temptation of woman’s flesh to make one forget everything, especially the merciless advance of death which lurked in the shadows behind them. The feast had been prepared so knowingly that it seemed to Laszlo that everyone present ate and drank more voraciously than usual and chatted with more hectic vivacity, as if they were driven to enjoy themselves while there was still time.
When dinner was over they moved back to the gallery where coffee had been laid out with several different kinds of brandy and liqueur, Turkish and Russian cigarettes and boxes of Havana cigars. The lively conversation which had not flagged throughout the dinner still continued, if anything even livelier now after the stimulus of the feast. After a while it was no longer even inhibited by the presence of the host, for as soon as Count Beredy had finished his cigar he stood up, took his wife’s hand ceremoniously, brushing it with his strange frog-like mouth, and walked silently out of the room with a wave of farewell to his guests. This was an established part of the evening’s programme; Fanny’s husband never remained with the party after dinner. No one asked where he went, indeed no one cared, least of all Fanny. Everyone became slightly merrier as soon as he had gone, and later d’Orly played some Grieg. He played extremely well but Fanny did not sing.
The time passed swiftly. When the clock above the fireplace struck twelve, Warday got up, checked the time with his own watch and stepped over to Fanny.
‘I really must go now, Countess,’ he said rather awkwardly as he bent over her hand. She nodded to him and he left the room after brief farewells to the others.
Laszlo too rose to his feet. He took Warday’s departure for a sign that it was now time to leave, even though none of the others had moved. Countess Fanny held him back for a moment.‚ saying: ‘I hope we’ll see you again next Wednesday?’
‘I’m not quite sure,’ said Laszlo hesitantly, thinking that he might be able to see Klara that day and not wanting to tie himself down. ‘I can’t promise …’
‘You don’t have to. Come if you can and we’ll be pleased to see you, but if not it doesn’t matter. There’s no formality in this house. But do come if you’re free.’ At this point she gave him her hand, and her fine fingers held his for a fraction longer than was necessary. Then she turned abruptly to her neighbour, Szelepcsenyi, and went on: ‘What were you telling me, Carlo, about that new painter? The
Italian? Segantini, did you say he was called? Is he really very good?’
Laszlo put on his coat quickly at the top of the stairs. He wanted to catch up with Warday so that they could walk down together as far as the Land Bridge, but when he reached the door there was no sign of him either outside the house or in the street, though he could see down its full length. There was no one about. It was as if the earth had swallowed him up. He must have walked very quickly, thought Laszlo since he had not heard the sound of a carriage.
So Laszlo walked alone down from the old fortress quarter of Buda and when he reached the Disz Square he was passed by several carriages probably taking home the other guests from Count Beredy’s house …
Laszlo now went to Fanny’s every Wednesday. Not only were the parties relaxed and amusing but also he found himself accepted by the others on equal terms. He was able to go regularly because on that day the Kollonichs did not receive and did not accept other engagements. It was their day for staying at home. Sometimes at Fanny’s he would play the piano. He would sit down at the instrument and play when he felt like it because the atmosphere was so free of protocol and so friendly that he realized that this was what was expected of guests in the Beredy house. Old Szelepcsenyi made all sorts of flattering remarks about his compositions, even when he played the most modern and daring of them, and this added to his ease and pleasure. It was wonderful to feel that he belonged to a group where he was so appreciated.
March and April went by for Laszlo in a sort of dream. He saw Klara almost every day but always in company as they were never allowed to be alone together. Even when he went to the Kollonich Palais for a family meal, Peter and Niki were always present and so, usually, was Magda Szent-Gyorgyi or some other friend or relative; and the princess’ watchful eye saw to it that they had no chance of talking in private. They had to be always on their guard, watching what they said and where they went. Despite the restrictions imposed on them, both Klara and Laszlo found a certain delight in all the obstacles they were forced to overcome. After all, they were together most of the time, whether sitting in one of the drawing-rooms, walking with the others around the shops or, as spring came, playing tennis. Laszlo was always at her side, making harmless conversation with an expressionless face, and sometimes, when no one could hear, slipping in an allusion to their love that both would treasure for days. These allusions were made in a sort of code, which only they could understand, and to anyone else the phrases would seem ordinary and without any special meaning, as one day when the whole group stopped to gaze into a shop window and Klara said, apparently quite innocently: ‘I still think chintz-covers are the prettiest. I have them in my room at home!’ and Laszlo knew that she was thinking of the first and only time they kissed. It was for both of them a wonderful time, filled with magic and expectation. It did not matter if they had to wait for the fulfilment of their love, because that was certain, not perhaps tomorrow, or the day after, but one day soon.
Laszlo felt all this with a sort of sensuous languorousness. Everything was wonderful. He sometimes won quite large sums at cards and was able to pay back a large part, though not all, of what he had borrowed from the money-lenders. He had, of course, to keep some back for he still had a lot of expenses, and this wonderful life was not cheap.
Klara felt the same. For her too this was a time of magic and joy. The wordless pact that bound them together was pure pleasure to her, as was Laszlo’s continual presence and the knowledge that everything he did was for her sake. She cherished the way he looked at her with the eyes of a faithful watchdog, the manner in which he arranged a thousand little unperceived attentions that floated round her like a cloud of incense, just as the scent she used would clothe her young girl’s body with the mystery of womanhood. As a woman she did not think of this period of waiting in the same sort of mystical poetic way that Laszlo did; she was far too down-to-earth for that. She had laid her plans and she waited with determination for the moment when she could make them a reality. At the end of May she would come of age and so she could afford to wait. There would be little point in trying to get her own way now, for it would only lead to lengthy scenes with her father and an icy reception from her stepmother. This would last for months and would poison her life, and it was always possible that she might not be able to summon up enough courage to survive the ordeal. And what if she were forced into submission? It was unthinkable. As Mama Agnes had arranged her whole life until now it would not be easy to face her day after day as a rebellious daughter. No, it was far better to keep everything for one big final battle which would last only for a day and from which she was bound to emerge victorious. One day must take care of everything, must make them accept what she wanted above anything in this life. She dreaded it, but she was determined to see it through.
Klara had planned everything as she lay in her little white schoolgirl’s bed at Simonvasar. A few days after she had officially come of age she would tell her parents, quite suddenly when they were not expecting anything and so would not have had any opportunity to formulate their objections; she had worked out her own arguments long ago. Her plan was this: one day after lunch, just when her father was finishing his cigar, she would come up to him and stand ceremoniously in front of his chair. She would have already seen to it that Peter had taken Niki away somewhere, so that she would be alone with her parents. Then she would tell them that she had decided to marry Laszlo, that she loved him and would accept no one else as long as she lived. She would then ask for their blessing. It wouldn’t be easy, though perhaps her father would be more ready to give in than her stepmother. It was certain that Mama Agnes would fight hard against the match, but what could she say except that he wasn’t grand enough for her? Well, she knew he wasn’t a great match, but that was not what she wanted. She did not need parade and splendour; she only wanted a modest life with the man she loved. They could hardly use the argument that Laszlo was neither Austrian nor of a ducal family but merely an obscure Hungarian noble, because wasn’t that exactly what Aunt Agnes Gyeroffy had been before she became the Princess Kollonich? Her stepmother could not deny her own origins and, in front of her husband who was no snob himself, was not likely to rake up the story of her plots with the Princess Montorio and her ambition to be accepted in the Vienna Olympus! If they asked Klara to wait, she would say that she was now of age and that she had the right to make up her own mind. All she asked, begged for, was their blessing … but, if they withheld it, she would marry him just the same. If they asked what she and Laszlo would live on, she would reply that he had a small estate and that she would sell the jewels she had inherited from her mother. This would hurt her father who had always been proud of the diamond necklace, the ruby clasps and everything that had been her mother’s. Though these trinkets had always been kept in her father’s safe, he was far too much a man of honour not to hand them over when she asked. Had he not always told her, ‘All these are yours, all yours’.
Klara had been through all this over and over again and always she ended up thinking only of Laszlo. She saw his tall figure, with the long lean face on which his slanting eyebrows nearly met and which gave him such a mysterious appearance. She saw the slim body, the tapering artist’s hands and imagined his arms around her holding her as he had in that single magic embrace at Simonvasar when they had first opened their hearts to each other. She could feel his hands wandering over her body, lightly caressing her thighs, her breasts, her neck and arms. All this she would give him, all this would be his to do with what he liked. A restless trembling overcame her as she lay motionless in her little bed wondering how she would have the courage to yield herself. All her bones seemed to dissolve into jelly, until at last she surrendered to the over-riding need to sleep.
In the morning, when she awoke, she would find her pillow cradled in her arms as if she had slept all night in the embrace of her lover.
Chapter Three
WHEN MAY ARRIVED social life in Budapest once more became busy and animated, not on
ly because of the races and balls, both private and public, but also because of the new session of Parliament. In political circles all interest now centred upon the nature of the Address with which the old opposition parties, who now had an overall majority in the House, would attack and condemn the policies that had been followed during the time of Count Tisza’s undisputed rule.
Public support for the opposition was strong but, though the rank and file were vociferous and confident in their condemnation of Vienna and triumphantly brandished patriotic slogans, their leaders were becoming increasingly dismayed by the fact that no progress had been made to resolve the government crisis.
This was the situation when Balint Abady arrived in the capital. Balint took his seat in Parliament every day. At the first session he attended they were arguing about the Address and this continued for the whole of the first two days. Although tempted to sympathize with the opposition’s point-of-view by what Slawata had revealed to him about the secret plans being formed in the Belvedere Palais in Vienna, the nonsense, hot air and chauvinistic posturings revealed by the Address and the speeches in its support drove him right back to his faith in Tisza and to the old monarch.
In the House the different parties were still seated as they had been in the winter after the elections, but the atmosphere was not at all the same. In the seats occupied by the victorious opposition, the camaraderie and friendliness, the mutual congratulations and warm hand-shakes that had united the different factions of which it was formed, had completely evaporated. Now the members looked bitter and cross, and the conflict of interest between each section had made them all as wary of each other as they had been before their victory at the polls. The divisions were there for all to see, for each group kept itself apart from the others. Balint was disgusted by the insincerity and triviality of it all.
They Were Counted (The Writing on the Wall: the Transylvanian Trilogy) Page 42
