‘What didn’t you want?’
‘Nothing! I just didn’t feel like it!’
There was silence again, the princess remaining, if possible, almost more rigidly immobile than before.
‘It’s not like you, Klara, to be so stubborn, yes, stubborn and unco-operative – not with me! After all, I am your mother, if not in nature in every other way.’
Klara blushed. This allusion to their relationship bothered her because it was true that Mama Agnes had always been to her everything that a mother should be. Even her real mother, whom she had never known, could not have been kinder.
‘I’ll tell you what happened,’ she said. ‘After supper he suggested … well, I felt that if I went out with him he would propose. I felt it would encourage him, and so I didn’t …’
‘Did he give you any hint?’
Klara hesitated for a moment. She did not know whether she should tell the truth or not but hating to lie she said: ‘Yes. He said he wanted to ask me something important and I replied that there would be no point. I said that it would be useless!’ Now it was out, and there would be no going back. With a determined look on her face she looked straight into her stepmother’s eyes.
‘You said that? You dared to say that? You little fool, do you realize that you’ve thrown away all your chances? Why, in God’s name?’ The princess’s well-tended hands clenched into fists. She was so angry she nearly jumped up from the sofa. In a moment, however, she recovered her self control, and then laughed mirthlessly.
‘Why? I hardly need to ask when the whole town knows that you’re in love with that little Laci! Such folly! And all just because of little Laci, of all people!’ She laughed scornfully.
Hearing this mocking laughter, and listening to Princess Agnes’ patronizing words, Klara made up her mind. She stood up, faced her stepmother and said, calmly and firmly: ‘It’s true! I have decided to marry him. It’s settled.’ With deeper emphasis, the catch in her throat showing how much her whole being longed for love and sympathy and help, she went on: ‘You see, we love each other!’
‘I knew you had a crush on him. I guessed that a long time ago! But what about him? All the world knows that he’s Fanny Beredy’s lover! What a little hypocrite he is, carrying on like that while pretending to come courting you! Why, he hasn’t even enough conduite to do it discreetly!’
‘Countess Beredy?’
‘Who else? He dines there every Wednesday and goes calling in the afternoons. Everyone knows all about it, except you, my poor little Klara!’
The girl stood very straight in front of her stepmother.
‘No! No! No! It’s not true. I know him and I know all about it. He’s been there a few times but it’s not like that! He’s not involved with Fanny Beredy at all. He doesn’t love anyone but me and he’s loved me for years and years. He’s always loved me, I know! And he’s true to me. What you say is all a lie!’
‘My dear girl, I don’t listen to gossip. I know all about it from a most reliable source. Old Szelepcsenyi told me. He knows what goes on in that house if anyone does. He’s an intimate friend of Fanny’s. You can rely on anything he says.’
‘It’s not true! Everyone’s against Laszlo!’
‘Szelepcsenyi didn’t tell me out of spite. He thought Laszlo had all the luck!’
‘It’s all nasty wicked slander, yes, slander. They’ve just invented it.’
‘Invented it? That’s quite enough!’ said Princess Agnes, interrupting her and getting up at the same time. ‘Don’t you dare speak to me in that tone! We’ll go and see your father immediately and you can tell him what you have done and why. And I hope you’ll behave to him in a calmer manner than you have to me!’ With this she swept out of the room like a battleship in full sail. Klara followed.
Louis Kollonich was in his smoking-room. He was walking up and down with a dead cigar in his mouth and repeatedly looking at his watch. It was past the hour when luncheon was usually served and he was both hungry and impatient.
As soon as Princess Agnes and Klara entered the room, he said: ‘Na! Wird denn niemals serviert – What! Shall we never be served?’ When he was out of temper he always spoke in German.
His wife did not answer at once but sat down.
‘Lieber Louis,’ she said formally. ‘Klara has something to say to you. Yesterday she turned down Montorio whom you had selected for her!’
‘Was ist das für ein Blodsinn – what is all this nonsense?’ he shouted at his daughter.
Klara kept her head. She was defiant, but she spoke calmly and bravely. She said that she did not love Montorio and would not marry him. Her own life and happiness was at stake, she said, and she would only marry for love. If not, she would not marry at all. She knew she would never be happy again if she married Montorio … and that is why she had refused him.
‘Na, Meinetwegen – does no one think of me? And are they never going to serve lunch?’ was all that her father answered. Princess Agnes did not move.
‘That is not all,’ she said, and turning to Klara, she went on gently: ‘My dear, you had better tell your father what you told me. You owe it to him …’
‘Aber was ist denn noch – now what is it?’ asked Kollonich, by now thoroughly incensed and impatient to get all this talk done with so that he could get to table. He started to walk up and down the room again.
It was difficult to talk properly to someone who would not keep still, but Klara managed to speak firmly and stick to her guns – though she was afraid that she would not be able to remain adamant for long. She told her father that she was in love and that she was loved in return and that her only hope of happiness lay in marriage with the man she loved. In two weeks’ time, she reminded them, she would come of age and be free to decide her own fate, but all the same she begged them for their consent. After all, it was her future that was at stake, her life and no one else’s! Much of this was delaying tactics as, for some reason she could not quite explain to herself, she hesitated before telling him that it was Laszlo she loved.
‘Na, und wer ist der glückliche Jungling – and who is the happy man?’
The good Louis stopped suddenly in his tracks and stared hard at his daughter’s face. Klara looked him straight in the eyes.
‘Laszlo Gyeroffy!’
‘Wa-a-as? Der Laci! Dieser Kartenspieler – that gambler. Nichl um der Welt! – Never!’ shouted Kollonich even more angrily than before spinning round the room in his fury and pouring out a stream of abuse. ‘So ein Lump – what a scoundrel!’ he cried, telling Klara that he would have no gambler marrying into his family, to spend her fortune and then come to him to have his debts paid! How could she think of such a nobody? He shouted at her until Klara felt she could bear no more and sank into a chair crying into the cushions on the armrest. ‘Hat er die Impertinenz?’ he yelled in her ear, ‘Has he dared to propose?’
Klara shook her head. ‘No, he hasn’t! But he’s only waiting for a sign from me. He wouldn’t dream of it until …’
‘Well, that’s one good thing, at least,’ said her father, still walking up and down and snorting with rage like a steam engine. Klara burst into loud sobs and, because Kollonich never could stand the sight of a woman in tears, he stopped walking about and came over to her, putting his hand gently on her shoulder.
‘Na! Na! Na! Don’t cry! I wouldn’t mind if he weren’t such a gambler but, God in heaven, a gambler!’ and rage came over him again. ‘Werden wir niemals essen?’ he shouted at his wife. ‘Will luncheon never be served?’
The princess pressed a bell on the table beside her. Szabo the butler came in almost at once.
‘Serve luncheon immediately!’ she said.
‘The first course is already on the sideboard, your Grace.’ Szabo bowed and disappeared.
‘Thank God!’ said the prince, and started at once for the door not even pausing for his wife to precede him. As they walked swiftly through the great reception rooms, Klara surreptitiously wiped her eyes so as not to
show anyone else that she had been crying.
There were no guests that day and so the only others at table were her brothers, Niki and Peter. They could not fail to notice that some drama had been going on and Niki, always mischievous, did his best to find out what it was. Peter, who had a kind heart and loved his sister, tactfully started to talk to their father about shooting and quickly captured his attention. Without delay Prince Louis started telling them, for the third time, how a few days before he had finally killed the great roebuck they had so often stalked in vain. And in a few minutes he had regained his normal good humour, aided, no doubt, by the excellence of the jellied Fogas pâté, flavoured with smoked ham and flavoured with truffles, and his favourite Tournedos Rossini which followed it.
After lunch Klara went to her room. She washed her eyes and started to think, and the more she thought the calmer she became. The matter was by no means hopeless. Her father had had his tantrum and had made it clear that it was Laszlo’s gambling to which he had so strong an objection. If she could prove that Laszlo had given it up – and given it up for her sake – then surely they could no longer object to him. Of course it was always said that gambling was such an overriding passion that nothing could ever be done about it, but if he gave it up that would show them all that he was worthy of her. As for that wicked tale about him and Fanny Beredy, this would be proof that that was false too because he was true to her and to her alone. The solution to all their problems lay in Laszlo giving up cards … and showing the world that he did it for her!
Klara sat down at her little writing table and quickly wrote a note in her square slanting handwriting: ‘I’ve told them! It was quite dreadful! Try to get near me as if by chance at the races tomorrow, but keep away ’til then. I’ll find a way to tell you there!’
Then she underlined ‘told’ and ‘chance’ before going to the bell and pressing it gently so that its ring would not be too loud. In a few moments Ilus opened the door and asked: ‘You rang, my Lady?’
‘Close the door … quickly now! Did anyone see you come in here?’
‘No, my Lady, there was no one in the passage.’
‘Ilus, this is very important! Take this letter – and don’t tell anybody – do you promise?’ The girl nodded. Klara went on hurriedly: ‘I trust you, but you must take care!’ and then, whispering, ‘Give this letter to Count Gyeroffy, only to him, into his own hands, do you understand? Only to him, and no one must see you. Maybe he’ll be at home now, lB Museum Street. It’s either the third or fourth floor, I can’t remember which, but someone will tell you. You will do it, won’t you?’
‘Of course, my lady, with pleasure.’
‘Take care, Ilus. No one must see you!’
‘Don’t worry, my lady, I’ll do it straight away.’
‘Hurry then. It’s very important!’ Suddenly Klara felt overwhelmed by hope and gratitude and she rose, put her arms round the girl’s waist and kissed her as she would a sister. The little maid, however, drew back in shame as if she were unworthy of such confidence.
‘Don’t, my lady, please don’t!’ she said, and slipped quickly and silently out of the room.
The King’s Cup was the most important event of the whole racing season. Everybody would be there, everybody had to be there; every woman with any pretence to being in Society wore her prettiest and most expensive clothes, and everyone was determined to be seen by everyone else. The grandstands and private boxes were crammed and the public enclosures were full. The crowds came because the races offered such a variety of entertainment – the sight of rich, fashionable, smartly-dressed society people in the private enclosures, the chance of spectacular wins at the tote, the excitement of a closely-fought finish and, above all, the exhilarating feeling that they were all part of Budapest’s most brilliant social event.
The procession of carriages bringing the spectators to the Park Club was in itself a spectacle not to be missed. On the narrow road that turned off the Tokolyi Avenue just after the railway station and passed by the poor quarter of Szazhaz – the slums had not then been cleared away – hundreds of horse-drawn vehicles wended their way to the race-course. There were smart two-in-hands drawn by high-stepping trotters, four-horse English coaches driven by their owners with eight people seated on the roof together with a liveried coachman whose only function on that day was to blow lustily on his coaching horn, Hungarian Jukkers with four or five horses in the traces all decorated with multi-coloured tassels and, whatever the carriage, there was always a great deal of whip-cracking and noise. In the open carriages the ladies would sit with lace-covered hats; and when one of the rare automobiles entered the procession, with its rattling engine-noise and stinking exhaust fumes it seemed as if even the horses turned up their noses, sensing, perhaps, that these horrible new-fangled machines had been sent to destroy them.
The principal grandstand was the last to fill up, for the most fashionable people always tried to be the last to arrive. Row upon row of seats were gradually being occupied in what looked from afar like a gigantic sloping flower arrangement, where the ladies’ dresses blossomed in a hundred different shades of pink, blue, red, lilac and white, punctuated only by the shiny black cylinders of the men’s top hats. Even the lawns in front of the stands were covered with a mass of people, radiating colour, life and happiness as they moved about slowly and leisurely in the bright sunshine.
Laszlo Gyeroffy arrived early. He went immediately up to the top of the grandstand from where he could most easily watch for the arrival of the Kollonich family. He was even more carefully dressed than usual, in a new iron-grey morning coat and a double-breasted butter-coloured waistcoat. As a daring innovation he had put on a pair of pin-striped trousers which, though not yet generally worn, would be permissible on this occasion when new fashions were expected and accepted without criticism, however bizarre they might seem. They were pressed to knife-sharp creases and with them he wore a highly-polished pair of box-leather shoes with beige-coloured insets. In his lapel, as always, he wore the yellow carnation that had become the symbol of his love for Klara.
Laszlo stood very straight. The long line of his fashionably cut coat showed his slim figure at its best and more than one woman looked at him with desire in her eyes.
He, however, did not look at anybody for his eyes were fixed on the entrance gates through which streamed the crowd of racegoers who spread out over the lawns, greeted friends and looked for places to sit. From his eagle’s nest Laszlo could see everything that went on beneath him. Now the proud and supremely self-confident ladies of high society and rich banking circles, and most of the lovely girls who attended the balls at the Casino and Park Club were already there. He caught a glimpse of Neszti Szent-Gyorgyi who had brought with him a famous Belgian grande cocotte, at that time established as his official mistress. She was seated just beyond the members’ enclosure, her chair pushed slightly in front of the others as if she were the queen of Turf society. Kristof Zalamery appeared for a moment, escorting the two little danseuses from the Orfeum, but they soon disappeared among the crowds below. A little later Countess Beredy could be seen at the centre of a little group composed of her nieces, d’Orly, Devereux and old Szelepcsenyi. Fanny could be seen instructing her entourage to find some chairs and place them close to the rails.
The slender thoroughbreds entered for the first race had already paraded in front of the judges’ box when Laszlo saw his aunt arrive with Klara. They passed slowly towards the grandstand, pausing to greet friends before finding their places below him. The princess chose a seat with the other dowagers while Klara sat with a group of young people in the first row.
Laszlo did not move; he wanted to wait until his aunt decided to walk down to the saddling enclosure, or stroll across the members’ lawn surrounded by their friends, or became in some way sufficiently preoccupied that she would not notice when he staged his ‘chance’ meeting with Klara. He felt sure that this was what Klara had meant by the word, for she would not be at ease if
she were still under the stern eye of her stepmother.
He had to wait until well after the second race. All this time the princess sat without moving, just ten paces away and slightly behind Klara. Then, as the public was beginning to move towards the saddling-up enclosure before the King’s Cup race, Laszlo saw the Archduke’s equerry step towards the princess, bow to her and murmur some message in her ear. Immediately she stood up and, accompanied by two other ladies, moved slowly and graciously towards an inner staircase. She had been summoned to the Royal Box. Now was the time to go to Klara and speak to her alone.
It was not easy to reach her against the stream of racegoers who were now milling about trying to find good places before the next race. It was not easy either to avoid acquaintances who tried to greet him as he pushed his way against the crowd, sometime jumping over seats when the narrow aisles were too full of people trying to come up just as he wanted to go down. At last he made it and found himself beside her. Klara made room for him on the bench beside her. They sat very close to each other, so close that Laszlo felt himself in an ecstasy of delight, intoxicated by the heady scent of Parma violets with which she seemed to be surrounded.
Klara spoke softly and rapidly, looking not at him but straight ahead. She spoke urgently, but took care that no one who saw them together – for they were surrounded by friends and acquaintances – would notice anything unusual.
‘I told them yesterday. It was dreadful, but that doesn’t matter. You have to promise me something …’
‘Anything!’
‘That you won’t gamble any more. For my sake!’
‘Of course. Whatever you say … anything … everything!’ whispered Laszlo.
Now she looked straight into his eyes.
‘Promise me!’ she said and offered him her narrow hand hoping that anyone who saw would take it that they were shaking hands to seal a wager.
Laszlo understood at once that he could now answer out loud.
‘I promise!’ he said, rather pompously, and squeezed her hand.
They Were Counted (The Writing on the Wall: the Transylvanian Trilogy) Page 45
