Katalin was saying almost brokenly, “You’re going away. I was distraught — and then Katie had the idea that instead of sending you a letter here, I should come...”
The Captain shook my hand warmly. “You are a good friend indeed, Miss Kettles. Come, will you join us here? Shift up there, Petöfi, make way for my guests!”
The young man thus addressed glanced up from a spirited argument with his neighbour, and immediately came to his feet. He was a slight, good-looking youth with curly black hair and extraordinarily sparkling dark eyes; but uneasy bells were already ringing in my mind — was Petöfi not the name of the revolutionary leader of “Young Hungary”?
“Allow me to present Sándor Petöfi,” said Zarescu, confirming my suspicion. “He’s our greatest living poet — or so he tells us.”
Either by accident or design, this sally cleverly glossed over the problem of Katalin’s identity, for by the time we had all duly smiled at the joke and been divested of our cloaks and ushered into seats between Zarescu and Petöfi, the moment for introductions was past.
“I’ve never met a poet before,” I said cautiously to my new acquaintance, “or, at least, not a good one.”
“I am very good,” grinned Petöfi. “Though I will be better yet.”
“What kind of poetry do you write?”
“Oh, whatever I think about. I write about the people, about my country, about injustice — perhaps you have read some of my work?” he asked confidently.
“Not yet,” I said tactfully. “But I would very much like to.” One has to be civil.
“I would send you some,” Petöfi said regretfully, “but unfortunately, I leave Buda-Pest tomorrow.”
“Petöfi is off in pursuit of love,” Captain Zarescu explained, pouring some wine for Katalin and myself.
“They mock me,” Petöfi complained.
“Nonsense — we’re trying to keep your spirits up.”
“My spirits are up. Parental opposition is only there to be overcome.”
I glanced meaningfully at Katalin, murmuring, “Good luck.”
Remembering the reason for our visit here, I turned back to Petöfi to allow the lovers some private conversation. It was no strain. Petöfi was an immensely charming young man who spoke with enormous, nervous energy and a rather stringent wit, though permeating all his conversation was a sound lack of respect for authority. However, he was serious about three things. One was his love, a lady called Julia who resided in Transylvania and whose parents disapproved of Petöfi’s suit on the grounds of his poverty and lack of definite prospects. Julia herself was apparently impervious to these faults and as determined to marry as he.
His second serious love was literature, which he discussed with great enthusiasm and knowledge, and his third the rather nebulous concept of the Hungarian people. After some time I was both baffled and dazed by him, but in an odd way I found I liked him.
However, since this was to some degree Petöfi’s farewell dinner, I felt a little guilty about monopolising him, so eventually I turned away and touched Katalin’s arm.
“How long should we stay?” I murmured.
“Just a bit longer,” she said brightly. Her self-confidence had returned with a vengeance. I sighed and looked around me.
Between me and the door were a lot of people eating and drinking. Huddles of young men were in serious conversation; others were in gales of wine-induced laughter. I wondered what Aunt Edith would say of it. I knew exactly what my father would have said, God bless his Presbyterian soul.
Even after several months, it’s odd how grief can hit you again out of nowhere with the same, devastating force. Appalled, I fought to control my weakness. I was aware of a slight commotion by the door, so I concentrated on it blindly, slowly blinking away my emotion until the blur cleared, and through it, standing by the door, I saw Lajos Lázár.
CHAPTER SIX
He was with another young man, exchanging greetings with the noisy group by the entrance, the same half-smile I remembered on his full, rather sensual lips. He was dressed almost in the same way too, certainly no better, and the same battered bag he had carried on the steam-ship was slung over his shoulder.
I heard someone at our table say, “Petöfi, there’s Lajos now.”
At that, Petöfi immediately broke off his conversation and stood up, stepping round the table and shouting out uninhibitedly, “Hola! Lajos — over here!”
I watched as Lázár lifted a hand in quick acknowledgement and began to make his way towards him.
Petöfi said, “I thought you were going to miss my farewell!”
“Farewell?” Lázár repeated, carelessly taking Petöfi’s outstretched hand. “I thought you had decided not to go abroad after all.”
“I’m not going abroad. I’m touring Hungary.”
“Ah. You’re going to Transylvania.”
“Naturally! I will marry her, Lajos, whatever you think. Won’t you wish me well?”
Lázár’s rather serious expression relaxed into a smile. “Of course I wish you well, you idiot, and all the luck in the world.”
Petöfi grinned and suddenly embraced his friend; and over the poet’s narrow shoulder, Lázár met my interested gaze.
I pushed my spectacles more firmly on to my nose, forcing myself to wonder dispassionately if he would remember me. It seemed he did. Released, he clapped Petöfi lightly on the shoulder and then, although I saw him acknowledge Zarescu and register the improbable presence of Katalin, he came straight to me, holding out his hand with casual courtesy.
Wordlessly, I put mine into it, felt again the pressure of his strong, brown fingers and the same strange, electric excitement his touch had produced in me on the ship. Shaken, I found it hard to meet his dark, direct gaze.
He said gravely, “It’s good to see you again.” I managed to incline my head with a trace of my old mockery. “Even,” he added, “if only in the guise of Katalin Szelényi’s chaperone.”
I lifted my brows. “What did you expect?”
His fleeting smile came and went. “I never know what to expect of you, Mademoiselle — it’s one of the reasons I like you.”
I felt the colour creep into my cheeks — I am unused to compliments, however unconventionally given — but fortunately he released my hand as he spoke, and turned to greet Katalin, who had been struggling between relief at escaping his attention and indignation at losing precedence to the governess.
With interest I noted that he did not embarrass her by shaking hands. I also saw that it was she, not he, who was made nervous by the encounter. Watching her face as she returned his civilities, I realized that she was indeed afraid of him. He was out of his place and threatening hers in a way that Zarescu — however he might have agreed politics with Lázár — never would, nor could.
A waiter appeared with more glasses and another bottle. At the other side of the table Petöfi talked to the young man who had come in with Lázár. I heard him say, “What the devil were you two up to, Vasvári?”
“Don’t ask,” the other advised. “And if anyone else enquires, we were here all evening!”
I was aware of Lázár throwing himself into Petöfi’s vacant seat beside me. Suddenly, I felt both exultant and afraid. I wondered vaguely if my hand would shake when I picked up my glass. It didn’t.
Lázár reached for the bottle and poured himself some wine. I took a sip of my own, declining his polite if silent offer of more. He tipped half the glassful down his throat in one quick, surprising movement, and I felt his eyes on me. I forced myself to meet his gaze.
Unpredictably, he said, “You look very beautiful tonight.”
Warm blood flooded into my face and neck. Part of it was shame, for I had wanted to look pretty.
“Nonsense,” I retorted. “I look as I always look.”
“Not quite. I’ve never seen you before without that dashing hat.”
Unexpected laughter bubbled up. “It is smart isn’t it?” I agreed cordially.
> “Does it annoy your employers?”
“To be honest, I don’t think either of them notice what the governess wears. Which is probably just as well.” I took another, more confident sip of wine.
“And Katalin? I gather you have been recruited as chief conspirator?”
“I felt sorry for them.”
“You’ll lose your position,” he warned. “Neither of them is known for discretion.”
“I know. I’m teaching them.”
“By coming to a place like this?”
“It may be busy, but I’m sure no one who comes here has ever heard of Katalin.”
He looked amused. “The odd liberal-minded aristocrat makes his appearance, you know. I can see at least two from here.”
“Oh dear,” I said, genuinely alarmed, “and I thought I was being clever.”
“I shouldn’t worry. Most people only see what they expect to. Your Hungarian, by the way, is excellent.”
“So is your English,” I said, reciprocating civilly. “My mother was Hungarian. What is your excuse?”
“I went to England a year or so ago. And Scotland.” There was a kind of humorous challenge in his eyes as he added provokingly, “I thought your people, on the whole, more egalitarian in spirit than the English.”
“A man’s a man for a’ that,” I murmured, smiling faintly.
“For a’ that and a’ that,” said Lajos Lázár in almost perfect Scots. “Their tinsel’s show, and a’ that, The honest man, tho’ e’er sae poor, Is king o’ men for a’ that.”
I put down my glass. “Mr. Lázár, you never cease to amaze me.”
“I try.”
I regarded him, a million questions jostling for priority inside my head. After a moment, I took a deep breath and said, “Mr. Lázár. May I ask you an intrusive, personal question?”
His lip twitched. “I thought you’d never get around to it.”
I ignored that. “How did you manage to become so well educated?”
“I read a lot,” he said flippantly.
“I mean in the beginning.”
“I went to school and I worked hard.”
“That doesn’t give you a degree in law.”
“No, the University of Pest gave me that.”
“Is it usual for — for...” I broke off, floundering.
“For peasants to go to university?” he suggested. I looked at him uncertainly, but he didn’t seem to be in the least offended. “No, it’s not usual. I had help. Count Szelényi, István’s father, paid my fees. He also let me share István’s tutor for a couple of years before.”
I stared. “So you and István were actually educated together?”
“For a time.”
I frowned, taking another sip of wine. “Is that why he dislikes you so?”
“It’s one reason.”
“You were cleverer than he was.”
“And younger. And a peasant.”
Suddenly I could imagine István as an arrogant boy, bewildered and humiliated by the superior intelligence of the rough, precocious upstart thrust upon him. His behaviour concerning Lázár made much more sense to me now, though it raised another question.
“I don’t understand why Count Szelényi did all this for you.”
“I asked him to.”
I said carefully, “He’s not known as a biddable man.” Nor a compassionate one. Who knew that better than I?
Lázár reached for the bottle and refilled his glass. This time he didn’t ask, but simply refilled mine too. For the first time, I thought he was reluctant to speak. At last, he looked back at me.
“I had force on my side,” he said lightly.
I took a sip, meeting his gaze over the rim of my glass, perversely reluctant to leave the matter, when he so obviously wished it left. “What force could a peasant boy have against a great lord?” I enquired sardonically.
He shrugged. “A threat. Blackmail, if you like.”
I felt my eyes widen.
He smiled. “Are you shocked?”
“Yes, I believe I am,” I said, finding my voice with difficulty.
“Well, he could afford it, and my father certainly couldn’t. Don’t you want to know what I threatened him with?”
“No,” I said firmly.
“I wouldn’t tell you if you did. He kept his bargain, after all.”
“So you’re not completely amoral?”
“Far from it. I have lots of morals: it’s just that they lapse slightly from time to time.” His lip twitched again. “On the whole, I am extremely trustworthy.”
“Trustworthy?” Petöfi interrupted suddenly at my side. “How can you say so when you’ve just stolen my chair?”
“You said you were going to Transylvania.”
“Not till tomorrow, damn you! Trust you and Zarescu to monopolise the most charming ladies in the Pilvax.”
“You must make allowances for Zarescu — he’s being sent to Vienna tomorrow.”
“Well, that will teach him to be a government lackey,” said Petöfi tolerantly.
“Precisely,” said Lázár, pushing the bottle past me towards the Captain. Katalin was looking indignant, but her lover only grinned as he poured himself some more wine. I gathered it was an old joke.
The rest of the evening passed in something of a whirl. I seemed to be surrounded by several simultaneous discussions ranging over the literature, philosophy and politics of many countries; and I quickly became fascinated, as much by the erudition of these very young men as by the speed with which they threw ideas around and their bewildering shifts between intellectual debate and witty banter. Away from their company I might have reservations about their particular brand of idealism, but here among them I found it oddly attractive. I even found myself drawn into one of their hectic discussions, for though I had never felt my ignorance quite so much, I have always been able to think for myself. At one point, I even grew quite heated, which is hardly the image of myself I generally choose to portray, but no one seemed to think the worse of me for it — in fact, I found Lajos Lázár on my side and felt curiously proud.
I noticed too that Lázár himself, although not the loudest or the most frequent speaker, was always listened to by the others, even Petöfi, whether or not they agreed with him.
When we finally rose to leave, Zarescu came with us. Lázár, who was then taking vast quantities of pamphlets from his bag and giving piles of them to various acquaintances, only glanced up at the Captain’s call of farewell and waved. I couldn’t help but feel a little piqued by his casual attitude.
And then, moving towards the door, I found myself hoping suddenly that there were no secret police in the café, though I could think of few better places for them to work, judging by the highly seditious nature of the evening’s conversation — much of it had been to do with radical French writers whose works were forbidden in the Empire but which were still intimately known by Lázár and his friends.
A moment later, I had more personal cause for anxiety, for as I prepared to follow Katalin outside, I felt a light touch on my arm. Turning quickly, I found Lázár there.
“A gift,” he said, with his fleeting smile, and I felt his fingers on mine, pressing them round a thickness of paper. Before I could even register the shock, he was hurrying back to his friends.
* * * *
This time I went first into the house, blithely ignoring the porter’s inquisitive gaze. I met Ferenc on the stairs, but if he was surprised, he chose not to show it. I only bade him a cheerful good night and went on up to my bedroom.
Once there, I cast off the concealing cloak and lit the candle on the desk. I opened my reticule and took out the pamphlet Lázár had given me. Slowly, I sat down in the pale, flickering light and began to read.
It was a curious document entitled, “In defence of work” by L.L. The title page was fully printed, but the inside pages had only printed decorative borders; the actual words were written by hand. An ingenious method of eluding the censor whi
le producing work that looked both eye-catching and respectable.
Lajos Lázár wrote as I had heard him speak — with a powerful fascination. It was clear, intelligent, humorous and totally absorbing. Even I, staid and disapproving, actually enjoyed reading it. It began as a defence of the dignity of the working man and his right to work, pleading for better living standards and education; then progressed to a moving comparison of a poor, honest labourer, exhausted by his efforts to acquire a meagre crust for his family, with a fat nobleman wallowing in more money than he knew what to do with and which he had done nothing whatsoever to earn. And by the end, it had become a hilariously cruel denunciation of that nobleman as a useless parasite, and a spirited demand for the abolition of all unearned wealth and privileges from the king’s downwards. It seemed no one escaped his criticism. Even I began to feel guilty.
“Phew,” I murmured, as I finished reading. I wondered if Lázár could go to prison for this. It seemed likely. And there he was in the Pilvax which was known as the haunt of radicals, blatantly handing these round like cakes at a children’s party.
And how long had it taken him to write them all by hand? Even with help. There had been hundreds in his bag!
For a long time, I stared blindly at the leaflet, thoughts chasing each other round my head. At last, the candle began to gutter, and I moved to light another. Then I put the pamphlet carefully away inside “The Count of Monte Cristo”, which I replaced on the bookshelf beside my bed. I thought I should probably have burned it.
* * * *
It must have been shortly after this that the Countess, in an erratic sort of way, began to command my presence when she occasionally took Miklós and Anna visiting with her — thus enjoying all the benefits of her children’s company without any of the attendant trouble.
I can’t say I enjoyed these morning calls to the splendid palaces of Pest, but at least I was permitted to see, if not actually meet, some of the cream of Hungarian nobility, including the great reformer, Count Széchenyi. At this time, he was still a towering figure in Hungarian politics, although he was already somewhat eclipsed by his rival, the more flamboyant and extreme Kossuth. I thought him a melancholy man, and not entirely stable.
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