They Were Counted (55 page)

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 politics. 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.

T
HE 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 Strauss 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.

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.