He started with an elegant reference to Greek mythology, to the Judgement of Paris, slipped from that to Mount Ida and a play on the hostess’s name, drew a far-fetched parallel (which no one understood) between the Trojan Wars and the hospitality of Var-Siklod, returned to the beauty of the three goddesses, and, declaring that Countess Ida outshone them all, ended with calling for three cheers for the hostess. The gypsy band, by now quite ready, played a swift fanfare, a mere flourish on the strings.
When the cheering and clinking of glasses had somewhat abated old Daniel Kendy, from beyond Aunt Lizinka, rose and turned, his big bulbous nose facing the prefect. Everyone noticed and waited, on tenterhooks because they all knew how mischievous Uncle Daniel could be. ‘Wait for it! It’s Uncle Dani!’ They all wondered what would come out. Then he opened his mouth, stuttering more than usual as he was already not a little drunk.
‘M-M-Mister Prefect! You are a m-m-monumental f-f-fraud!’ and he sat down, with a self-satisfied smile on his face, and emptied his champagne glass, his swollen shining face creased into ridges of pleasure.
General laughter followed, though some of it seemed a little artificial and a few people muttered that Uncle Dani had gone a bit far this time. Even the prefect forced a smile. But the situation was saved by the quick wit of Laji Pongracz who raised his violin and after a few loud chords, led the band into such a tearing, rippling csardas that everyone was silenced and all emotions forgotten as the company was swept along by the well-known rhythm which seemed to make even the glasses dance upon the table.
The dinner went on: ices were served and monumental cakes, quince jellies, fruit and fine liqueurs in tiny Bohemian glasses. But like all good things, it had to end. The company rose from the table and left the hall, the older men to the library where they were served with more liqueurs — the family’s pride as they were made at Var-Siklod — the hostess and the matrons to her small sitting-room — while the young people went out onto the large copper-roofed balcony. This was necessary so that the servants could dismantle the great table and prepare the hall for dancing.
In Countess Laczok’s little sitting-room the conversation was sluggish. Everyone had eaten well and occasionally some lady would congratulate the hostess on the excellence of the feast. The room was lit only by one small lamp, for, although there were hundreds of lamps in the castle, they had all been needed to light the many rooms that had had to be brought into use that evening. After the brilliance of the great hall the semi-darkness of the small room brought on a sleepy mood that was occasionally interrupted by the arrival of the guests from the neighbourhood who had been asked to come to the ball after dinner. And, for not a few of the older ladies, the prospect of having to stay awake until dawn was infinitely oppressive.
Only Aunt Lizinka seemed as lively as ever, titillating the ladies, as always, with poisonous stories and gossip which was as often as not left half-told as the wife, husband or daughter of the person about whom she was talking entered the room. Whenever this happened Lizinka, in the sweetest, most sympathetic voice, and as if she were deeply concerned, would ask the latest arrival some simple question relating to the subject of the gossip. And she could not conceal her glee if the answers seemed to confirm what she had just been recounting.
Countess Laczok, however, did not remain for long among her guests. As soon as she had greeted the new arrivals she left the room to supervise the preparation of the buffet which was to be served later. Her departure was the signal for Aunt Lizinka to start talking about the Laczoks, for her a subject of perennial interest.
‘My dears!’ she began: ‘I do feel so much for darling Ida and my dear nephew Jeno …’ And she embarked with great relish on the subject of the family black sheep, Jeno’s elder brother, Tamas, the ‘ne’er-do-well’ who, after several years’ absence, had recently returned to Transylvania as, of all things, a railway engineer! This had surprised everybody since, for the first forty-odd years of his life, Tamas had lived entirely for pleasure, never giving a thought to anything more serious than drinking and making love. When he was young he was continually getting into debt, for which his family was always expected to pay up, and he had lived openly with a succession of gypsy girls. Largely as a result of this last offence he had been disowned by the family and one day he had disappeared, apparently abroad. For six or seven years nothing had been heard of him, until quite recently he had suddenly returned, qualified as an engineer. And now here he was, building the new railroad not far from Var-Siklod.
‘But don’t think he’s changed, my dears. Oh, no! It’s the same story all over again. He’s got a little gypsy with him. She can’t be more than fourteen! Oh, yes, I know it for sure! Isn’t it dreadful? My poor niece. Why, he could even go to prison … debauching a minor. There’s a law against it — what a shame for the family! Who would have thought it when he was little?’ and added, pointing at a portrait on the wall depicting a lady in a crinoline with two small boys, ‘What a beautiful child he was! The one on the right is Jeno, and the other is that monster Tamas!’ And so she went on, her little piping voice spreading poison nonstop.
While Aunt Lizinka was at her usual mischief-making upstairs, the smoking-room was ringing with the laughter and loud talk of the men. Count Jeno sat on a green velvet sofa smoking a pipe while most of the others lit cigars. Though the main subject of conversation was politics, it was not the bitter, passionate politics of the discussions under the lime tree. Those discussions had concerned serious matters, Hungarian matters and Hungarian politics. Now they talked about happenings in the great outside world, happenings that were for them only a comedy, subject for fun and mockery, for entertainment and ribaldry, not to be taken seriously nor talked about with passion or real fury. The Russo-Japanese War had just reached a crucial point. So, discussing it, the men split into two groups, dividing those who thought the Russians would win and those who were convinced it would be the Japanese. No one took it too seriously; they would even retract and change sides if there was an opportunity for a good pun or a joke.
To start with, the very names of the admirals and generals sounded funny and so they would twist them, purposely mispronouncing the unfamiliar sounds to give ribald or coarse interpretations: the pro-Russians trying to ridicule the Japanese and the pro-Japanese doing the same with the Russian names.
Anything went if it sounded rude enough. This light-hearted chaff continued for some time until Tihamer Abonyi, Dinora’s husband who always took himself seriously, tried to raise the level of the conversation. Coming from Hungary he felt he was in a position to show these provincial Transylvanians that he had superior knowledge of world politics. Also he had had far too much champagne and several tumblers of brandy, with the result that this normally retiring and modestly-spoken man became unusually bold and talkative.
‘One moment, please! If you don’t mind?’ And everyone fell silent because they all realized they would soon have an opportunity to tease somebody — and teasing was the Transylvanians’ greatest pleasure.
And so the poor man started. Clichés fell, one after another, from his lips: ‘Well-informed circles’, ‘in regard to this’, ‘in regard to that’, ‘all serious students of world affairs know that if the Russians, etc., etc., etc., then the English and the Americans will be obliged’, ‘all this must be reckoned with’, ‘and as for us, the Tripartite Agreement’. The pompous voice droned on and on …