As the guests gathered in the red drawing-room Balint turned to Laszlo and asked: ‘Are you going back tonight?’
‘I think so. If I start at half past nine I can catch the midnight milk train.’ Laszlo spoke somewhat uncertainly. He did not look at his cousin as his eyes were fixed the end of the room where Montorio and Klara were sitting on a sofa and sipping tea.
Klara had chosen this place so that her stepmother, from her chair in the next room, could see how well she was obeying orders.
‘I asked because Countess Fanny mentioned her singing. I think that she’s a trifle hurt that you didn’t play for her yesterday. Perhaps you should say something to her?’
‘Oh, Lord! I completely forgot. Well, maybe I’ll stay on; it would be churlish not to. One night more or less won’t make all that difference.’
Balint looked sharply at his cousin. He regretted immediately that he had given him a reason for staying on as he sensed that Laszlo had taken advantage of this pretext even though his real reason was something quite different. Noticing how tense and tormented his cousin looked, and how his gaze always returned to the sofa at the end of the room, Balint realized that what he had always assumed was a mere cousinly flirtation had taken on for Laszlo a fatal seriousness: fatal for Laszlo, for Balint grasped what apparently his cousin had not, that there would be a thousand obstacles standing in the way of any happy fulfilment to such a dream. He wondered if Klara returned Laszlo’s love and, if she did, whether she had the determination and stamina to overcome what lay ahead. Dismissing these thoughts from his mind, he said: ‘We can leave together if you like, tomorrow morning?’
‘Why not? We came together, we go together,’ and his look made the words into a promise. Then, to justify what he was doing, Laszlo went over to the chair where Fanny was sitting and started to talk about what she would like to sing that evening.
The long Bösendorfer grand stood at one end of the music-room and in its curve, leaning back against the mellow walnut sheen of the piano, stood Fanny Beredy, conscious that her pose showed her supple figure at its best and that her salmon-pink dress and golden honey-coloured hair stood out advantageously against the apple-green of the walls and the ivory and dove-grey of the panelling. Apart from Fanny herself, everything in the room was in pastel shades, even the furniture standing around the walls and the cherry-wood parquet floor. High above, only the stucco swags of flowers that bordered the ceiling were in stronger shades of angry blue and gold.
Candles burned in two three-branched candelabra on the piano for, when electric light had been installed, no one had thought to put a point nearby.
Laszlo was playing soft roulades while the other guests came in and sat down. Several armchairs had been placed in front of the doors into the library and here the princess and the older ladies were seated. Behind them were their husbands, who had most unwillingly been induced to abandon their cards, all except the field marshal who had chosen a sofa near the piano either because he was a little deaf or else to be closer to the beautiful Fanny.
When everyone had taken their places Fanny moved round to Laszlo and gave him a sign that she was ready. He played the first notes and she began to sing — it was Schumann’s Mondnacht.
She sang beautifully, with the ease of a well-trained voice, which, if not exceptionally powerful, was rich and warm especially in the lower register; and from the moment she started it was clear that she was entirely absorbed by the music. The gay, flirtatious, light-hearted Fanny that everyone knew was changed into a completely different person; simple, sincere, without either artifice or the smallest sign of self-consciousness, a transition as remarkable as it was unexpected. She stood very straight, seemingly mesmerized by the music, and her eyes, normally hooded and watchful like those of a bird of prey, opened wider and wider as if she were hypnotized by some apparition being brought ever closer on the wings of the song and only fading as the last notes died away. Then she closed her eyes with infinite resignation.
At Fanny’s first notes Laszlo had looked up in surprise; he had not expected such perfect artistry nor such depth of feeling, and, as she sang, so he played, no longer out of politeness but for sheer love and devotion to the music.
There was applause, the discreet, polite applause to be expected at a society gathering. Fanny bowed her head slightly in acknowledgement, but she seemed far from conscious of her audience, so wrapped up was she in the music that made her so happy. She turned to Gyeroffy and put before him the next song, Still wie die Nacht,tief wie dasMeer, an old piece by Koestlin.
Laszlo started the prelude and, as he took it slightly faster than she wanted, she placed her hand on his shoulder and with her fingers lightly indicated the slower tempo she felt to be right. Her touch had nothing sensual in it; it did not seek for pleasure, nor was it a caress, rather it underlined their mutual enjoyment of the music, that and nothing else. As Fanny continued to sing her hand remained on Laszlo’s shoulder, sometimes signalling emphasis or a change of speed, the physical link ensuring that the two musicians were as one in every detail of their performance. They were bound together by their love of the passionate music they played, and they could have been quite alone, for the candlelight on the piano acted almost as a fire-screen between them and the listeners at the other end of the hall. Other songs followed: Brahms’s Feldeinsamkeit, a Paladilhe, some more Schumann.
They were so absorbed that they did not notice when some of the men crept quietly away to the card-tables in the library, nor when, a little later, most of the young disappeared too. To Laszlo and Fanny, only the music they made together existed until, after about an hour, the butler appeared silently at the door, like the Ghost in Hamlet, and bowed to the hostess to indicate that tea was served.
The princess was immensely relieved after the boredom of sitting so long in silence, and sensing that most of her guests were bored too. As soon as Fanny finished the song she was then singing and started to search among her music for something to follow it, the hostess rose, swept across the room in her most regal manner and asked, with a patronizing smile: ‘Are you not tired, my dear?’ And though she received a swift denial from Fanny, she went on, ‘Tea is served. I am sure you need a cup after so much … er … singing!’
‘Thank you! Indeed I would,’ said Fanny. ‘I’ll join you as soon as I have collected my music’
The princess gathered her guests and left the hall. Only old Kanizsay remained, sitting straight upright, his legs spread wide, hands on knees, appearing to see nothing. The field marshal was so deep in thought that he had not noticed the others leave.
‘Are you tired?’ Fanny asked Laszlo.
‘I’m not! But you, Countess. If anyone should be, it should be you? I could willingly go on all night, with the greatest of pleasure.’ And he sat down again at the keyboard.
‘Then let’s try some of these, though I don’t know them very well yet.’
She picked out an album of Richard Strauss who was just then beginning to become famous. ‘I love these ones, but they’re rather difficult. Would you like to look them through before we try?’
Laszlo played a few chords. The harmonies and transitions were unexpected and would need careful playing until he knew them. As he practised, Klara, who had left with the others, came back into the room, gliding silently with her special walk, and stood beside him.