Laszlo slept well into the afternoon. After dressing himself he tried to work on a musical score but he found it impossible to concentrate. His mind was elsewhere and the crotchets and quavers swam before his eyes. He could think of nothing but what had happened the previous evening. Finally he pushed the music away realizing that all such effort would be fruitless. It’s a day lost, he thought, but he would work again tomorrow.
In the early evening he went back to the Casino to settle his debts and, as he was already in the club, he decided to dine there. As Laszlo entered the dining-room he could at once sense that something was different. A place was immediately found for him and he was eagerly asked to join some men already seated at a table. They greeted him warmly and asked his opinion in a way that had never happened before. When he spoke they listened and when they addressed him it was with a new air of attention, almost of respect. For the first time he felt appreciated, accepted. Of course they all knew that he had played high the previous night, and they knew, though Laszlo did not, what Count Neszti, in his nasal voice, had said of him before he too had put on his coat and gone home: ‘Young Gyeroffy plays well. Il a unexcellent style! I have rarely seen such stylish performance from a beginner.’ Szent-Gyorgyi’s praise set the seal on Laszlo’s social success, but it was in reality only the official accolade, the public recognition, the putting into words what was now generally thought and accepted.
The real truth was that Laszlo had shown himself to be a gambler as the others were, and in that world the gambler was the true master, the hero whom everyone respected. And how should it be otherwise? The man who can say the little word banco and thereby risk thousands of crowns … what gesture can be more lordly than that? Banco! Everything was in this one word — superiority, will power, calmness, the capacity to make a quick decision, courage and, of course, contempt for the vileness of mere money. And the more that this little word could be uttered with indifferent abandon, with carelessness and style, the more the speaker was obviously a superior being. Banco! If the player loses he pushes away his lost chips with a light wave of his hands and calls over his shoulder for a cigarette, or summons the waiter to bring him a glass of brandy as if nothing of the slightest importance had happened. It is the same if he wins, the same indifference, the same calm, no smiles, no bragging, no sign of pleasure, no unnecessary exclamations … only those ritual, liturgical phrases: ‘Je donne … Non … Faites vos jeux … Les cartes passent.’ And all these said with an expressionless, stony face, like a priest saying the mass: ‘Dominus vobiscum.’
The gambler was also a lord in other ways. He lived well. It was of no importance if his dinner cost a hundred and twenty crowns and each bottle of claret another sixty or seventy. And what if he invited others to dine with him? What did the cost matter to a man who, an hour later, might win or lose tens of thousands of the same meaningless filthy lucre? And this every night of his life! Not even the richest of millionaires lived like a gambler. How long this might last was another matter; but while it did the gambler was the real king, and no one in the clubs was more admired and looked up to than he.
Of course no one ever put such thoughts into words, but everyone felt them. Even the most crotchety of the old gentlemen who snoozed away every afternoon in the deepest of leather armchairs and who complained unceasingly of the ‘dreadful prodigality’ of modern youth, knew that the luxury of the clubs of those days — the excellent cooking, the service, the comfort to which they were all deeply attached — was only made possible by the high stakes played nightly in the gaming-rooms upstairs, and not at all by their own more modest games of whist or bezique.
Laszlo felt completely at ease. He had never known such easy acceptance, such camaraderie, and at once ordered himself a bottle of champagne, which he would rarely have done at any other time. And he savoured with the expertise of an experienced bon viveur the goblet of Zalamery’s own special Armagnac when the latter, previously so standoffish and superior, suggested that Laszlo might like to try it and give his opinion. When later they all moved automatically upstairs he needed no coaxing to join in the game. It all seemed so natural, the only thing to do, and the fact that the Steward immediately brought out a chit for Laszlo to sign showed the others that he had already settled the previous night’s losses. This was immediately noticed — and enhanced his newly won reputation.
It was these events which led to Laszlo’s appointment as elotancos — which, to everyone’s dismay was about to become vacant right in the middle of the Carnival season — for the post was only offered to a man whose social prestige was beyond reproach and who apparently had the means to afford it. The possession of means was vitally important for it cost the dance leader a great deal of money. He had to have a carriage always available, for he must always be the first to arrive. He had to be impeccably dressed for all occasions — and for this several well-cut dress suits and at least two changes of shirts every night were needed (for who could tolerate a dancer whose boiled shirt was limp with sweat?), buttonholes for picnics and private parties had to be bought daily and his hand had always to be in his pocket providing champagne and tips for the band-leaders and gypsy musicians. Laszlo might have thought twice about accepting the position if he had not become a regular gambler but, even though he was by no means always on a winning streak, and indeed his losses normally left him slightly out of pocket, money was no longer important to him. The few thousand crowns that he had kept in reserve so as not to have always to go running to his estate manager in the middle of winter each time that he might have need of something extra, were soon gone. He had formerly made the acquaintance of some complaisant money-lenders who now gave him credit because he had paid them off without bargaining when he came of age. Presumably they had somehow discovered what properties he owned and what his expectations were, for now that he needed money again they gave it to him without demur, though still charging exhorbitant rates of interest. When he won at cards he had plenty of money, and spent it freely, and when he lost he borrowed enough to pay his debts and leave him enough to carry on as before.
Laszlo was a great success as dance leader for he was exceptionally good at the job. He could bring any party to life, invented new figures for the quadrille and even his innovations to the traditional movements of the cotillion, which many of the young people disliked, were so fresh and amusing that this old dance became the high spot of each evening. He introduced new csardases and the gypsies never played as well as they did for him. With deference and understanding he delighted all the dowagers, not only the prominent hostesses and great ladies whose balls were famous and with whom he spent every afternoon discussing the details of the evening’s entertainment, but also those forlorn mothers who wearily attended every dance in their efforts to marry off their not very attractive and often by no means well-dowered daughters. For these ladies, who were used to spending entire nights by the buffet in sad resignation, or gently snoring in a quiet alcove, he had a special word of gentle encouragement which would send them back to the ballroom with head held high and a new lightness in their step. He was deservedly popular.