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.