Skylark - Dezso Kosztolanyi [51]
The table was crammed full. They must have been fifty in all, for new guests had arrived for dinner. Máté Gaszner, assessor to the orphan's court, a lame and rather objectionable little man, who was popular all the same and was addressed as “my dear Mátéka” by everyone present. Kostyál, a retired teacher from the neighbouring town who was, as they said, a “regular trencherman.” Vereczkey, the Lord Lieutenant's private secretary, who had served in the Tyrol and knew a string of fine Italian songs. And of course Feri Füzes also put in an appearance, showing off his stupid smile, which he seemed to have polished specially for the occasion. Throughout dinner he kept repeating:
“I do adore society. I really am the most jolly of fellows.”
And Olivér Hartyányi came too, the “atheist.”
Poor Olivér had been suffering from degenerative syphilis for years. And that, by and large, was why poor Olivér was an atheist. Towards evening he'd have himself wheeled to the club, where two attendants carried him upstairs in the large cushioned chair in which he sat in his courtyard at home. His legs were covered with a thick, woollen blanket.
He appeared particularly lively this evening, having taken a larger than usual injection of morphine before setting out. His eyes gleamed and his dilated pupils sparkled, lending a certain sharpness to his haggard, olive-green face. His eyebrows curled like caterpillars as he spoke.
He ended up beside Feri Füzes. The two men loathed each other, but loved to argue all the same, and did so endlessly.
Feri Füzes insisted on the existence of God. Olivér Hartyányi disagreed. The debate had rambled on for years, without either participant surrendering an inch of ground. Now they once more rehearsed their familiar arguments in the name of idealism and materialism. Feri Füzes curled his lips sarcastically at the mention of Darwin, not because he didn't consider the fellow a gentleman, but because he held the same opinion of Darwin as of Lajos Kossuth. Darwin had his good and bad points like anyone else. Then it was time for Olivér to play his trump card. With bitter, derisive words he painted a picture of ubiquitous ruin and decay, the only things he believed in, complete and utter destruction, the rotting human body, teeming with grubs and maggots. He spoke out loud, the more to outrage his companions at table. But they paid not the slightest notice either to him or to Feri Füzes. They were equally weary of them both.
Besides, the Gypsies had already struck up. The famous János Csinos Band stood in position by the tall folding doors and the leader, an old friend of all present, was scraping and flourishing with all his soul. He never played more sweetly than on Thursday evenings. He turned devotedly–although still keeping a respectful distance–towards István Kárász, looking up at him now and then with a dreamy smile in which many shared memories seemed to slumber. He had played at Kárász's wedding and had fiddled many a thousand-forint banknote from the landowner's pocket. Kárász would invite him to his estate once a year. The previous year he had strung a whole ham around each Gypsy's neck and made them play on thus equipped till dawn.
István Kárász, who sat between Ákos and Ladányi, stopped eating. As soon as he heard the strains of the violin he sat back in his chair, hung his arms by his sides and, with a vein beginning to bulge on his forehead, listened with mooning eyes. He appeared to remain indifferent, but gave his heart entirely to the Gypsy: to nurse it, caress it and mine its very depths. He surrendered his soul with a certain leisurely, gentlemanly nonchalance, as others might offer their feet to the pedicurist. He had more faith in the Gypsy than in his doctor, Dr Gál.
The leader, for his part, left no heartstring unplucked. He stabbed and stung, tweaked and tormented, faithful servant that he was. Soon a fat teardrop swelled in the landowner's eye and rolled its way down his sunburnt cheek. Why did Kárász cry? All of Sárszeg belonged to him. He could