They Were Divided - Miklos Banffy [8]
Then he gave an especially sweet smile and went on:
‘I have another very dear memory. It was in this church that I officiated at the wedding of Count Antal’s other sister, the Countess Charlotte who married a Swede, Count Olaf Loewenstierna.’ As he said these words Pfaffulus’s thin pointed nose seemed to grow even longer and he raised his eyebrows expressively. ‘It was very bold on my part, as the bridegroom, of course, was a Protestant and I should not really have performed the ceremony without the promise that the children should be brought up as Catholics. But what could I do? The old Count gave his orders and said that one could not ask such a thing of a Loewenstierna, who was descended from one of Gustavus Adolphus’s generals; and anyway he would despise the young man if he abandoned his family traditions. If he, as a good Catholic father, did not demand it, then I should not either. Naturally I did as he wished.’
Here the round little priest had leaned forward and spoken confidentially into Balint’s ear.
‘Of course I had committed a fault; even perhaps a sin, yes, a sin. And yet it was my sin, and mine alone, because in such circumstances only the priest can be at fault. I went straight afterwards to see the Prince-Cardinal. It was then Monsignor Simor. To him I confessed my fault, my crime. I knelt before him and he gave me a thorough scolding and some pretty harsh penances with which to atone for my lapse. Then he invited me to eat with him. Afterwards he had said: “You were wise, my son, not to ask for guidance because no permission would ever have been given. Yes, you did the wise, the clever thing. The family of Szent-Gyorgyi have done much for our church for several centuries and so they fall into a very special category. I am sure that this is how the Roman Curia would regard the matter too.”’
Czibulka had then fallen silent, gazing ahead as if conscious only of his own memories. Then he had got up and looked at Abady as if excusing himself for having burdened the young man with such personal reminiscences.
‘You must forgive my idle chatter,’ he said. ‘I seem to have gone on at length about things which only concern myself. But this chapel, you see, means so much to me.’
Then he had made another quick genuflection towards the altar, switched out the lights, and escorted Balint out of the chapel. They walked back together to the drawing-room where everyone was gathering for tea.
They had thought of every way to encourage and reassure him, and so everything had depended on him and on him alone. And then he had let the moment pass and so thrown away his chances, if not of love then at least of a kind and loving wife, of a family, and of a nest to come home to.
It had been on the last evening of his stay that he had let the final opportunity escape him.
He had dressed for dinner early and when he had entered the drawing-room he had found it deserted. Then, through the open doors to the library, he had seen Lili, who for some reason of her own had also dressed before the others. She had been kneeling on a chair drawn up to a long table in the centre of the room, leaning forward with her bare elbows reflected on the polished wooden table top as she turned the pages of a large album of engravings. She had seemed totally engrossed in the pictures before her.
At that moment he had instinctively known that she had come down early to the library with a single purpose, and that that had been, if possible, to give him one final occasion on which to make his proposal, final because it had been the last night of that gathering at Jablanka to which he had been invited just for that purpose.
‘Do you know this collection?’ Lili had asked when Balint had come up to her and leaned beside her on the table. ‘It is very rare. It’s the record of a journey to Egypt by a Hungarian, a Count Forray. Aren’t these coloured engravings lovely? Do look! Look at this