before him in a gesture that seemed to say: rubbish. He was never satisfied with the performance, yet never missed a single one. He was especially critical of Szolyvay, of whom he'd recently written: “He plays to the gallery and his Wun-Hi is an altogether scandalous example of provincial histrionics, totally lacking in either character or conscience, which would be summarily dismissed by any self-respecting audience in Pest.”
This judgement, which caused no small stir, was considered too harsh by many and entirely unjust by others, including Szolyvay himself, who, after a few days’ contemplation, reverted to his tried and tested theatrical antics which never failed to bring irresistible hoots of laughter from his audience. The editor pursed his lips in vexation.
Ijas only raised his head when Margit Lator came on stage, playing the part of Miss Molly Seamore. She was, in his eyes, a genuine actress, and in his reviews he praised her refreshing ingenuity, rated her vocal range superior to that of Olga Orosz, compared her to the legendary Klára Küry, and repeatedly insisted that she belonged on the Budapest stage. Some said that all the poems he published in the
Sárszeg Gazette
were dedicated to her.
At the end of the second act, Környey went over to the club box and took Ákos down to the courtyard to smoke a cigarette.
They groped and zigzagged their way through dimly lit archways until they reached the first floor of the inn, with its red marble stairway whose wide steps Ákos had once climbed with his wife and daughter to the ballroom above. The large mirror, before which women would make final adjustments to their coiffures before entering the ball, still stood between two cypress trees. But now the ballroom door was firmly locked. A cold, unfriendly twilight hung in the corridor. The chambermaid, a plump woman in white stockings and high-heeled patent-leather shoes, leaned on the banisters, rocking back and forth with a copper candlestick holder in her hand, making unmistakable gestures to the young men on the floor below. Something indecent was evidently afoot.
They hurried past her down the steps and out through a little door into the theatre courtyard. Here they lit up.
Acetylene lamps illuminated the canvas backs of the stage sets with a garish glow. Seedy youths took down the lanterns which had been used on stage and carried them to the props cupboard. In the middle of the courtyard, beneath a large sycamore, sat Szolyvay at a one-time restaurant table drinking a spritzer.
“You were splendid,” said Környey, complimenting him.
“Splendid,” Ákos echoed, “absolutely splendid.” And he chuckled.
He wrung his hands continually as he stood gazing at the actor, chuckling. A devil of a fellow, this Szolyvay. Szolyvay, yet not Szolyvay. The pigtail was still swinging from his bare head and beads of perspiration rolled across his thick make-up. Ákos could not contain his laughter.
Szolyvay was preoccupied with graver matters, deep in conversation with the group that surrounded him concerning the latest developments in the old affair between Olga Orosz and Imre Zányi.
Dr Gál was also present, as the theatre's in-house physician, together with several members of the Theatre Committee and other insiders and friends of the performers. Among them stood Papa Fehér, manager of the Agricultural Bank. For want of anyone better, he had his arms around an anonymous-looking geisha girl with large dark-blue shadows on her eyelids.
“It was a frightful scandal,” said the comedian, picking up where he had left off. “Last night we began Act Three of
The Cardinal
half an hour late. The audience didn't know what had happened, but it was that madman Zányi. After the second act, he'd set off into town just as he was, in a purple robe and golden chain, and burst into Olga Orosz's flat in Bólyai Street. Seized by a sudden fit of jealousy, he smashed one of her windows, made an almighty racket and came
This judgement, which caused no small stir, was considered too harsh by many and entirely unjust by others, including Szolyvay himself, who, after a few days’ contemplation, reverted to his tried and tested theatrical antics which never failed to bring irresistible hoots of laughter from his audience. The editor pursed his lips in vexation.
Ijas only raised his head when Margit Lator came on stage, playing the part of Miss Molly Seamore. She was, in his eyes, a genuine actress, and in his reviews he praised her refreshing ingenuity, rated her vocal range superior to that of Olga Orosz, compared her to the legendary Klára Küry, and repeatedly insisted that she belonged on the Budapest stage. Some said that all the poems he published in the
Sárszeg Gazette
were dedicated to her.
At the end of the second act, Környey went over to the club box and took Ákos down to the courtyard to smoke a cigarette.
They groped and zigzagged their way through dimly lit archways until they reached the first floor of the inn, with its red marble stairway whose wide steps Ákos had once climbed with his wife and daughter to the ballroom above. The large mirror, before which women would make final adjustments to their coiffures before entering the ball, still stood between two cypress trees. But now the ballroom door was firmly locked. A cold, unfriendly twilight hung in the corridor. The chambermaid, a plump woman in white stockings and high-heeled patent-leather shoes, leaned on the banisters, rocking back and forth with a copper candlestick holder in her hand, making unmistakable gestures to the young men on the floor below. Something indecent was evidently afoot.
They hurried past her down the steps and out through a little door into the theatre courtyard. Here they lit up.
Acetylene lamps illuminated the canvas backs of the stage sets with a garish glow. Seedy youths took down the lanterns which had been used on stage and carried them to the props cupboard. In the middle of the courtyard, beneath a large sycamore, sat Szolyvay at a one-time restaurant table drinking a spritzer.
“You were splendid,” said Környey, complimenting him.
“Splendid,” Ákos echoed, “absolutely splendid.” And he chuckled.
He wrung his hands continually as he stood gazing at the actor, chuckling. A devil of a fellow, this Szolyvay. Szolyvay, yet not Szolyvay. The pigtail was still swinging from his bare head and beads of perspiration rolled across his thick make-up. Ákos could not contain his laughter.
Szolyvay was preoccupied with graver matters, deep in conversation with the group that surrounded him concerning the latest developments in the old affair between Olga Orosz and Imre Zányi.
Dr Gál was also present, as the theatre's in-house physician, together with several members of the Theatre Committee and other insiders and friends of the performers. Among them stood Papa Fehér, manager of the Agricultural Bank. For want of anyone better, he had his arms around an anonymous-looking geisha girl with large dark-blue shadows on her eyelids.
“It was a frightful scandal,” said the comedian, picking up where he had left off. “Last night we began Act Three of
The Cardinal
half an hour late. The audience didn't know what had happened, but it was that madman Zányi. After the second act, he'd set off into town just as he was, in a purple robe and golden chain, and burst into Olga Orosz's flat in Bólyai Street. Seized by a sudden fit of jealousy, he smashed one of her windows, made an almighty racket and came
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