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Chapter 1.

Not everyone is blessed with two birthdays.

The little boy Emmerich, Imre in Hungarian, son of the res-
pected Kálmán family of Siófok on Lake Balaton, was born around mid-
night of October 24th or shortly before dawn on October 25th, 1882,
depending upon the conflicting watches carried by various excited
members of a doting household. Since neither an attending midwife
nor assorted uncles and aunts -- least of all Papa Kálmán himself --
would admit possession of a faulty timepiece, no agreement was ever
reached regarding a definitive date. As a result young Emmerich
went through childhood the enviable recipient of birthday gifts, con-
gratulatory messages, celebrations and general attention that stretched
over two days instead of the customary one. This circumstance left
an ineradicable imprint on his nature, for he felt from his earliest
moment on earth the comforting warmth of being greatly loved.

This was not because he had been born an only child. There
had come before him a brother, Béla, and a sister, Vilma, while three
younger children were to follow. But tenderness and affection radia-
ted from an exceptionally happy parental relationship, to be felt
not by family members alone but by friends, neighbors, and even casual
acquaintances.

To spend one's early years on the shores of Lake Balaton
might in itself be counted among the beatitudes. This body of water,
the largest in all Hungary, was known to Austrians as the Plattensee
-- the "smooth sea" -- due to its deceptive opalescent calm. Lying
426 feet above sea-level, some 55 miles southwest of Budapest, the

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Balaton is 47 miles long and from 7 to 9 miles wide, with an overall area of 245 square miles and a depth of from 15 to 40 feet. It is fed by upwards of thirty streams, chief among these being the turbulent Szala. Unrivalled in grandeur and sheer size by any lake in Central Europe, Balaton's reputation did not lack dramatic facets, as its usually placid surface could be churned by sudden storms into a raging vortex. From ancient times vivid legends of danger and adventure enveloped the region in echoes of chivalric song.

The first decade of the lad Emmerich's childhood was spent within daily sight of the majestic lake. The small community of Siófok was in those days little more than a sprawling village, important only as a local rail terminus and the starting point of an excursion boat which made the rounds of shoreline resorts, such as Balaton-Almády, Balaton-Füred, Tihány Abbey, and a string of others that glittered at night like a necklace of lights festooning the hills across the deep.

"The Balaton was my first love," said the grown man who in later years would look back to that idyllic beginning. Never were the long sun-drenched Hungarian summers to be forgotten, when young and old splashed in the mellow waters, picnicked on the white beaches, and lingered outdoors far into the night -- was no one ever sleepy? -- harking to the ecstasy or sob of gypsy violins. Then came the winds of autumn bringing resurgence of the wild storms of spring, when the soft song of the waters turned to ocean roar, and white caps crested the tumbling waves. Finally, with winter's threat, there arose the annual speculation: would the great lake freeze over? If so, one could risk skating parties on its vast surface or, more thrilling still, rush across it on horsedrawn sleighs. The latter experience,

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on moonless nights, with bells jingling and lighted torches swung
high, evoked visions of ancient Magyars dashing over snow-swept Asiatic
steppes or of Nordic fairy tale characters flying across glazed mirrors
to the palace of the Ice Queen.

But such delights, Emmerich learned early, were invariably
cut short with the sudden crash of the _Rianás_, a name given by Hungar-
ians to the mighty thunder-like bellow with which an early thaw rent
the huge ice plateau in two. From shore to shore the clean break
opened, usually at night, while natives round about listened in their
featherbeds to the ear-splitting din. Yes, the _Rianás_ gave warning
that all frolicking on the ice was at an end.

There were other winter pleasures, however. Toboggan rides
down the snow-clad hills, later giving way to a newly-introduced sport
called skiing, made up for the brief period of the lake's unfriend-
liness to man. Sometimes, during particularly heavy gales, small snow
avalanches were started, tumbling across railroad tracks and highways,
and cutting off all communication with the world outside. This meant
no newspapers or mail from Vienna and Budapest or even the next vil-
lage down the road. The peace and silence descending upon the land-
scape conveyed a breathless storybook mood. All living seemed to
remain suspended in a sphere of unreality, almost as if in a dream.
Grown-ups might worry about food deliveries and other pressing prob-
lems, but for the children the coming of an avalanche was almost as
pleasurable as Christmas: it meant no school, no homework, and no
enforced daily routine. For an indefinite time -- that was the beauty
of it! -- no plans could be made or carried out. Everyone, big and

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small, sank for a while back into a delicious primordial sloth.

From the beginning the children's lives were colored by music.
Vilma, in particular, had shown an early precocity for the piano which
eclipsed all interest in dolls and games normal for her age. She prac-
tised tirelessly, while Emmerich -- still in toddler stage -- crawled
under the instrument and listened in rapt absorption. Two factors en-
hanced the little fellow's pleasure: boom, bang and tinkle were much
louder when heard from underneath the sounding board, and the cozy
shelter of a grand piano over one's head made a most satisfactory and
secluded cavern. It was not long before Emmerich's preferred toys,
his small hobbyhorse, his locomotive, and a fat plush elephant on
wheels, came to share the happy retreat.

At the age of four Emmerich could hum any number of tunes
from his sister's repertoire, particularly Liszt's Second Hungarian
Rhapsody which he reproduced at top voice with uncanny bleats and
rumbles issuing from his childish throat. Visiting aunts and uncles
with
were habitually regaled in dual performance, first on the part of the
serious and gifted Vilma, then in a strenuous paraphrase from Emmerich's
healthy lungs.

It was the Second Hungarian Rhapsody which brought about the
boy's first contact with a professional artist. Professor Franz Liedl,
member of the Budapest Royal Opera and a top violinist in the Philhar-
monic Orchestra, spent his summers on Lake Balaton in a rented room
adjoining the Kálmán ménage. With windows opened wide, he practised
for hours, walking up and down for simultaneous limbering of his legs.
From the flower garden that lay between, Emmerich crept stealthily

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nearer until no motion of the professor could escape his view. For a
few days he remained unnoticed, hidden by tall shrubs and a clinging
wisteria vine. But before long the highstrung virtuoso sensed a pres-
ence, and, pausing to have a look, discovered the round-eyed chubby
lad peering in frozen fascination over the low window sill. With a
fierce scowl and a swing of his fiddle bow he shooed the intruder away.

This did not in the least discourage the child. No sooner
would the magic strings resume their singing and weeping, their *tren*
and *pizzicato*, than *I'm* was back again. It became a daily battle: the
tense, nerve-wracked musician bent on mastering *his* stint for the coming
fall concerts, confronted by the small eager nuisance that stared at
him solemnly for hours on end. Weary at last of chasing his young
tormentor from behind the bushes, Herr Liedl addressed himself to
Papa Kálmán.

"The boy's eyes bore holes through me -- it's rudeness and
sheer stubbornness! Shall I be forced to close my windows in this
heat or do you want me to call the police?"

Emmerich, standing beside his father, waited in terror for
the coming verdict. But Papa Kálmán's words carried a placating note.

"My son is bewitched by your music, Herr Professor," he
explained. "There is no naughtiness in his determination to see and
hear how such wonders are produced."

The somber greybeard frowned distrustfully. "You mean a
child that age can recognize a tune?"

Papa Kálmán's chest expanded several inches. "Sing your
Rhapsody for the Professor!" he ordered his son.

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Imre gulped in sudden panic. To perform within the security of the family circle had evoked heretofore neither fear nor self-consciousness. But a rendition of his beloved prize number, in the presence of this obviously nettled stranger, was something else again. Still, much was at stake. If the gloomy Professor was not won over, right now and quick, there might be no more hours of entranced eaves-dropping in the flower patch outside. Taking a deep breath, Imre stood his ground and began:

"BOOM BOOM --- (boom boom)

BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM --- )boom boom)

BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM --- (boom boom)"

Caught up by the rhythm and the intoxicating sound of his own voice, he plunged wholeheartedly forward, now trumpeting, now chirping the capricious Magyar airs down to the last cadenza which he rendered unabridged, with gusto and élan.

Herr Liedl was nonplussed. Vehemently he lifted up the boy, kissed him on both cheeks, and exclaimed:

"Bravo! In return for this you may visit me every day, not outside the window, but in my study during practice hours..."

Which was exactly what happened. For Imre was the sort of child to whom one had better not say anything one didn't mean. He was there, the next morning, right after breakfast, knocking on the Professor's door. Once inside, he sat down in a big armchair drawn up especially for him to a vantage point beside the music tripod. And now began a time of indescribable happiness for the ill-assorted pair, the crusty aging performer and his cherubic four-year-old listener. Scales, chords, etudes, sonatas, fugues and concert num-