Leonora by Elena Poniatowska Page A

aloud right in front of the Queen as a hyena would.’
    Being presented at Court is an honour, a public confirmation of high birth, a certificate of the purity of one’s bloodline, a sign of belonging to the elite. Young women lean on their family trees; few bear the weight. Relatives are carefully screened and rules of admission are rigorously strict. An invitation to the Palace is an important milestone in life.
    The debutantes await the arrival of the King, the Queen and the princes at the foot of the dais, standing at ground level. Above them, the entire Court looks down on them with firm benevolence. The moment the King and Queen make their entrance, all the debs in the full flower of their youth bend double in a deep bow, rehearsed days in advance. There was to be no chance of a fat young lady, fan in hand, crashing to the floor like a giant cauliflower.
    As each name is called, a debutante mounts the dais. Dressed like her mother in white satin, albeit a few stone lighter, Leonora rises, closes her fan, and walks towards the podium, performs a reverentially deep curtsey to the King, another only slightly less so to the Queen, and yet another more fleetingly to the rest of the Court. She returns to her seat with her head held high, although the tiara weighs heavily upon it. She feels a steely stare scorching the back of her neck, and turns her head to see her father sitting behind her.
    â€˜So much preparation just for this, Mama?’
    Waiters, with the Hapsburg jaw of Spanish grandees, serve them beneath a white marquee.
    â€˜What do you mean? Don’t you realise you have just been presented to the royal family at Court?’
    â€˜The sandwiches are second-rate.’
    â€˜Your attitude is appalling. I had intended to give you the tiara, but you might as well forget about that now. What you have just now lived through is an historic moment in your life and in ours. The King and Queen are your monarchs, there for your protection: this is your country, your nation and history.’
    Her parents offer her a debutantes’ ball at the Ritz, for which the many dances she had attended in Paris had prepared her: those of the Count Etienne de Beaumont, of the Countess Greffühle, the Rothschilds, the Polignacs, the Viscount Charles de Noailles, who hangs paintings by Goya and Titian in his ballroom, which also functions as a theatre. The crystal candelabra tinkle their gold leaves as if they were alive, and every time a new guest arrives, he or she would be announced from the head of the staircase: ‘ Lord .’ ‘ Duchess. ’ ‘ Lady. ’ ‘ Marquess .’ ‘ Count .’ ‘ Earl. ’ ‘ Prince. ’ ‘ Baroness. ’
    All eyes pursue the new arrival making her entrance. Nothing could weigh more heavily than those stares.
    â€˜I want to be a hyena,’ Leonora says, flinging her clothes on the bed as soon as she returns home from the ball.
    â€˜Not that again? Did you have a good time?’
    â€˜Ugh! On top of turning up, you want me to enjoy myself there? The male guests are obsessed with nothing except protocol, and the women with nothing except who has on the most ostentatious dress.’
    Her mother regards her tearfully:
    â€˜At least I was happy, you were the most beautiful one there, as all my friends confirmed.’
    â€˜Your friends?’
    â€˜Well, my acquaintances. I don’t understand why you always need to contradict whatever I say, nor why you have to dismiss every opinion I hold dear.’
    After her debut, Leonora is invited to an entire season of balls, all just as mired in protocol. Nobody performs the slightest action beyond those prescribed by the rules of etiquette. Young and desirable females are careful not to laugh or speak too loudly. They do not remove their gloves even to dance. No conversation exceeds the boundaries of discussing the weather, fox-hunting, or the best place to holiday this summer. Cecil