A year had gone by since that last evening at Jablanka and yet, as he wandered along the dark streets in the drizzling rain, he could now see it all in his mind and relive everything that had then happened to him. Once again he saw the two of them sitting in that slightly over-heated room which was so different from everything else in the house. It was like a tiny island, he thought suddenly, which Fate had one day wrenched away from its parent Transylvania and deposited there so far from home.
Reliving those bitter memories during those hours of aimless wandering did nothing to alleviate Balint’s deep-rooted bitterness, so much so that he now felt he could not face a happy social gathering in his present mood. For a moment he wondered if he could make some excuse so as to get out of going altogether, perhaps sending word that he had developed a bad headache, or some such lie, but then, he thought, how could he do it? He could hardly go up to the Prefect’s front door and say that he wasn’t well enough to come, for the doorman would be certain to tell his master that it was Count Abady himself who had delivered the message! And if he sent a waiter from one of the cafés that were still open it would soon be known that he had been seen there. Better, perhaps, to go home and send round his valet with a visiting-card and a little note? He looked at his watch and saw that it was already half past eleven and all the servants at the Abady house would be in bed asleep. He would have to wake someone, who would then have to dress, and it would all take far too long. He was already late for the party, and the other guests, and the famous French singer, were no doubt at that very moment waiting for him. No doubt, as he spoke good French, he was expected to be the diva’s supper partner, and if he waited any longer it was more than likely that everyone would have gone in to eat and that his place, beside the guest of honour, would remain empty. It would be a gross lack of politeness to stay away a minute longer than it would take him to reach the house.
All this was going through his mind as he walked, now more swiftly than before, towards his host’s house. He knew that the opera had ended some time before because a number of carriages bringing other guests from the theatre had already passed him in the street, which was now again silent and deserted. Everyone must have already arrived at the house. Balint quickened his pace almost breaking into a run, because he realized that whether he wanted to or not he would have to go to the party.
The Prefect’s house blazed with light, but the street outside was deserted except for a one-horse carriage which was waiting to one side of the front door.
Abady was just stepping hurriedly past it when the tall figure of Adam Alvinczy, Margit’s husband, jumped out and grabbed his arm.
‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ he said excitedly. ‘Margit sent me to catch you here!’
Somehow Balint was not surprised, as he had sensed that the chance encounter with Adrienne was bound to provoke something no one could foresee.
‘Well?’ he said. ‘What is it?’
‘We knew you’d be here. Margit says you’re to come at once … there’s some trouble at home; that’s why she sent me. Come on then! Quickly!’
As they got into the carriage Adam called out to the coachman to drive at once back to the Uzdy villa.
Balint felt his throat constrict so that he could hardly speak. Somehow he managed to ask what had happened.
‘I don’t know,’ said Adam. ‘All I can tell you is that when we got home from the opera Adrienne rushed straight to her room and locked herself in. Margit has stayed near her, in the bathroom next door, as she doesn’t dare to leave her entirely alone. She is very worried.’
They did not speak again. As they drove out of town towards the Uzdy villa on the Monostor road all that could be heard was the clatter of the horses’ hooves on the paving-stones; and to both men the five minutes’ journey seemed far longer. As they drove along Balint could think only of one thing, the small Browning revolver, that deadly little weapon which Adrienne had once asked him to buy for her, though she had carefully concealed from him that even then she had thought of killing herself with it. Since that day, and especially when a little later they had parted, perhaps for ever, after the month they had spent together in Venice, the thought of that revolver had haunted him, for he knew how uncompromising she was and also how haunted she was by the spectre of that ultimate solution to her troubles.
And now the spectre walked again, and perhaps what he had always feared had finally been accomplished. He was in agony lest they should arrive too late to prevent what he knew instinctively to be uppermost in her mind …
The carriage stopped in front of the wrought-iron screen which divided the villa’s garden from the road. Adam opened the little-used side gate with his own key and called to the coachman to wait where he was. Then he and Balint hurried in, past the long dark single-storeyed wing of the house which reached almost to the banks of the Szamos and which contained Adrienne’s own apartments, and entered the building through the glazed veranda that ran along one side of the main entrance court. Adam at once turned not to the right, to the door to Adrienne’s sitting-room, but to another door at the left which led to her bathroom.
They went in as quietly as possible. Inside they found Margit crouched at the end of a narrow bench with her ear pressed to the keyhole of the door which opened into the bedroom. Hunched up like that she might have been taken for a young girl if her advanced state of pregnancy had not shown her to be a grown woman. As soon as they entered the room she turned towards them and got up. Then she drew Balint to her side and, speaking very softly but with great determination, said:
‘Thank goodness you’ve come! Now you must stay right here. It’s all right, I know you’re expected at that supper party but Adam will go in your place and will explain that you’re not feeling at all well. It won’t look at all strange as everyone will have noticed that you left the theatre early, and they’ll think it most considerate to have sent someone in your place. No one will be at all put out.’ She turned to her husband, saying: ‘You did keep the carriage, didn’t you? You’d better hurry now. I’m sure you’ll carry it all off excellently … Oh, and you’d better send back the carriage as we may need it. Tell the man to wait and give him the key to the small gate.’
Margit had obviously worked everything out in advance and, being cool-headed no matter how anxious she might be, gave her orders clearly and simply.
As soon as Adam had gone she turned to Balint and, in a whisper that could not have been heard from the next room, told him exactly what had happened that day. In the morning Adrienne had got back from Lausanne where she had gone to place her daughter in a boarding school. Countess Gyalakuthy had heard of her return and asked her to join the others in her box that evening. She said that somehow she didn’t much like the idea, that opera was not really for her, ‘… but as we thought you were at Denestornya …’
‘I only came up for this evening.’
‘Yes, but we didn’t know that then. Anyhow it’s beside the point. I was sitting beside her in the box and I could see her face. It was terrible, because I know her so well … but nobody else noticed anything. I was very scared for her, but there was nothing I could do. It was impossible to leave, and anyway I don’t think she wanted to move. At last the opera came to an end and we could go. We brought her home in our carriage and she never uttered a word. We came in with her, though she clearly didn’t want us to; in fact she did all she could to make us go away at once. Adam waited outside but I refused to leave her. She looked terrible, terrible. I’ve only seen her look like that twice before … but never so intensely, so determined. I was really afraid for her; her eyes were without expression, glassy … and her hands were shaking. I managed to stay with her until she had undressed, but then she suddenly pushed me out of the room and locked the door. That’s when I sent Adam to find you because there wasn’t, there isn’t, any more that I can do. I don’t know what she’s up to in there. Once or twice I heard her groping about and then it seemed as if some small objects fell onto the floor
. Since then I’ve heard nothing … for quite a long time. I’ve knocked repeatedly, but she doesn’t answer though I know she’s awake … she’s certainly awake. Only you can help now!’ She stopped, and then, after a pause, went on:
‘If it isn’t too late: I know she’s got some veronal.’
Balint got up and stepped towards Adrienne’s bedroom. Then with tightly clenched fist he knocked twice on her door and in a loud voice said, ‘It’s me, AB. Please let me in!’
They waited. It was only about twenty seconds, but to those in the bathroom it seemed like an eternity. They heard nothing, no words, no footsteps, nothing. Then the key turned twice in the lock. Abady at once grasped the handle: the door opened before him. He stepped quickly into the room and closed the door behind him. Inside the room was in complete darkness, but Balint knew it too well to need any light. He knew everything in it, even the warm scent which might have been that of carnations or other flower-petals but which came from no manufacturer’s bottle and was like no perfume from a shop but which rather was the slightest, yet intoxicating aroma, as of a subtle secret poison … it was the intimate scent of his love. Only two steps and he was at the side of her bed. He sat down quietly.
‘Is it really you?’ asked a muffled voice from deep among the pillows.
‘Yes.’
His hands sought her shoulder and started to caress the hair that curled loosely about her. Then he spoke again, thickly as if he could hardly get the words out:
‘This has no sense, no sense at all.’
For a few moments there was no reply. Then she clutched at him with both arms holding him in an embrace so tight she might have been a drowning swimmer clinging to her saviour. Their lips met in a long, hungry kiss.
Between them the stiffly starched shirt of his evening dress crackled softly.
Balint wanted to switch on the light but Adrienne was still too upset to let him do so.
‘Margit is waiting outside. I must tell her you’re all right,’ said Balint. ‘Besides, I must see my hair isn’t ruffled … and put my tie straight … I’ll need the light to do that.’
‘No, no! Not yet! You don’t need the light just for that … and anyway it doesn’t matter!’
‘But Margit may want to come in. It’ll be better with the light on.’
‘No, she mustn’t come! Not now! Tell her she can go home and come back later … but I’m not having any light, not now!’
There was nothing he could do to persuade her, so he smoothed his hair with his hands and did what he could to straighten his collar and tie. Then he went back into the bathroom.
Margit was lying at full length on the narrow bench beside the wall. She was fast asleep, with her head cushioned on her soft arm, like a faithful guardian at rest as soon as danger was past. She seemed to be sleeping so deeply that Balint felt it was cruel to wake her.
‘Is it all right …?’ she muttered before she was fully awake.
There was no need for Balint to say anything because Margit saw from his face that all was well and at once said, ‘I’ll be going home now,’ and her little mouth stretched wide as she yawned deeply. Then she slipped into her evening fur coat and with hardly another word bade Abady farewell and disappeared. How Abady was to leave the house if she locked the gate behind her and took away the key, she didn’t say, though whether this was because she was still so sleepy or whether she may have other reasons no one could have told, for little Margit never explained and never said anything that was not strictly necessary.
Balint turned off the bathroom light and returned to the dark bedroom.
The clock in the neighbouring monastery struck three. Its sound reverberated in the darkness almost as if it chimed in the room itself.
The sound woke them. They had fallen asleep entwined in each others’ arms, the curves of their bodies fitting closely together with the ease of long-standing habit, just as a pair of great cats such as pumas or panthers sleep coiled together in luxurious repose. Adrienne had found her accustomed place with her head tucked into Balint’s shoulder and her strong richly curling hair partly covering his lips and nose; but he slept all the deeper for, far from disturbing him, these wild locks of hers were like links in a magic chain that had bound them together for so many years. These lovers needed no one else, for both found everything that was needed in the other, every gesture and movement of their lovemaking, whether new or familiar, was accepted with trust and serenity, even their unity in the climax of love; and on this day it was just as it had always been whenever they had been able to come together to lose their own selves in each other.
‘It’s already three, I ought to get dressed,’ he murmured into the thick tangle of her curls.
‘Are you cold?’ she asked, but she did not move.
‘No! But I can’t stay for ever … and I really must put on the light.’
‘If you must; but promise me not to look around! Promise!’
‘I promise.’
Balint switched on one of the little bedside lamps and Adrienne picked out one of her wraps for him.
Although Balint had meant to keep his promise, as soon as he started to put on Adrienne’s silken kimono he could not help seeing that the little Browning revolver was lying on the table beside the bed and that on the floor nearby were a number of tiny unused cartridges, little copper bullets and the yellow cardboard box from which they had come. He realized that she must have tried to load the revolver but that she had dropped the box in her agitation and that it must have been only this chance that had saved her life. Adrienne noticed that his face had clouded over and took his head in her hands, turned it back towards her and started kissing his eyes with her wide generous mouth. She did not let go but pulled him down again as if he were her prisoner among the soft pillows and cushions on the bed. Later, when they could again look each other straight in the eyes, her expression was gently apologetic and there was something shamefaced in the little smile with which she looked up at him. They did not speak about what they both knew he had seen there.
They talked about all sorts of things and then, prosaically enough, about the fact that they were both hungry.
‘And there’s nothing in the house because we were all going to eat at Margit’s. This is awful,’ Adrienne wailed in mock dismay.
Then Balint remembered the chestnuts which, though he had hardly known what he was doing, he had bought on that long lonely bitter walk the evening before. Finding his coat among the clothes he had strewn on the floor by Adrienne’s bed, he searched in the pockets and found them and also the paper he had bought a little later.
‘I’ve got this bag of chestnuts, but they’re stone cold. Perhaps we could warm them up?’
‘That’d take far too long, the fire’s been out for ages,’ said Adrienne, laughing. ‘I’m so hungry! Let’s have them as they are! They’ll taste every bit as good.’
So as not to soil Adrienne’s sheets with the chestnut peelings they used the newspaper as a tablecloth in the centre of the bed and leaning over from each side they tackled the long-cold nuts with gusto. As they did so Balint told how he had nearly knocked over the old woman who was roasting the chestnuts and how, automatically, he had bought the paper from the news-vendor in the station square; and he related both tales as if they were unreal amusing anecdotes from a remote past which now hardly concerned them, indeed as if they had never really happened.
It was the same with all the suffering they had both endured during the past year and a half. The pain and bitterness and the torment they had both gone through all those months when Uzdy’s incipient madness was slowly growing to its climax; the ultimate catastrophe of his complete breakdown; Adrienne’s renunciation of their love and her decree that they must not see each other; and the seemingly endless days and nights of sorrow and self-recrimination that they had both suffered; all these things now vanished from their minds like the mists of early morning. Not only did they not think about it but they barely even wondered if there had
ever really been any reason for the torture they had endured. They did not remember it because it no longer existed, because they were together again and at home in each other’s arms, because they belonged to each other, a real couple, male and female of the same species, and because anything which did not concern them now was as unreal as a mere phantom.
So, together on the wide bed, he in her silken wrap and she with her night-dress slightly torn and slipping down over one shoulder, they fell on the sooty chestnuts with hungry delight.
‘Wasn’t it lucky you bought them!’ said Addy.
Chapter Two
WHEN KAROLY KHUEN-HEDERVARY formed a new government in January, 1910, few people, and especially those who had been immersed in the fantasy world of Coalition politics, believed it would achieve any more than had its predecessors. Everywhere it was said that the new government would soon suffer the same fate as that of General Fejervary five years before for it was still believed that a government made up of people not in Parliament had no solid base and therefore would not stand the pace. Indeed so frosty was the lack of welcome with which it was received that when Khuen-Hedervary announced that Parliament was to be adjourned he was met with an immediate motion of ‘No Confidence’.
They Were Divided Page 4
