‘Don’t hurry!’ one of them called to Abady. ‘There never was such a lark! Come with us to the bar and drink some champagne. Nothing’s going to be settled until noon tomorrow at least. And why rush to the aid of those separate-bank cranks?’
In the Chamber they were counting heads, but even with Abady there were still only ninety-eight. Meanwhile the clerks kept rushing in with more news of absent members and whether they would come in or not. Then, all at once, the number jumped to one hundred and four, and the Speaker dashed out calling: ‘Stay where you are, everybody! Please stay just a moment!’ Jubilation! Then the Speaker returned with Justh and the session was legally brought to an end with no surrender on either side.
Balint walked slowly home. He was filled with sadness, for what had rejoiced the fractious People’s Party and deeply angered the Independents had merely induced in him a sense of gloom and depression. So this is what they had come to, all those politicians who not so long ago had taken office with such enthusiasm and such patriotic fervour! To think that Parliament itself, for so long the pride, indeed the glory, of the Hungarian people, could be desecrated by such a miserable, pathetic performance!
There were those who thought of it as nothing but a huge joke, and there were those who saw nothing but a clever manipulation of those tiresome Rules. There was also, and this was perhaps the most depressing thought of all, that large majority who didn’t even bother to attend the House as the debates had become little more than word-chopping and argument. The Upper House no longer even met and all law-making had long since ceased. Indeed, thought Balint, there was no longer a government, no one party had a majority and the whole machinery of governing the country had ground to a halt. It was all meaningless, empty, like the dried carcass of a dead insect from which all life had long since departed. There were plenty of good men there, honest fellows from the country, and there were honest and experienced leaders too, men like Andrassy and Wekerle, full of goodwill and selfless devotion; but they were powerless in the morass of the present malaise. It was as if a curse had fallen on Hungary.
After this brief interlude came more days and weeks of empty monotony. The public and political indifference weighed on Balint’s spirits like a leaden cloak. He felt alive only when he sat down to write to Adrienne.
At first he wrote only occasionally, but as time went by his letters became ever more frequent until by the end of October he was writing every two or three days. He no longer cared if anyone noticed at Almasko. He did not even care if his letters stirred up trouble, indeed he would have welcomed trouble which would at least have rescued him from that hell of ashes in which he was living. So he poured out his soul into more and more letters, pleading, demanding, hotly exacting a decision; and since he wrote with passion and thought, weighing every word and every argument, the letters were good ones. He searched his mind for words of reproach which he knew would strike home, for he wanted her to be so hurt that she might be forced into action. He wrote about the spiritual misery of his life of exile, how he spent night after night alone in his dark little hotel room, how he dreamed every night of Denestornya, of that beloved home he had thrown aside for her sake. And then there would be letters in which he wrote only that he could not write because he had nothing in the world to write about.
Sometimes he would include something more trivial. One day, for example, he had run across little Lili Illesvary. It had been a chance meeting just as she was passing through Budapest with the Szent-Gyorgyis, and he had dined with them that night. During the evening he had again been invited to Jablanka and Lili had smiled at him saying, ‘I will be there too!’ Afterwards it had occurred to Balint that he might be able to use this to make Adrienne jealous and so in his next letter he had told her of that occasion in the summer when they had played ‘Up Jenkins’ at the Park Club and he had found himself physically excited by her. He had gone on to praise the girl, saying how sweet and pretty and desirable she was and quoting her words which had seemed then like a caress. It was cruel of him, he knew, but perhaps it would bring some reaction.
Mostly, however, he wrote about that son for whom he longed so much, until his letters spoke of almost nothing but that. Over and over again he wrote how vital it was to him that this boy, his and hers, should be born to them, and how he could think of nothing else but his need for an heir who would be the ultimate bond between them. In his later letters even his desire for Adrienne became merged with his yearning for their boy until the image of this unborn child melted into that of Adrienne herself. It was her body, her beautiful, desirable body, that now became the instrument forged only to bring forth the ultimate object of their love.
Adrienne’s replies, on the other hand, gradually became shorter and shorter. At first she tried to convince him by argument, and, though by no means sure of herself, to explain herself, to convince him that at present it was impossible to come to a decision, to make a definite break. She wrote that she had a great responsibility but that … well, one day … And though her letters became ever more brief and incoherent, through her faltering words there throbbed a passion as affecting as a heartbeat. Finally all she could say was ‘I think of you all the time…Don’t tortureme … You can’t possibly know‚ youcan’t know …’ and nothing more. For some time she had not mentioned her daughter, and Balint instinctively felt he had chosen the right course and went on writing those cruel letters, though his heart bled for her each time he did it.
On November 10th the post brought him a letter; and this time it was a long one.
‘I can’t stand it any more!’ she wrote. ‘I can’t stand it!’ Then, with almost businesslike dryness she said that she had made up her mind to ask for a divorce at once, no matter what happened as a result. She had written to Absolon to come to Almasko and she would give him a letter to hand to her husband announcing that she was going home to her father’s house at Mezo-Varjas whence she would start proceedings. She could trust no one else and old Absolon was only to give Uzdy the letter after she had left the house. Balint was to stay in Budapest and on no account to move from where he was, nor write her a single line, not even of thanks, because she wouldn’t be able to stand it. ‘It is because what I do now — this reckless chance I must take — must be done for myself alone and not also for you. If a catastrophe follows it must be I alone who am responsible!’ Only in this way, she wrote, could it be possible, and only in this way was there a chance of success. ‘I will let you know at once if there are any developments, important developments. Don’t be impatient because it will be at least 10or 12days before I’ll be ableto tell you anything‚’
At the end of the letter there was a short postscript. ‘Uzdy seems quieter now.’And then there was a single word, twice underlined: ‘Maybe??’
Chapter Five
‘MAYBE??’ These five letters and the double question-mark encapsulated the anxiety and spiritual turmoil that had been Adrienne’s lot ever since Dr Kisch had made his first visit to Almasko. It was only now, three months later, and especially since the doctor’s second visit at the beginning of September, that Adrienne had begun to understand the full meaning of those careful deliberate words with which Dr Kisch had given his opinion. He had repeated much the same thing when he came again in September, and it was now clear to Adrienne that what the doctor had been saying implied that her husband, if not already mad, was certainly on the verge of madness.