Miklos Banffy - They Were Divided

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: