They Were Divided Page 24

  ‘I am only writing this to your Lordship to let your Lordship know that this is really so and that her Ladyship is not worse than she says. I was rather scared this morning when I saw that she could not use her arm, but there is nothing else wrong, your Lordship, only this, and the doctor told me himself what he told her Ladyship, that it will get better gradually. Please excuse the liberty in writing to your Lordship, but I thought you would want to know.

  ‘I kiss your Lordship’s hands. Terka.’

  Balint left for Abbazia the same day even though he had promised Adrienne, who was going to Lausanne to visit her daughter at the beginning of May, that he would meet her in Budapest and go with her to Vienna, where they could spend a few days together. He sent an express letter to Kolozsvar to explain why he had had to abandon this plan, and left on the evening train.

  He found his mother exactly as she had described herself. She could move her hand and fingers a little, but had no strength in them. Balint went to see the doctor on his own and the latter told him: ‘It is arteriosclerosis. She will get better, though it is possible that she will never be quite the same as before. All the same it must be taken seriously if only as a sign that there is a tendency to apoplectic strokes. Some people are prone to this, and there is really no avoiding action we can advise. Perhaps it might benefit your mother to go to Bad Gastein in the summer.’

  Countess Roza did her best to put on a show of crossness because her son had come when she had said it was not necessary; but it was obvious that she was really very pleased and happy. They spent sixteen more days together on the Quarnero coast.

  The doctor’s prognosis turned out to be correct. The old lady recovered the use of her hand, but even though she was soon able to write with it after a fashion, it was never quite the same as before.

  During these days together Balint felt himself closer to his mother than he ever had been. It was as if a certain hardness in her was now dissolving. It may have been that in a hotel that regal arrogance was not so marked as at home at Denestornya where it never left her. There was nothing that Balint could put his finger on, nothing obvious, especially in the old lady’s attitude to her son, but there was something gentler and softer about her, almost as if the trouble with her arm had given rise to a foreboding that had caused her, for the first time, to look into herself. Somehow Balint was aware of this. It was not just a suspicion, he knew it; and as a result he tried himself to be just that much warmer with her than before, only a little, just enough to please her, but not too much as he knew how much his mother detested anything that smacked of sentiment or effusiveness.

  In the middle of May they started for home; and Balint, who thought that it must be about then that Adrienne would be returning from Lausanne, sent a telegram to tell her their plans.

  The day they arrived in Budapest – though Balint had argued against it because such fashionable places were sure to be crowded at that time of year – they went to have tea at Gerbeaud’s. Countess Roza insisted; Balint had noticed at Abbazia that his mother had recently shown a liking for being surrounded by people. It was an unexpected change in the old lady who had always avoided crowds, rarely went out to other people’s houses and never went to restaurants or tea-rooms.

  Now, all of a sudden, she seemed to want to be surrounded by people. It was as if the bustle and turmoil of everyday life brought her joy, as if what had happened in that hotel room by the sea had reminded her that her life was passing inexorably.

  As they always did now Balint and his mother walked arm in arm.

  Of course Gerbeaud’s was very crowded. Every table was occupied and every chair taken, and in front of the long counter customers were standing two or three deep. Finally they found a place just beside the door, Countess Roza with her back to the wall and Balint on her right. They were so close to the doorway that many of the people crowding in at that fashionable hour brushed against their table.

  Countess Roza did not mind at all. Smiling with good humour she sat there patiently until at long last her coffee topped with whipped cream was brought her. Then, slowly stirring it, she watched the mob flow to and fro as the throng of society women almost fell over each other as they fought their way in and out. The old lady’s slightly protuberant grey eyes watched it all with amused tolerance, even though some of the customers were only inches from her chair.

  It’s amazing, thought Balint, as he bent forward to sip his tea. How she would have loathed all this only a month or so ago!

  A tall young woman dressed in rust-coloured linen appeared in the doorway.

  It was Adrienne.

  She could hardly get through against the rush of those trying to get out, and had to stand by the door to let the crowd go by. She stood there, beside the door, with her back to where Countess Abady was sitting.

  She was already standing patiently there when Balint looked up and of course instantly knew who it was.

  Joy flooded through him … and then fear of what would happen next. If Adrienne did not see them, even though she was so close, and so did not greet his mother, Countess Roza would assume that it was done on purpose. Also it was unthinkable that, finding themselves so close to each other, they could make do with a formal greeting. A few words, however trivial, would have to be exchanged, or it would be ruder than if they managed not to see each other at all. He knew that Adrienne would do whatever was necessary, but how would his mother react? After all she had hated Adrienne for years, and for a long time the two women had not met. Before that, if they had somehow encountered each other at a charity bazaar or in the house of mutual friends, Countess Roza would nod icily and turn away. What would she do now? It would be dreadful to have to stand by and see his mother, by her manner if not in so many words, insult and hurt the woman he loved.

  All this flashed through his mind, and his heart constricted with pain.

  And then the unexpected happened.

  Roza Abady touched Adrienne’s sleeve with her left hand and in gentle tones said, ‘Why, Adrienne! Didn’t you see me?’

  The younger woman turned, startled by something so unexpected. For a moment she was lost for words, but she quickly recovered herself, greeted the old lady in her turn and lifted Countess Roza’s hand to her lips. There was more in this spontaneous gesture than the mere politeness of a younger woman for an older, for in those days grown women kissed old ladies’ hands only if they were close relations. In Adrienne’s gesture gratitude was almost equally blended with humility. Then, across the table, she greeted Balint, who had risen when she turned towards them.

  Countess Roza waved to Balint’s empty chair and said, ‘Won’t you join us? We’re rather squeezed, but do come and sit with us … or are you with friends?’

  ‘Thank you. I’d love to for a moment if I may. I just came in to get something.’

  Adrienne spoke hesitantly in rather an embarrassed tone, but the old lady was completely calm and as cheerful as if nothing had ever come between them. She even seemed happy, and indeed she was happy because her desire to play the role of the gracious royal lady always surged up in her whenever she had a chance of giving, and especially when that gift would be unexpected and surprising, and appear to come from the great height of her queenly throne. In her happiness now there was also mingled a real element of goodness as well as a certain faint and forgiving irony for the obvious embarrassment of her son as well as that of Adrienne, though she was careful not to let any of this appear. She rambled on naturally – perhaps indeed almost too volubly – so as to help the others regain their equanimity, telling Adrienne all about Abbazia and how she had spent the winter there, and then asking for news of Adrienne’s father, Akos Miloth, of her sister Margit, and even of her little girl Clemmie who she had heard was at school in Switzerland – so sensible to have her brought up there!

  ‘I came here to buy her some chocolates,’ said Adrienne, ‘and also some for the head-mistress and her room-mother. I always do, every time I come back, just to show how much
I appreciate them.’

  Then, apparently without any reason, she added, ‘I only just arrived – on the five o’clock train this afternoon,’ and Balint wondered if she said this so as to show that she had known nothing of the Abadys’ movements and so had not contrived this meeting in collusion with him.

  They exchanged a few more words and then Adrienne got up and said goodbye, disappearing into the throng of busy shoppers at the counter. A little later they saw her go out carrying three parcels. As Adrienne passed near Countess Roza she bowed her head gracefully to the old lady … and in her eyes Balint could catch the glint of tears.

  A quarter of an hour later Balint took his mother back to her hotel. They walked in silence and they did not speak, even when they separated in the great hallway of the Hungaria, except merely to confirm what they were doing that evening. Balint was anxious to look in at the Casino to hear all the latest news. When they said goodbye he kissed her hand but held it in his for a fraction longer than usual. Countess Abady patted her son’s cheek with her chubby little hand.

  These two almost imperceptible gestures were all that was needed to mark the gratitude of the son and the acknowledgement of reconciliation by the mother. It was enough for both of them.

  When Balint arrived the Casino was crowded. Storms were brewing once again.

  During the previous weeks Lukacs had been doing everything he could to get the army estimates passed with only a year’s validity. To get Justh’s co-operation he had made two different offers on the suffrage question. Both had been turned down. Neither did he get very far elsewhere for Apponyi, in a public speech, declared that neither he nor any of his followers would even discuss what Lukacs was proposing, while Justh let it be known that he found even the suffrage concessions inadequate.

  The chances of reaching general agreement were still further reduced by a split in the Independent party, for just when it had appeared that an agreement with Justh was imminent, the Kossuth-Apponyi group brought up an absurdly far-fetched set of nationalistic demands. Then, as Justh did not want to be made to appear less patriotic than the others, he in turn put forward some even more radical suggestions – and only Lukacs knew how his hands had been tied by his secret allegiance to the Heir’s policies which left him with no room for manoeuvre. The Justh party now put forward ever more stubborn and revolutionary demands for reform in the mistaken belief that the Minister-President had the power to grant them. They had the means to obstruct the passing by Parliament of any measures with which they did not agree, and they used this power relentlessly. All that was done in the House in those days was endless voting on trivialities … voting, voting … closed sessions and more voting.

  At this point Tisza once more emerged into the limelight.

  Though it had not yet happened, it was everywhere believed that soon Navy, who had succeeded Berzeviczy as Speaker of the House, would resign and that Tisza would take his place.

  This would mean a violation of the Rules of the House for only a few years before, in 1904, Tisza had himself been at the head of affairs.

  Abady moved from group to group, saying nothing but listening to what everyone had to say. He only stayed about fifteen minutes listening to each discussion before moving on to the next; but everywhere he heard the same thing, hatred for Tisza, hatred and more hatred, hatred from every kind and shade of opinion in the opposition, hatred from faithful believers in the 1867 Compromise, hatred from the followers of Andrassy, from members of the People’s Party and even from those unrepentant old politicians who still brandished the banner of 1848 and revolt against the Habsburgs. There was no difference anywhere.

  On the other hand there was no such unanimity in the government’s own ranks. Those few supporters of Tisza who were present kept their mouths firmly closed and stood about in frigid silence. The rest of Lukacs’s supporters belonged to that familiar type of politician, inane and passive like so many who blindly follow where they think the majority are leading and who are only happy when betting on a certainty. Such men are dismayed by the hazardous and they were now restless and anxious, shaking their heads and vainly trying to reassure themselves by repeating to each other what they firmly believed to be words of ponderous political wisdom. They were obviously scared, for they remembered what had happened in 1904, and the memory of the disastrous days that followed now made their very bones ache. They tried to bolster up their courage by telling each other that Tisza’s force of will would overcome all difficulties and that it would be done peaceably and with none of the violence of those other days. The mere fact of having a strong man like Tisza controlling the business of the House would be menace enough to keep the trouble-makers in their place. Hedging their bets, as such politicians are wont to do, a number of them went round whispering in the ears of anyone who would listen, especially their political opponents, that should there be any repetition of violence in the Chamber, they personally had never approved of such methods and indeed went so far as to oppose them!

  Balint found all this deeply disheartening. He thought of Tisza, whom he greatly admired, risking his entire political future faced with the deadly hatred of his opponents and backed only by a mob as treacherous as the men he was trying to confront. The more he thought about this appalling situation the more worried he became.

  He had no doubt that the policy of forced votes would win the day. If Tisza managed to by-pass the Rules of the House and succeeded in getting the necessary legislation passed, he would be applauded by the majority and, though the opposition might rant and rave, that was all it would amount to. But afterwards? What would come later? All Balint could see was that Tisza would pile up such a mountain of hatred against himself that he would find himself permanently consigned to a political no-man’s-land. What a tragedy if his powerful presence were to be forever lost to Hungarian public life, especially if that loss came about because he had been sold down the line by his own followers, maybe even by this present government, or by its successor, as soon as it might seem expedient to return to the rule of law! Nothing would ever wash away that legacy of hatred, for not only would the opposition do all it could to keep it alive but the government’s own supporters would do the same if only to make sure that the most eligible candidate for the office of Minister-President was squeezed out of the race. No one else would suffer in the same way, but Tisza could find himself excluded for life from any high office. Could it be coincidence, Balint wondered, that this fate was reserved for the man Slawata had declared to be the most serious obstacle to the Belvedere’s adventurous plans?

  But what other solution was there? At present effective government was impossible for, if the rule of law was to be respected, then this irresponsible handful of obstructionists could continue indefinitely to hold up implementation of everything the country so urgently needed. To break down this obstruction, the only course seemed to be to ignore those very rules which for centuries had guaranteed the freedom and integrity of the Hungarian Parliament. The pity was that it looked as if no one but Tisza would shoulder the responsibility for doing this and that he and he alone would afterwards be blamed. Was it not possible that some other courageous, hard-headed politician could be found? Someone not so important to the state, who would not be such a loss if he found himself cast out into the wilderness? That would at least be better; for the cynical truth is that the man who acts is blamed, not he who gave the order. The man on the platform gets the rotten eggs, the brains behind him are forgotten.

  Balint thought he should speak to Tisza on the subject.

  For a long time he wondered if he really should mix himself up in all this. Wouldn’t Tisza think he was just pushing himself forward? But what he had thought made him so anxious that it seemed more important to pass it on to Tisza himself. The next morning he asked when he could see him and was given an appointment that afternoon.

  Balint talked at length. He told the ex-Minister-President that he agreed with the need for bringing an end to the present impasse and th
at to by-pass the Rules of the House was perhaps the only way. He told the older man of the hatred for him that was already being shouted out loud and which would become far worse if he put his plan into execution. Taking into account Tisza’s well-known puritan disregard of his own best interests, he said nothing about personal unpopularity and indeed emphasized what he honestly believed, that personal advantage must always give way to the nation’s best interests. But, and he said this roughly lest it might be taken as an ill-judged attempt at flattery, there was another aspect to this matter which was of over-riding importance. The question was not whether Tisza would suffer personally by being cast out of political life, but whether the country would suffer by losing him. He was, said Balint, the only man of sufficient stature and experience to stand up to the demagogues who surrounded him. Therefore a man so important to the future direction of the nation’s affairs should not be expected to undertake, or indeed exposed to, a task that a lesser and more disposable politician could do just as well. Balint begged him not to accept the nomination for Speaker. Surely, he said, there must be someone among Tisza’s followers who would be eager for the post and who would do everything that Tisza asked of him?

  Tisza listened attentively. He never once interrupted the younger man, but he looked closely at him through the thick glasses which made his grey eyes seem so enormous.

  When Balint finished he answered him point by point with circumstantial detail to reinforce what he was saying. He conceded that Abady was in many ways right in what he said and particularly that anyone who succeeded in bringing down the obstructionists was putting his head on the political block. But … but … over-riding all other considerations was the vital necessity of restoring order to Parliament. He did not deny what Balint had said about his own pre-eminent stature, it was so self-evident that to do so would have been a pose unworthy of him; and Tisza was no poseur. He knew that his country would probably have need of him in the future, but despite the risks he had decided that now it was for him to act. He alone had the prestige to carry it off and no one else could shoulder that particular burden. He would not regret it, even if it meant that afterwards he would have to abandon public life. It was necessary for the country; and the cause was worth the sacrifice.