When she was ready she stepped out into the corridor, her modest little wicker bag in her hand, thinking that at least she should go to the Lady Klara to say goodbye; but beyond the service stair, at a bend in the corridor, her way was barred by the hated Fräulein standing like the implacable guardian at the Gates of Paradise. Schulze hated all the other servants; Szabo, the chef, everyone, but most of all she hated all those pretty young maids — and most of them were pretty — that Szabo treated as his private harem. Joyless and sour herself, it was from the depths of her frustrated spinsterhood that she had conceived a loathing of those ‘depraved creatures’ with whom the butler took his pleasure. She well knew everything that happened in the house, but she was not powerful enough to quarrel with Szabo, whose position was impregnable, and so had to content herself with rejoicing when he arranged to have dismissed the ones he got into trouble.
‘I only wanted to kiss her Ladyship’s hand!’ said Ilus sadly.
‘She won’t see you. She won’t receive a little whore like you — so eine Hure! Little bitch, out of here at once!’ Schulze’s long gaunt arm pointed back down the stairs.
Ilus turned back, descended the service stairway whose boards creaked under her little feet from the whitening powder used to clean them, passed through the two courtyards and found herself in the street. Until then she remained calm, but now alone in the bustle of the great city, the enormity of the blow that had come without warning was suddenly so dreadful that she could hardly stand.
She took a few aimless steps away from the house. Now she realized how tired she was and felt the weight of her motherhood. She would have to find somewhere to sit down, to rest and ponder what she should do.
Across the road was the garden of the Museum, so she crossed over and found a bench to sit on.
What could she do? Where could she go?
Some children were playing near to where she sat. Uniformed nannies and nursery-maids were pushing perambulators or leading well-dressed toddlers. The children were all fat and healthy and well fed and the sight of them filled little Ilus with a sense of her own grief — her own baby would most likely be swathed only in rags. Perhaps it would have been better to follow Mr Szabo’s cynical suggestion that she found out some backstreet ‘midwife’ who knew what to do in such cases. Then she wouldn’t have had any of this worry and trouble. But she hadn’t wanted to and couldn’t bring herself to do it …
But now what could she do, to whom could she turn? She couldn’t look for work in her condition — no one would have her. Perhaps she could find a protector, a pimp; though she knew of the existence of such people only by hearsay and had never met one. She was a country girl who had come straight from her parents’ cottage to service in the great house of Simonvasar, for at home there were so many mouths to feed that she had had to go out to work as soon as she was old enough.
Should she go home to her mother, go home to show her shame with a bastard child in her belly, to be the laughing stock of the village and to be driven away again for conceiving a child by some ‘foreigner’, as the people at home thought of all who were not born and bred in the district? And what about that lad who would soon return from his military service with whom she had held hands, and to whom she had pledged herself on the evening before he had signed up and gone away to serve his time with the 44th Infantry? The thought that he should return to find her like this, fallen and despised by all, was unbearable. He, too, would despise her, turn away from her and spit upon her. No! She would rather die than suffer such disgrace.
So she sat on the bench and pondered, not crying but just staring silently in front of her; seeing nothing.
Surely the Lady Klara would take pity on her? But that hateful ‘Miss’ had said she wouldn’t see her, as if she too despised her and found her unclean, unfit to enter a lady’s presence. Yet the Lady Klara had always been so kind and considerate. Even last week she had kissed her when she had handed her the letter to deliver, but then of course she didn’t know about the child.
Laszlo Gyeroffy! Perhaps he could help. Yes, she would go to him. If Count Laszlo asked it of her, perhaps for his sake …?
Ilus pulled herself upright. Picking up the wicker bag, she started off. Count Laszlo lived somewhere thereabouts, quite near. Of course! She remembered it was in Museum Street. She prayed she would find him at home.
Laszlo was walking up and down his little sitting-room. He had been doing so for more than an hour, waiting impatiently for Ilus to come to him in answer to his message. He was rehearsing to himself what he would tell her and how he would make her learn by heart, word by word, what she was to say to Klara, that life was impossible, that he could not go on like this and that Klara must find a way. Perhaps she could send Ilus back the following morning, to tell him what her plans were for the day, where he would be able to find her.
The doorbell rang. Laszlo went quickly to see who was there and indeed it was Ilus for whom he had been waiting so impatiently. As he ushered her into the living-room, he wondered for a brief moment why she was carrying a travelling bag.
Ilus was out of breath after climbing the three flights of stairs to Laszlo’s rooms. It really was too much for her and she staggered, panting, to support herself on the end of the piano.
‘Sit down, please,’ said Laszlo. ‘Rest a moment.’ And though she tried to protest he made her sit down in an armchair facing the window. Then he noticed the desperation in her face.
‘What is the matter? Is something wrong?’ he asked.
‘Forgive me, please forgive me!’ stammered Ilus uncertainly. She was still feeling giddy from the climb.
‘I’m so glad you could come,’ went on Laszlo. ‘I’ve been waiting for you!’ He started to outline to Ilus his plan to see Klara and what we wanted the girl to say. He spoke very quickly and passionately. ‘You do know, my dear girl, that Klara and I … well, we love each other?’
The girl nodded. Of course she knew, that was why she had come to him. She still said nothing but just nodded.
‘I haven’t been able to see her for days, and it’s unbearable, impossible to live like this. Four days without seeing her and I can’t sleep or think. I can’t stand it. Therefore I want her to know that if this goes on I’ll die. It can’t go on! It can’t! Four days is an eternity! And you must tell her as I don’t dare to write — my letter would never reach her — but a message by word of mouth … you could take it. Will you do it? You must have many opportunities — while you’re helping her dress, perhaps?’
Ilus had kept on trying to interrupt but Laszlo had not noticed. She raised her little hand, which was covered with needlepricks, but nothing would stop him, he just went on, trying in broken sentences, to explain himself. As he went on Ilus slowly began to understand that even Count Laszlo, to whom she had come for help, could not approach the Lady Klara either. This was dreadful; her last hope had vanished and so, her heart constricted with grief, she broke out in great heaving sobs.
Laszlo was just saying ‘… so that’s why I sent the card.’ when he saw that she was crying bitterly. He broke off and looked at Ilus in wonder.
‘What is wrong? Tell me! Why are you crying like this!’
‘I … I … I’ve been sent away, thrown out!’ sobbed Ilus.
‘You? When? How? Why?’
‘An hour ago. Like a dog, thrown out on the street. That’s why I’ve come to you.’
‘But what happened? Why?’
The girl wiped her eyes with her little crumpled handkerchief. She blushed deeply and hesitated for a moment. Then she said: ‘I’m going to have a baby.’