Adrienne had added these two little phrases only so that Balint should not begin to worry about his personal safety. She had known that he would never accept this as a valid reason for delay, but she had written honestly and truthfully because she was not only devoted to the child but also worried about her, since it was clear that old Countess Clémence did more and more to alienate the child from its mother. As it happened Adrienne’s anxiety was not entirely justified because Clemmie lived in a separate wing of the house at Almasko, along with her French governess and the old English nanny, and it was easy to keep from her anything that happened in other parts of that large house.
Balint knew this and so Adrienne’s innocent remarks first startled him and then sparked off a new and disconcerting train of thought.
It occurred to him that Adrienne had become so obsessed with that long-standing war with her mother-in-law over who should have most influence over the child that she might now be tending to subordinate all her feelings about the divorce to the single matter of whether or not she would be able to keep custody of the child. Though natural enough in itself this, to Balint at least, was a minor issue when their future together was at stake: and above all minor to Adrienne since the child had been effectively removed from her care ever since its birth and so, in many ways, had never really been hers. Until now this was how Adrienne had seen it and indeed she had often said so.
The little girl, with her closed expression and somewhat brusque movements like a robot, seemed to have nothing youthful, and certainly nothing childlike, about her. She was essentially the product of Almasko and of Uzdy’s own kind, and Balint could see in her no sign of that marvellous creature who happened to be her mother. He would willingly have accepted her if Adrienne brought the child with her, but he could see no reason to sacrifice their happiness if the others wanted to keep her.
As these thoughts passed through his mind the image of their own much longed-for son rose within him, as it did each time that Adrienne spoke of bringing little Clemmie with her.
Oh yes! thought Balint, it’s high time the idea of our son were replaced by the real thing. What Adrienne needs is the fact of motherhood, not just the desire for it.
There was something else that Adrienne would have to face. She too must burn her boats if she was going to come with him. Just as he was prepared to become a stranger to his mother, to sacrifice his home and exile himself from his beloved Denestornya, indeed to give up everything that was dear to him for her sake, so she too must make her choice: was she prepared to leave everything for his sake, or would she give up their chance of happiness together for the sake of clinging on to that strange girl she hardly knew?
Everything depended on that, and on nothing else.
He decided not to do anything until the end of August because that was when Dr Kisch had promised to go again to Almasko. In the meantime he would go to Budapest and wait there for news. If Adrienne still wanted to put off any decisive action then he would have to act himself; but not until then.
In the meantime there was something more important that he had to do. He had to find a place for them to live, for quarterly leases started on the first of August.
After only a few days’ search he found the ideal thing, a third floor apartment whose entrance was in Dobrenty Street at the foot of the Castle hill in Buda, but whose windows looked out over the Danube at the quietest part of the long quays. It was a modern house with three superb rooms overlooking the great river. When he was first looking over the apartment he leaned out of one of the windows. From there one could see for miles, up and down the river, past the bridges and, over the multitudinous roofs of the outer parts of the city, far into the distance, to the east, towards Transylvania.
It would be wonderful to live there, even if he were an exile, far from his native land, from his home, from Denestornya, where until now he had always imagined their life together. However much it hurt to be an exile it would still be wonderful as long as Adrienne were with him.
For a few moments he imagined her presence so vividly that it was almost as if he could feel her curls brushing his face.
Parliament was in recess and nothing of any great importance seemed to be happening abroad, excepting perhaps certain signs that the Entente was likely to become a reality.
King Edward of England was once again taking the waters at Marienbad, though this time he did not go to see Franz-Josef but merely sent him polite greetings by telegram. And this year there were no visits by diplomats, and events showed that presumably these were no longer necessary as the contours of an Anglo-Russian understanding were there for all to see. For instance, Russian troops occupied a part of Persian territory — which, only a year or two before, would have meant war — and Great Britain said nothing; obviously it had been done with her full knowledge and consent.
Despite the growing evidence that the central European powers were gradually being encircled, at home in Budapest no one thought of anything but their own internal affairs. Justh made more speeches at Independence Party meetings up and down the country, but these, as might be expected, were principally concerned with domestic politics and the vexing question of an independent banking system. There was a high treason trial in Zagreb, with more than fifty accused, but it made more stir in the Paris papers than at home. At Schwechat near Vienna the harvest festival was spoilt by an orgy of bloodletting when Czechs and Germans decided that a riot was the way to settle their differences.
When Balint read all this it only enhanced his general feeling of bitterness without raising any feeling in him; he was totally engrossed in the agony of waiting.
He tried to do some work, so as to alleviate his self-enforced idleness. He drafted a report to the co-operatives’ central authority demonstrating that, as now formed, those co-operatives that incorporated the people in the mountains were not as effective as they should be, for the simple reason that the farmers seemed reluctant to make proper use of the new cheap credits that were available to them. Balint, of course, realized that even though the notary Simo might make a show of trying to recruit the men of the mountain into the co-operative, they, no doubt intimidated by other influences, kept away. The apparent failure of his efforts to help these people added to Balint’s growing frustration and bitterness.
As each successive August day crept by he wrote three letters to Adrienne telling her of his yearning, his love and his desire, nothing else. He said nothing to her, not a word, not a hint, of his plan to break with his mother whatever the doctor might say. He had decided to tell her only after it had already been done.
August drew to a close. It was already September and a week passed before there was any news. Then, after the long tedious days of waiting, a letter from Adrienne at last arrived, even more laconic than before, her words tinged with a new sadness — Uzdy’s condition had perhaps improved somewhat, Dr Kisch had stated, but not enough for him to be exposed to any emotional excitement. They would have to wait! Always wait! Wait!
The next day Balint went home to Transylvania. The time had come for him to act.