A week! Ever since Condor had set a time-limit to what was expected of me I had once more felt sure of myself. I felt apprehensive only at the thought of that one moment when I should encounter Edith for the first time after her confession of love. I knew that complete lack of embarrassment after that passionate embrace would be impossible — her first glance at me would be bound to hold the question: have you forgiven me? And perhaps that still more critical question: will you bear with my love, and can you return it? That first moment when she would gaze up with a blush, a look of controlled and yet uncontrollable impatience, might be at once the most hazardous and decisive. One single maladroit word, one false gesture, might reveal in all its cruel truth what I must on no account reveal, and she would irrevocably have received that sudden shock, that blow to her feelings, against which Condor had so earnestly warned me. But once that first moment had been got over, I should be saved, and, moreover, should have saved her for ever.
But no sooner had I set foot next day in the Kekesfalva house than I realized that Edith, prompted, no doubt, by the same anxiety as myself, had wisely taken the precaution to see that our first meeting should take place in company. While still in the hall, I heard the sound of animated female voices; it seemed that in order to bridge the awkwardness of the first critical moments of meeting she had invited friends to the house — at an hour of the day when as a rule we were left undisturbed together.
Even before I entered the salon, Ilona — either at Edith’s instigation or on her own initiative — came rushing up to me with unwonted impetuosity, led me up to the other guests and introduced me to the wife of the Prefect of the district and her daughter, an anaemic, freckled, pert creature, whom, I happened to know, Edith detested. And so that first glance, which I had so dreaded, was, as it were, deflected. Ilona led me up to the table, where we sipped our tea and chatted away. I talked vivaciously to the saucy, freckled little provincial Miss, while Edith conversed with her mother. Because of this by no means haphazard disposal of the guests, the emotional undercurrent between us was short-circuited, and I was able to avoid looking at Edith, although I could feel her gaze sometimes resting somewhat uneasily on me. Moreover, when at length the two ladies got up to go, Ilona put us at our ease by means of a skilful and rapid manoeuvre.
‘I’ll just see the ladies to the door. In the meantime you two can start your game of chess. I’ve got one or two matters to settle with regard to our journey, but I’ll be with you again in an hour.’
‘Would you care for a game?’ I was able to ask Edith in a casual tone.
‘I’d love one,’ replied Edith, lowering her eyes as the others left the room.
She kept her gaze fixed on her lap as I got out the chessboard and set out the pieces, methodically, so as to gain time. As a rule, in order to decide who should start I held a white and a black chess-man behind my back, one in each fist, according to the rules of the game. But this method of deciding would have necessitated the uttering of the word ‘Right’ or ‘Left’, and even this one word we avoided by tacit agreement. We must avoid speaking at all costs! All our thoughts must be imprisoned within this chequer-board with its four-and-sixty squares. Our eyes must be riveted on the pieces, not even on the fingers that moved them! And so we simulated that absorption which is characteristic only of the great masters, who forget everything around them and concentrate their whole attention on the game.
Very soon, however, the game itself gave us away. Edith’s play broke down completely. She made a number of false moves, and from the way her fingers twitched it was obvious that she could endure the strained silence no longer. In the middle of the third game she pushed the board away.
‘That’s enough! Give me a cigarette.’
I passed her the chased silver box, and attentively struck a match. As it flared up I could not avoid her eyes.
They were staring fixedly ahead, neither turned to me nor gazing at anything in particular; as though frozen with anger, they gazed steadily and coldly into space, although above them her brows were raised in a tremulous arch. I was quick to recognize the ominous signs of an approaching outburst.
‘Don’t!’ I warned her in genuine alarm. ‘Please don’t!’
But she threw herself back in her chair. I saw a tremor run through her frame, and she dug her fingers deeper and deeper into the arms of the chair.
‘Don’t, don’t!’ I begged again, unable to think of anything but that one word of entreaty. But the pent-up tears had already gushed forth. This was no wild, turbulent sobbing, but — far worse! — a silent, heart-rending fit of weeping through clenched teeth, weeping which she was ashamed of yet was unable to control.
‘Don’t, don’t, I implore you!’ I said, and, bending over her, laid my hand on her arm to calm her. It was as though an electric current had run up her arm to the shoulder and then right through her whole contorted body.
And suddenly the spasm ceased; she grew rigid again and did not stir. It was as though her whole body were straining to understand what this touch indicated, to know whether it was a gesture of tenderness or of love or merely of pity. It was terrible, this waiting with bated breath, this waiting of a tense, motionless body. I had not the courage to withdraw the hand which had with such marvellous suddenness stilled the paroxysm of sobs, and on the other hand I had not the strength to force from my fingers the caress that Edith’s body, her burning flesh — I could tell — so urgently awaited. I let my hand lie there, as though it were not a part of me, and I felt as though all the blood in her body came surging in a warm pulsating stream to this one spot.
My hand rested slackly on her arm for I know not how long, for during those few minutes time stood still as the air in the room. Then I felt a faint tension in her muscles. Her gaze averted, she pushed my hand gently away from her arm with her right hand, and drew it slowly towards her heart; now her left hand, too, shyly and tenderly closed on it. Her two hands very softly clasped my huge, heavy, bare masculine paw, and began, very, very gently and timorously, to caress it. At first her fingers merely strayed as though out of curiosity over my defenceless, motionless palm, flitting as lightly as a puff of wind over the surface. Then I could feel her light, childish touch venturing cautiously upwards from the wrist to the finger-tips, feel them tenderly exploring the shapes of my fingers, inside and out, outside and in, feel them coming to a startled halt at the hard nails, only to grope round them too, and then to glide along the veins down to the wrist again, and then up again, and down — a tender search that never made so bold as to seize my hand firmly, to press it, to grasp it. It was no more insistent than the lapping around one of tepid water, this playful fondling, at once reverent and childish, marvelling and abashed. And I felt that in embracing this one small part of me which I had yielded up to her she was embracing the whole of me. She had let herself sink further back into her chair, as though to enjoy more rapturously this gentle stroking of my hand; she lay there as though asleep, as though in a dream, her eyes closed, her lips softly parted, on her features a tranquil radiance that came of perfect peace, as again and again, with renewed rapture, her frail fingers stroked my hand from wrist to finger-tips. There was no avidity in this fervent stroking, only serene, awe-struck bliss at being allowed at last to take fleeting possession of some part of my body and to show it her boundless love. Never have I been so moved by a woman’s embraces, however passionate, as I was by this delicate, almost dreamy, playful caress.
How long this lasted I do not know. Such experiences cannot be measured in terms of ordinary time. This shy fondling and stroking, which affected and agitated me more profoundly than that first sudden, burning kiss, had a hypnotic, bewitching, narcotic effect on my senses. I was still unable to summon up the strength to withdraw my hand. I remembered those words of hers, ‘I only ask you to bear with my love,’ and in a dim dream, as it were, I enjoyed the rippling of her fingers over my skin, the tingling of my nerves — I let it happen, powerless, defenceless, yet subconsciously ashamed
at the thought of being loved so infinitely, while for my part feeling nothing but shy confusion, an embarrassed thrill.
But gradually my own immobility became unbearable to me; it was not that her fondling, the warm straying and exploring of her affectionate fingers, her timid, light touch, wearied me, but it was a torment to me to let my hand lie there inert as though it did not belong to me, as though this person who was caressing it had no part in my life. Just as in a half-sleep one hears church bells pealing, I knew that I must respond in some way — either repulse this display of affection or return it. But I had strength neither for the one nor the other. Make an end of this dangerous game, came an urgent prompting from within. And so, cautiously, I tensed my muscles. Slowly, very, very slowly, I began to release my hand from her gentle hold — imperceptibly, as I hoped. But with her acute sensitivity she realized at once, even before I myself was aware of it, that I was about to withdraw my hand; and with a sudden startled movement she let go of it. Her fingers limply fell away — suddenly I could no longer feel the tingling warmth on my skin. It was in some embarrassment that I took back my now deserted hand, for Edith’s face had clouded over, and her mouth had once more begun to pucker up in a childish pout.
‘Don’t, don’t!’ I whispered to her. I could think of nothing else to say. ‘Ilona will be here in a moment.’ And seeing that at those empty, feeble words she began to tremble all the more violently, I was seized once again with a sudden access of burning pity. I bent over her and gave her a fleeting kiss on the forehead.
But her eyes stared sternly, coldly and forbiddingly at me and, as it were, through me, as though they could divine the thoughts behind my brow. I had been unable to deceive her, so quick were her perceptions. She had realized that in withdrawing my hand I had withdrawn myself from her caresses, and that this hasty kiss was no proof of real love, but merely of embarrassment and pity.
That was the fateful mistake I made and continued to make during the next few days — an irreparable, unforgivable mistake: despite all my desperate efforts I did not muster the very last reserves of my patience, the very last ounce of my strength, in an effort to hide my feelings. It was in vain that I resolved not to betray by a single word, glance or gesture that her love was irksome to me. Again and again I called to mind Condor’s warning as to what a dangerous situation I might precipitate, what a responsibility I should be incurring, were I to wound this vulnerable creature. Let her love you, I said to myself, conceal your feelings, dissimulate for this one week, to spare her pride. Don’t let her suspect that you are betraying her, doubly betraying her, by talking so blandly of an early prospect of a cure, while you are inwardly trembling with embarrassment and shame. Behave easily, naturally, I kept admonishing myself; try to put warmth into your voice, affection and tenderness into your touch.
But between a woman who has once let a man see her desire and that man the atmosphere is charged with mysterious, dangerous tension. It is characteristic of those who love to have an uncanny insight into the true feelings of the beloved; and since love, according to the inmost laws of its being, ever desires the illimitable, all finiteness, all moderation, is repugnant, intolerable to it. In every sign of constraint, of restraint, on the part of the other it suspects opposition; any reluctance to yield utterly it rightly interprets as secret resistance. And there must have been a trace of embarrassment and confusion in my behaviour, of disingenuousness and gaucherie in what I said, for all my efforts were no match for her alert expectancy. I failed in my ultimate task: that of convincing her, and in her mistrust she divined with growing disquiet that I was failing to do the one thing, the only thing, she desired: to reciprocate her love. Sometimes, in the middle of a conversation, and at a moment when I was most eagerly making a bid for her confidence, her friendliness, she would throw me a keen look out of her grey eyes, and I would be obliged to lower my gaze. I would feel as though she were sounding the very depths of my heart.
And so it went on for three days; it was torture to me, torture to her. The whole time I was conscious of the mute, avid expectancy in her gaze, in her silence. Then — I think it was on the fourth day — I became aware of a curious hostility, which at first I was at a loss to understand. I had gone to see her as usual in the early afternoon and had taken her some flowers. She accepted them without really looking at them and laid them casually aside, as if to show me by her studied indifference that I need not imagine I could buy myself off by giving her presents. ‘Dear me, why these lovely flowers?’ she said almost contemptuously, and proceeded to entrench herself once more behind a barrier of demonstrative and hostile silence. I tried to make light conversation. But she answered with a curt ‘Oh?’ or ‘Is that so?’ or ‘How odd!’ She plainly and insultingly implied that my conversation bored her. By her behaviour, too, she deliberately emphasized her indifference: she toyed with a book, turned over the leaves, laid it aside, dallied with all sorts of objects, ostentatiously yawned once or twice, and then, while I was in the middle of saying something, summoned Josef to ask if he had packed her Chinchilla coat; only when he had replied in the affirmative did she turn to me again with a cold ‘What was it you were saying?’ which suggested only too obviously that what she would have liked to add was, ‘It’s all the same to me what you prattle on about.’
At length I felt my powers of resistance weakening. More and more often I looked towards the door to see whether someone, either Ilona or Kekesfalva, were not coming to release me at last from this desperate ‘monologue’. But even this glance did not escape her. ‘Are you looking for anything?’ she asked, in apparently sympathetic tones, but with ill-concealed scorn. ‘Do you want anything?’ And to my shame I could only stammer quickly, ‘Oh no, nothing at all.’ My wisest course would probably have been to accept her challenge and burst out, ‘What is it you want of me? Why are you torturing me like this? If you don’t want me here, I’ll go away.’ But I had promised Condor to avoid saying anything that would give her a shock or lead to an argument; and so instead of abruptly breaking through this sullen silence I was fool enough to drag the conversation out for two hours, as though across hot, unresponsive desert sand, until at last Kekesfalva appeared, nervous as ever during these last few days and perhaps even more embarrassed. ‘Shall we go in to dinner?’ he asked.
And then we sat round the table, Edith opposite me. Not once did she look up, not a word did she address to any of us. We all three felt how aggressively offensive was this stubborn silence of hers. All the more strenuous, therefore, were the efforts I made to brighten things up. I told them about our Colonel, who, like a man subject to bouts of drinking, had an attack of ‘manoeuvre-itis’ every June and July, and how as the date for the manoeuvres drew nearer he became more and more excitable, and in order to spin out the silly story I embroidered it with more and more absurd details, although all the time I felt as though my collar were strangling me. But only Kekesfalva and Ilona laughed, constrainedly, in an obvious endeavour to cover up Edith’s painful silence, for she was now yawning ostentatiously for the third time. At all costs go on talking, I said to myself; and so I told them how we should be chivvied about all summer and hardly know whether we were on our heads or our heels. Although two Uhlans had fallen off their horses yesterday from sunstroke, the fanatical old martinet drove us harder every day. No one could ever tell when we should dismiss, for in his maniacal zeal he would have the silliest evolution repeated twenty or thirty times over. It was only with the greatest difficulty, I said, that I had succeeded in getting off in time today, and whether I should be able to turn up punctually tomorrow only God knew and the Colonel, who for the time being regarded himself as the Almighty’s representative on this earth.
This was, to be sure, a perfectly innocent remark, which should not have offended or upset anyone. I had been speaking in a light and cheerful tone to Kekesfalva, without looking at Edith, for I had long since ceased to be able to bear the way in which she was staring vacantly into space. Suddenly there was a clatte
r. She had thrown her knife, with which she had been fidgeting the whole time, right across her plate, and as we started in alarm she snapped out:
‘Well, if it’s such a bother for you to come, you’d better stay in your barracks or your café. We can get along perfectly well without you.’
We all stared and held our breath; it was as though a shot had been fired through the window.
‘Edith!’ stammered Kekesfalva, moistening his dry lips.
But she threw herself pettishly back in her chair.
‘Well, one can’t help being sorry for someone who has such an awful time!’ she sneered. ‘We really ought to give him a day off! I for my part will certainly not grudge him a holiday.’
Kekesfalva and Ilona looked at one another in distress. They both realized that I was quite unreasonably being made the victim of her long-pent-up feelings; and from their anxious glances at me I could see that they were afraid that I might return rudeness for rudeness. And for that very reason I made a special effort to control myself.
‘Do you know, I really think you’re right, Edith,’ I said as cordially as my hammering heart would permit me. ‘When I turn up so dog-tired I’m really not awfully good company. I’ve been feeling the whole time today that I’ve been boring you stiff. But you should be able to put up with a poor fagged-out fellow for a few days. After all, I shan’t be able to come to see you much longer. The house will be empty very soon and you’ll all be gone. I simply can’t believe that we’ve only got four more days — four, or rather three and a half, before you ...’
But at this she burst into a sharp, shrill laugh, which sounded like the tearing of a piece of calico.
‘Just listen to him! Three and a half days! Ha-ha! He’s worked out even to the last half-day when he’ll be rid of us at last! I expect he’s bought himself a calendar and marked the day of our departure in red. But you’d better look out! Sometimes people can be very much out in their calculations. Ha-ha! Three and a half days, three and a half — a half — a half ...’