Seasons of the Heart (55 page)

He placed his finger against her lips, stroking her hair. “Don’t say any more, there’s no need. It’s been miserable for you. Forgive me for losing my temper. …We’re leaving tomorrow.”

“Then you’re not angry with me?”

“How could I be, how could anybody be …?”

“Thank you, Rubin …I love you, darling.” And she proceeded to show him.

The next morning a subdued, dignified Magda sat at breakfast, brought to their rooms, serving her husband as a dutiful wife should. She was wearing an iridescent violet taffeta dressing gown. The ruffle around her neck, tied with a velvet bow, made her look positively angelic.

Rubin watched her as she broke the egg into the cup, buttered his toast, poured his coffee, and boned his kipper. She was feeling glorious this morning, thank God. During the night, after their lovemaking, she had gotten her period, and all the premenstrual tension seemed gone. …

“Rubin,” she said, casually, “where are we going to live?”

“After you’ve seen a little of London, we can make up our minds.”

“I don’t know one place from another.”

“You soon will.”

“But Rubin, I’m going to have a terrible time with your language—”

“Nonsense, Magda, and I think you can speak it better than you pretend—”

She smiled. “Do you think I’m pretending …?”

“Yes, my little actress, I do.”

“Oh Rubin, you’re too smart for me …”

“I don’t think that for a minute.”

“Yes you are, you see right through me—”

“Not true … you’re a lady of many moods … I haven’t even begun to discover you.”

“No, Rubin, you are quite wrong. I’m exactly what I appear to be … when I’m happy I show it … when I’m not, unfortunately, I show that too. But I shall improve. I promise.” She wondered if Rubin really believed her … or if she really believed herself. …She changed the subject “What will you do when we get back?” A question which was inevitable, and this, she decided, was as good a time as any to ask it.

He spoke in obvious seriousness. “I’m going to
try
to paint. Of course I’ll never sell in London, but there are other places—”

“But why shouldn’t your work sell in London?”

“Because, my pet, I have committed the unpardonable sin of jilting an heiress and marrying for love.”

Taking a deep breath she said softly, “I’m sorry, darling—”

“Well, please don’t be … I’m not—”

“And your family? You have no regrets?”

“Not about marrying you.”

“Will
they
ever forgive you?”

“I don’t know, I hope so … although I suppose I’ll always be the black sheep—”

“Because of me.”

“No, because of
me
. The English don’t mind adultery. It’s run through our history from the beginning. As long as it’s kept in its proper little closet, everything’s fine. But once we flaunt our sins, they hold us up to ridicule. We must be punished. It’s so very English. Anything for the sake of appearances … someday I’ll tell you how Brighton Beach became famous …”

“Tell me now,” Magda begged.

“Well … George the Fourth was considered a wicked young man. He was madly in love with a woman named Mrs. Fitzherbert, whom he’d been having an affair with for a long time. They came to Brighton to get away from the court and that’s the way Brighton became fashionable. But he loved her so much he finally married her … though he eventually was forced to annul the marriage—”

“At least they can’t make us do that. With such a history, you’d think the English would be more tolerant.”

“No, the rules must be enforced at any cost. As long as our sins are kept within the bounds of propriety, we can do almost anything—except, of course, marry out of our class. But don’t look so glum, darling … we won’t, I assure you, starve. I do have some money saved from my practice as a barrister, my brothers and I share a legacy from my grandparents.”

“Rubin, since you bring it up, how much
do
we have?”

“About … fifty thousand pounds.”

“Oh, Rubin, I’ll never understand your money. How much is that in francs?”

“About a million and a quarter, I’d say.”

“My God, Rubin, that’s impossible … so much …”

“The only thing impossible, my love, is to describe how much I love, and need you.”

Magda waited by Rubin’s side as he took care of the bill. Then he went on to see about the car. Walking through the lobby, she saw Lady Pembroke coming toward her. Magda’s eyes narrowed …Nothing would have pleased her more than to spit in the
Lady’s
eyes …But that would have been un-English …A woman of breeding did not act so vulgar. So Magda just smiled. A smile that said, Go to hell, your highness … or your ladyship. You’ll drop dead before I ask for your approval … I’m Mrs. Rubin Hack, and don’t you forget it. London will hear about me …Wait and see …Magda lifted her shoulders, her head held high … and walked to the waiting car. Comfortably seated, she adjusted her blue chiffon scarf.

“All right, Rubin Hack, let’s go home.”

Rubin lost no time in introducing Magda to London, showing her all the historical landmarks. From Canterbury to Haymarket … the buildings of Parliament … Piccadilly Circus … the Royal Mews … St. Paul’s Cathedral … the tower of London … Trafalgar Square … Westminster Abbey … the Zoological Gardens … Hyde Park … the British Museum … Buckingham Palace …

When they returned from each trip, she’d take off her shoes and relax on the bed, but Rubin was like a man possessed. She was surprised to find that his desires were greater than hers. She would often be content to spend an evening in their rooms just relaxing, but Rubin wanted to keep on the go. They dined at Gatti’s, the Dorchester, the Ritz. She loved the theaters, especially the music halls. It wasn’t as though Rubin was deliberately trying to thumb his nose at London society. Rather, it seemed to Magda that he had decided not to hide, not to live like a leper on this snooty island. Naturally, she was pleased.

Although her English was improving—and she learned rapidly—still it wasn’t always up to understanding all the humor, the nuances of the theater. But when she didn’t understand a particular word she would ask what it was in French and Rubin, in turn, would repeat the English equivalent, which she would then repeat over and over to herself. She was determined to conquer the English language … well, if not conquer, at least insure that Rubin would not be embarrassed. At the same time, though, she made sure her French
accent
remained intact. She was actress enough to know how simply charming it was.

They looked for a flat, and finally found a perfect place on Wimpole Street

“Only a few blocks from where Elizabeth Barrett Browning lived,” Rubin said delightedly.

Who, Magda wondered, was
that
? She’d look it up. Imagine, she thought, the Hacks living so close to
her
…

The flat consisted of an oval central foyer which separated the drawing room from the dining room. Off the kitchen and pantry were the maids’ rooms. The three bedrooms were huge. What impressed Magda most were the Victorian mantels. Two separate bathrooms had been installed by the former owners.

“It’s going to be elegant, Rubin …Wait and see. I can hardly wait to move in. How long will it take?”

“A few weeks … if we have enough people working on the job.”

“I want the dining room to have murals, like Emile’s …”

“His are painted on the wall—”

“Why couldn’t you do them?”

“It’s not the kind of painting I do, darling, but we can select Zubbers.”

“What are they?”

“Old murals done on canvas, very traditional and very attractive. Do you really like the flat, Magda?”

“I love it … I love you so, Rubin … let’s celebrate. I feel like drinking champagne.”

Taking the lift down, she said, “Just think of living so close to … Elizabeth Barrett Browning.”

Rubin laughed.

“What’s so funny, darling?”

“Magda, she’s been dead for over fifty years.”

“Really? …Well, I didn’t know it was that long—”

Pulling her to him, Rubin laughed again. And this time she joined him.

Today was the end of a week’s heavy shopping. When they got back, Magda quickly undressed and then soaked in a warm tub. Her feet were killing her. From the bedroom, about to call room service, Rubin asked what her pleasure would be for dinner.

“You …” she called back.

“A wise choice. But for the
entrée
…?”

“Oh, make it Dover sole … for a complete English evening.” She giggled, pleased with her small joke.

Rubin took the afternoon papers into the living room. He was more than a little interested in the news. The tensions in Europe were growing. He noted the date, July 28, 1914 … strange … one month ago today Magda and he had been married, and on that same day the Archduke Francis Ferdinand and his wife had been assassinated in Sarajevo. For a moment the coincidence startled him …Now, this morning, Austria had declared war on Serbia. True, the Archduke Ferdinand had been the heir apparent to the throne of the Austrian-Hungarian empire, but the great powers had seemed to take the assassination calmly. It was considered a local incident, a national problem which would obviously have to be dealt with. But no one would have thought that the major nations would become involved in war as the result of the carelessness of a chauffeur who had taken a wrong route. No one could have foreseen that a crime involving six unknown Serbian radicals would lead to open warfare.

Of course, the crime was shocking news, but nothing in the immediate aftermath suggested that further violence was inevitable. King George V offered seven days of mourning by the British court. Czar Nicholas II of Russia outdid Great Britain by declaring a mourning period of twelve days. And President Wilson of the United States cabled official sympathies.

The Serbians had immediately set themselves to the task of investigating and interrogating the conspirators, but their efforts were badly mishandled. The conspirators changed their stories, which caused a great deal of confusion. But finally the last of the culprits broke down and revealed the existence of a large terrorist organization in Serbia called the Black Hand.

Friedrich von Wiesner of Austria was dispatched to Sarajevo to see what could be uncovered. His findings—whether true or not—were that the Serbian government was involved in the plot. Still, most European capitals continued to concern themselves very little with what was considered another Balkan conflict. Stress of that kind had been going on since 1912. No major crisis would grow out of the affair. But tension between Serbia and Austria intensified. In order to soothe Austria and play down the situation, which was becoming incendiary, the Serbian government forbade public assemblies, closed all theaters and dance halls, but made no attempt to censure the national press that raged against Austria. Austrian newspapers were no less violent in attacking Serbia.

On July 19, the Austrian council met in secret and decided that Serbia would have to be beaten into the dust. Austria demanded that the Serbian government formally condemn all anti-Austrian propaganda, expel from office anyone fomenting it and accept unequivocally the complete collaboration of Austrian agents on Serbian soil in the suppression of such propaganda. Belgrade was given forty-eight hours to comply or capitulate. The Serbian cabinet frantically contacted the Regent, Prince Alexander, to appeal for help from Czar Nicholas II. The answer was immediate: should Serbia be attacked, Russia would come to her aid at once.

Meanwhile, Vienna sent a secret communiqué to Kaiser Wilhelm II: If Serbia didn’t comply with Austria’s demands, could she count on Germany to sustain her as an ally? Germany’s reply was an unequivocal yes.

Publication of the ultimatum was followed by two massive mobilizations. The Russian and German armies were ready. A shock wave was spreading across an unsuspecting Europe.

Rubin tried to absorb the latest developments. Wouldn’t France have to take a stand, since France had an alliance with Russia? Germany had been hell-bent for some time on expansion, and her navy had already grown to greater proportions than Great Britain was comfortable with. Would Germany cross the borders into France? Would England feel compelled to aid her neighbor? The English navy lay off the coast of France, which placed Great Britain in a very awkward position.

Rubin sighed deeply, got up and poured himself a brandy. His own problems paled in the light of all these events. But if … and, dear God, it could only be conjecture …
if
England became involved, what would happen to Magda? He would have to enlist, and then she would be alone in a foreign country without a friend. …But why are you worrying, Rubin …Your imagination is working overtime …This whole mess will probably be over tomorrow. …

But something kept nudging him, and his anxiety persisted. It would not be dismissed lightly. And suddenly he thought of someone else who was vulnerable.
Solange
… Even if his fears were groundless, it would be good to see her. And if war did come, Solange would be here to look after Magda. Yes, he would insist that she come.

He went in to see Magda. She was studying a decorating magazine.

“Darling … I’ve been thinking,” he said.

“Yes?” She had found an especially attractive fabric for the drawing room draperies.

“It might be good to ask Solange to come over for a while.”

Magda froze. Why did Rubin want Solange in London? Wasn’t she capable of standing alone, without the help of a countess? Did Rubin think she still needed her? Suddenly she felt the old insecurity about herself, and very angry. But just as quickly she checked her impulse to strike back, to blurt out her thoughts. Quietly she answered, “That would be a nice gesture, Rubin … after the flat is finished. The last of the furniture will be delivered tomorrow, and we’re moving on August first. I want it to be perfect … and then we’ll ask her.”

“Solange won’t mind if—”

“I’m not thinking of what she’d mind … I want to have our home looking proper before we entertain.”

Rubin knew she was annoyed. The careful cadence of her speech made that clear enough, and, thinking about it, he understood why …He’d bring it up again in a couple of weeks, he thought, when the apartment was further along.