The Portuguese Escape by Ann Bridge Read Free Book Online Page A

here.’
    â€˜No. They go out
so
little, as you know’—but Hetta recognised from long ago a sign of annoyance in the slight fluttering of her mother’s eyelids. Later another guest said —‘I’ve not seen the Archduke; are they here?’
    â€˜Oh poor dears, she is so lame, and it is such a long way for them to come, with no car,’ the Countess replied, again with that rapid fluttering—and Hetta at once seized on the situation. Oh, poor Mama! If the Archduke would have come, her mother’s car would undoubtedly have been sent for him, however far away he lived. There was a lot of talk about the impending royal wedding, too, both while she stood beside her mother, and later when, as directed, she moved about among the guests: who was going and who was not was clearly the burning question at the moment, and she overheard enough of the jockeying for position, the intrigues for invitations suggested or boasted of, to cause her a rather painful astonishment. So much effort, so much emotion merely about being at any wedding struck her as unworthy, unreal. But she kept her ideas to herself. All through the innumerable introductions and the stereotyped questions she was actively recording in her mind—this was now to be her world, and however little she might like it, she must get to know it. In one way Hetta was rather well equipped for this particular task,since she had already had to come to terms with a world quite strange to her when she emerged from her convent school into a Communist Hungary, and she quickly marked down a few people as likeable and trustworthy among so many whom she found distasteful.
    In particular she was delighted by a little old crook-backed Hungarian, an
émigré
journalist, who spoke to her in perfect idiomatic English. Instead of the stock questions he surprised her by saying at once—‘Are they bothering you to talk, and write? If so, don’t do it—tell them all to go to Hell!’
    â€˜I have, more or less,’ Hetta replied, laughing. She had just been firm with the pretty girl from Radio Free Europe and with Mr. Carrow, whose name in American journalism, Perce Nixon had told her, stood ‘right at the top’.
    â€˜Well, go on. They will tell you it’s for Hungary, or for freedom and democracy—but in fact as to fifty per cent at least, it’s either to line their own pockets or boost their own egos, or to gratify a vulgar curiosity which has no moral or political importance whatever. Of the readers or listeners on whose behalf they are pestering you, how many would lift a hand, give a penny, or even cast a vote for Hungary or for freedom? Perhaps one per cent!’
    The old journalist spoke the last words loudly and emphatically; they were overheard by Mme de Fonte Negra, who laughed, tapped his arm, and protested—‘Monsieur de Kállay, do I hear you traducing the public of the free world?’
    â€˜No, Madame,’ he replied quickly, kissing the hand that tapped him—‘for really it is hardly susceptible of being traduced! I am telling this young lady, who as yet knows nothing of our western monstrousness, the truth—which you really know as well as I.’
    â€˜I hope we are a little better in Portugal—but,
enfin
, I am afraid I must agree with you on the whole.’ She turned her strongly-marked elderly aristocratic face to Hetta.
    â€˜I should like it very much if you would lunch with me one day. I promise you that no-one but I will ask you questions, if you come! Your mother and I know each other well.’
    Hetta had taken to this frank lady, and accepted with pleasure.
    â€˜Very well—next Sunday, at 1.30. Your mother usually has people to luncheon on Sundays, so she can easily spare the car to bring you in to me.’
    As Mme de Fonte Negra moved away Richard came up.
    â€˜Good afternoon, Monsieur de Kállay. I hope I see you well?’
    â€˜My