by Sándor Márai
No, I couldn’t say I thought this, but the fact is that the moment I found the ribbon the tension was gone. Where to locate these vital psychological processes: in the nerves, in our minds? My mind had long forgotten the episode, but my nerves still recalled it. And now, when she sent me that signal, such a well-mannered, servantlike signal—women are like servants in love; all of them would prefer their love letters on paper decorated with motifs of brightly colored roses, entwined hands, or pairs of amorous doves, and would, ideally, stuff the pockets of their intended with locks of hair, handkerchiefs, and other superstitious mementos!—now, finally, I was at peace. It was as if everything had suddenly been endowed with a mysterious purpose: my work, my life, and yes, even my marriage … Does this make sense?
I do understand now. The thing is, there are some things that simply have to happen in life: everything has to find its place. But that is a very slow process. Decisions, ideals, intentions are of little help here. Have you noticed how difficult it is to arrange the furniture in a room so it is perfect, so you never want to move it again? It takes years, and you think everything is just where it should be, while all the time you have the vague, uncomfortable feeling that it is not quite right after all, that maybe the armchairs are not in their proper places and perhaps there should be a table just where that chair is now. And then, eventually, after ten or twenty years have passed, years in which you have never felt fully comfortable, when the furniture and the space available for it seem to have been at odds for ages, you suddenly see how it should be, you spot the mistake, you understand the secret inner dimensions of the room, push the furniture a little this way or that and find, or so you think, that everything has finally found its place. And for a few more years you feel convinced that the room is finally perfect, a complete success. But then—say, after ten more years—you grow dissatisfied again, if only because you change, as we all do, as does our spatial awareness, so that there never can be perfect, final order. That’s how life is: we develop strategies to tackle it, and for a long time we believe the strategies are the appropriate ones, so we go to work in the morning, take a walk in the afternoon, and engage in cultural activities in the evening. Then, one day, we discover the only way we can continue to bear or make sense of it is by turning the whole thing on its head, and we can’t begin to understand how we could have tolerated the idiotic system as it was. That’s how things change around us and in us. And it is all temporary, even the new order, the inner peace, because it is part of the process of change and works according to its laws, so eventually it too stops working … And why? Maybe because we ourselves come to a stop sometime. As does everything that is of any consequence to us.
No, this was not what they call a “grand passion.” It was simply that someone brought me to understand that she lived nearby and was waiting for me. It was a cheap way of doing it. A servant’s way. It was like a pair of eyes gazing at me in the darkness. It was my secret, and the secret lent a certain bearing, a certain tension to my life. I didn’t want to betray the secret; I didn’t want to be faced with painful, idiotic, murky situations. I simply felt a little calmer after that.
That is until, one day, Judit Áldozó disappeared from my mother’s household.
The story I am telling you extends over years, and much of it has grown indistinct and lost importance … It’s the woman I want to talk about now, this proletarian creature. I want to concentrate on the important parts and ignore the parts involving the police, if you don’t mind. All such stories involve the police or a magistrate somewhere along the line. Life punishes one a little, as you may be aware … Lázár told me that once and I took it as an insult at the time, the idea of it, but later, once proceedings started, I understood. Because we are not innocents in the eyes of life, and one day we find ourselves on trial. Whether life finds us guilty or not guilty, we ourselves know we are not innocent.
As I said, she disappeared, disappeared as completely as if she had been sewn into a sack and thrown into the Danube.
They hid her disappearance from me for a while. My mother had been living alone for ages and Judit had looked after her. One afternoon I went to visit my mother and a strange person opened the door. That’s how I knew.
I understood that this was her only way of telling me. After all, she had no contact with me and had no legal hold on me. You can’t resolve a matter of decades in one dramatic scene or with a loud argument. Something eventually has to be done one way or another. Maybe something had happened in the meanwhile and I didn’t know about it. The three women in my life—my mother, my wife, and Judit—said nothing about it. I was their common interest, something they could arrange between them in some fashion; I just needed to be informed of the result. The upshot was that Judit left my mother’s household and traveled abroad. But even this I only found out later, once a policeman friend of mine had made a few inquiries at the passport office. She had gone to England. I also found out that this was no spur-of-the-moment, snap decision, but a course she had been considering for some time.
The three women had kept their silence. One of them went away. Another—my mother—said nothing, simply suffered. The third—my wife—waited and watched. By that time she knew everything, or almost everything. She acted in a circumspect manner, the way her culture, condition, and intelligence dictated. I can’t tell you how remarkably tactful she was! What should a refined, cultivated woman do when she discovers her husband is in deep trouble, and that the trouble is long-standing, that he has become detached from her; that, in effect, he is detached from everyone, that he is lonely, hopelessly drifting, and that perhaps, just perhaps, there is a woman somewhere with whom he might share this oppressive loneliness for the brief span of his life? Naturally, she fights. She waits, watches, and lives in hope. She does everything possible to enjoy the best possible relationship with her husband. Then she grows tired. Then she begins to lose self-control. There are moments when any woman turns feral … her very soul screams out in wounded pride and sheer animal passion. Then she calms down, grows resigned, if only because there is nothing she can do.
No, hang on a moment; I suspect she never does grow resigned … But these are merely details, shreds of emotion. In the end there is nothing to be done. One day she lets the husband go.
Judit vanished and no one spoke of her anymore. As I told you, it was as though she had been stitched into a sack. The silence about her, about a woman who had, after all, spent most of her life in my mother’s house, was so conspicuous it was as though they had dismissed a lazy tradesman. Now she was here, now she was gone. Servants come and go. What is it that moaning housewives say? “I tell you, they are all well-paid snakes-in-the-grass. Isn’t it strange how they have everything they need, but nothing is enough for them?” True, nothing was enough for Judit. One day she woke, recalled the something that had happened, and she wanted it all, everything. That’s why she left.
I fell ill. Not immediately, only some six months after her departure. It wasn’t a devastating illness, only a life-threatening one. The doctor could do nothing; no one could do anything. By that time I felt even I could do nothing. What ailed me? It’s hard to say. Of course the simplest thing would be to claim that the moment this woman left—a woman whose youth had been spent in my vicinity and whose body and soul constituted a kind of personal invitation to me—my suppressed feelings for her ignited like a fire down a mine. All the combustible material was there, stored in the pit of my soul … That sounds all very pretty. But it’s not entirely true … Should I say that, beyond my astonishment, beyond the alienating shock, I also felt a subtle, somewhat surprising sense of relief? That too is part of the truth, even if not the whole truth, as it is also true that at first it was my vanity that felt most bruised. I knew for a fact that she had gone abroad because of me, and secretly I was relieved: it was like having some wild animal hidden in the house and discovering one day that the beast had chosen to kick over the traces, that it had escaped and returned to the jungle
. But at the same time I felt offended, because I thought she had no right to leave. It was as if some personal possession had decided to defy me. Yes, I was vain. But time passed.
One day I woke to find that I missed her.
That is the most miserable feeling. Missing someone. You look around and you don’t understand. You reach out a hesitant hand for a glass of water or a book. Everything is in its place, your life is in order—objects, people, the well-known routine, the world—and you go on as before. It’s just that there is something missing. You rearrange your room … was that the problem? No. You go away. The city you have long wanted to see is waiting for you in all its pomp, its rich solemnity. You wake early in a strange town, hurry down to the street equipped with street map and guidebook, locate the famous altarpiece at the famous church, admire the arches of the famous bridge; the waiter at the restaurant, full of local pride, brings you the famous local dish. There is a wonderful local wine that goes straight to your head. Great artists who once lived here have left a generous profusion of masterpieces for the city of their birth. You stroll past windows, doorways, under arches whose beauty and majesty has been the subject of world-famous scholarly books. Day and night the streets jostle with beautiful women and girls with lovely eyes. Those who live here are proud, proud of their beauty and refinement. You are the subject of their glances—some friendly, some gently mocking your loneliness, and inviting—meaningful feminine glances, eyes that sparkle. In the evening there’s the sound of music by the river, people singing by the light of paper lanterns, couples dancing and sipping wine. And in the midst of this rich mosaic of song and flattering light, there is a table set for you too, and a woman who makes charming conversation. Like a conscientious student, you take care to see everything and make the best of your time: as soon as the sun rises, you set out on your daily walk, your guidebook in your hand, furiously concentrating, anxious to be fully occupied as if you were afraid of missing something. Your sense of time is quite transformed. You are meticulous in your portioning of time, waking at the precise moment you intended. It is as if someone were waiting for you. And clearly, that is the point, though you dare not confess it to yourself for a long time: you really do believe that there is someone waiting. That is why you are so meticulous. And if you are observant and precise enough, if you get up early enough and go to bed late enough, if you see enough people, if you take trips here and there or visit particular places, you may just meet the person waiting for you. Of course you know that hoping so is childish. There’s nothing left for you but to trust in an infinitesimal chance. All the police know is that she has gone away, to somewhere in England. The British embassy are no better informed. Either that or they are not letting on. A mysterious universal screen, which stretches across the whole world, obscures her from your view. There are forty-seven million people in England, and London is one of the most densely populated cities in the world. Where to look for her? And if you did find her, what would you say to her? But you continue waiting.
Do you fancy another glass? A good clean wine, this, leaves you fresh and clear in the morning, no headache. I know it well. Waiter, another bottle, please!
This place is so cold, so full of smoke. But that is when I feel happiest here. There are only the all-nighters left now. The lonely and the wise, the hopeless and the despairing, those to whom nothing much matters as long as they can be somewhere where the lamps are lit and there are strangers sitting close by, where they can stay lonely until they have to go home. It’s hard going home at a certain age, after certain experiences. The best thing is to be in a place like this, among strangers, alone, with no ties. Gardens and friendship, said Epicurus: there is no other way. I think he was right. But one doesn’t need too much garden, either—a few potted plants on a café terrace. And friends: one or two are enough.
Waiter! Ice, please. Drink up.
Where was I?
Ah, yes, that time. Waiting time.
The only thing of which I was aware was that people had started watching me. First my wife. Then people in the factory. Then people at the club, in the world at large. My wife was seeing little of me by that time: occasionally at dinner and less in the evening. We hadn’t had guests for a long time. At first I was nervous about turning down invitations, but then it became a habit, and I couldn’t bear to have guests over. It seemed so painful, so unreal … being home, keeping house, you know what I mean. Everything was lovely and orderly, just as it should be: the rooms, the treasured paintings, the ornaments, the servant and the chambermaid, the porcelain, the silver, the fine food, the fine drink … it was just that I didn’t feel I was the master of my own household. I didn’t even feel at home. I couldn’t believe, not for one moment, that this was my real home, a home where I could receive visitors. It was like being in a play, my wife and I constantly proving something to our guests, that this was a real home, a proper place. But it wasn’t! Why? There’s no arguing with facts. On the other hand, there’s no point explaining them, either, not when they are as simple and as undeniable.
We were being left to ourselves. The world has keen ears. All it needs is a few signs, a few gestures, and the delicate spy network of envy, curiosity, and malice soon begins to suspect something. It’s enough to turn down a few invitations or not return an invitation early enough, an invitation you once had accepted, and the whole social fabric is abuzz with coded communications to indicate that someone is about to desert the ruling hierarchy, aware that such-and-such a family or couple is “having problems.” This “having problems” affects the disintegrating family as it might an invalid quarantined on account of his infection; it’s as if the local doctor had pinned a notice in red letters on the front door of the house. The affected family is treated with a little more delicacy, with a touch of mockery and reserve. What people are hoping for is scandal, of course. There’s nothing they long for more keenly when it comes to others than the prospect of complete collapse. They are positively in fever for it, a fever that is a form of plague. You step into a café or a restaurant alone and they are whispering: “Have you heard? They’re having problems. They’re getting divorced. The man seduced his wife’s best friend.” This is what they are hoping for. And should you go somewhere with your wife, they still have their eyes on you, as they huddle together, muttering in a knowing way: “They still go around together, but it doesn’t mean anything. They’re just keeping up appearances.” And slowly you realize that they’re right, even if they don’t know the truth, even if every part of the evidence is based on ignorance and lies. In matters of importance, of human interest, society possesses a mysteriously reliable awareness. Lázár once told me, half-jokingly, that there’s nothing as true as calumny. Generally, people have no secrets from each other. They pick each other’s secrets up on a kind of shortwave, he said, a shortwave that penetrates the deepest recesses of our hearts, and their words and actions are merely consequences of this. I believe he was right. That was precisely how we lived. A gentle disintegration followed. It was as if I had been preparing myself for emigration, you understand. You go around thinking that your workplace, your family, suspect nothing, but the truth is that everyone knows you have already been to the embassy to apply for a visa and a ticket. Your family carries on talking to you as patiently and as warily as they would with a madman or a criminal, as someone worthy of pity, but the fact is that the police and the ambulance have already been put on alert, that these are the conditions under which you must live.
One can’t help knowing this and becoming suspicious. One acts with circumspection, weighing every word. There is nothing more difficult than deconstructing a situation that has taken time to construct. It is as complex as trying to demolish a cathedral. One can be sorry for so many things … but of course there is no greater sin against one’s partners and oneself than allowing one’s emotions free range in a crisis.
It takes a long time to understand your rights in life: to understand to what degree your life is your own, to what
degree you have given that life over to feeling and memory. You see how hopelessly I am a prisoner of my own class? For me the whole thing was like a complex legal matter entailing a separation. It was a quiet act of rebellion against my family and my worldly situation. And indeed it was a legal matter, not only concerning the divorce and the alimony. There are other laws people are bound to. At such times you spend whole nights asking yourself: What have I received? What have I given? What do I owe? And it’s not just at night you ask yourself such questions, but in broad daylight, in crowds, out in the street. Terrible questions. It took me years until I understood that beneath all one’s obligations, there existed a right, a right according to an unwritten law not made by man, but by the Creator, which was the right to die alone. Do you see?
It is an important and substantial right. Everything else is a form of debt. You owe a debt to your family and to society, from which you have received considerable benefits; you owe something to your feelings, to your memories. But there comes the point when your soul overflows with the desire for solitude, when all you want is, quietly, with a proper human dignity, to prepare yourself for the end, for the last human task of all: for death. When you get to that point you must be careful not to cheat, because if you do, you lose your right to act. As long as you are acting out of selfishness, out of a desire for comfort or a sense of grievance; as long as desiring solitude is a form of vanity, you are still in hock to the world and to all those who represent the world for you. But there comes a day when the soul completely fills with desire for solitude, when you want nothing but to cast from your soul everything superfluous, false, or secondary. When a man sets out on a long, dangerous journey, he is very careful what he packs. He examines every item from every possible point of view. He measures and judges the worth of everything, and only then does he find a place for it in his modest pack. Only when he is sure he is certain to need it. Chinese hermits, who leave their families when they reach roughly sixty, take leave of them like this. All they take is one small pack. They leave the house at dawn, silently, with a smile. It is not a change that they want; no, they are heading for the mountains to find solitude and death. It’s the last human journey. That is what you have a right to. The pack you take with you for such a journey must be light—something you can carry with one hand. It will contain nothing unnecessary, not a single item of vanity. It is a very powerful desire at a certain age. Once you hear the lapping sound of loneliness you immediately recognize it as something familiar. It is as if you had been born by the sea, then spent the rest of your life in noisy cities; but one night you hear it again in your dreams: the sea. And you want to live alone, to live without a purpose, to render up everything to those who have a right to it, and then to leave; to wash your soul clear and wait.
