by Milan Fust
Milan Füst
THE STORY OF MY WIFE
(A feleségem története)
The Reminiscences of Captain Störr
translated from the Hungarian by Ivan Sanders
and with a Preface by George Konrad
First published in Great Britain 1989 by Jonathan Cape Ltd
Originally published in Hungarian under the title
A feleségem története by Magveto Konyvkiado,
© Füst Milanne 1957
A Novel of Jealousy
One
Two
Three
Four
A Novel of Jealousy
by George Konrad
THE STORY OF MY WIFE IS ACTUALLY THE HUSBAND'S STORY-the story of a Dutch sea captain named Störr whose presence in the novel is substantial indeed: his weight alone is well over 200 pounds. Milan Füst, no weakling himself, was similarly hefty and broad-shouldered. But his hero is an even more splendid specimen, and like big men in general, he views other people with good-natured equanimity, a bit condescendingly perhaps, with childish wonder at times, but always with some indifference.
Unlike the author, who was compared by friends to Michelangelo's painting of the prophet Joel. He flew into wild rages, was quite the tyrant: a true seer one minute and a great actor playing the seer the next. Meek like Captain Störr he definitely wasn't. He wallowed in his mordant humor and could also cry beautifully, breaking into sobs at the drop of a hat. He was awe-inspiring and shockingly rude. Anyone uttering the name of Marcel Proust or Thomas Mann admiringly in his house was promptly shown the door. You either paid tribute or left. Tolstoy, yes, Shakespeare, too, a couple of younger friends, perhaps, but no one else. Milan Füst was not one to squander his encomiums.
In this novel the husband is very masculine and the wife is very feminine. About her we know only as much as he is willing to tell us, and he writes far more copiously about himself than about his wife. This wife, Lizzy, is petite, shapely, a little on the plump side, full of frills and fancies—and utterly unpredictable. She knows something her oaf of a husband does not but is desperate to find out. This blunderhead would have us believe that he is unfeeling and oblivious to everything, yet he is quite perceptive, quite sensitive. The man is full of subtle, narcissistic observations about himself, about his fleeting sensations and moods, and about the most crucial question of all: Is there such a thing as inspiration?
He is also quick to imagine, quick to suspect; from tiny scraps he constructs a whole long narrative which, when all pieced together, seems plausible enough; and its underlying message is clear, too: this dainty and unruly little woman may not just toy with other men, she may also fall for them.
On the strength of past experience and his own formidable prowess, Captain Störr tends to make light of other people. So when at a mature age he falls in love, he pays for his nonchalance with the torments of jealousy. The seamier side of love preoccupies him as much as its wonders, and in time it grows into an uncontrollable obsession. In the literature about jealousy, Milan Füst's novel is a basic text.
The inevitable, monumental passion unfolds rather majestically. When a large, bear-like man begins to see ghosts, we are somehow more intrigued than when a puny little chap grapples with phantoms. We might all agree with Füst in saying that to fall in love is to suffer the pangs of jealousy. A lover wants to be all alone with his beloved, though he knows this is impossible, for we all want more, even jealous husbands do.
People tend to like Captain Störr, and when they show it, he feels good about himself. After all, they've invested tender emotions in him, and these investments are bound to pay off. The object of affection inspires affection; whoever is loved by many is wanted by everybody. Captain Störr becomes radiant, he is besieged by women.
There is a prim and proper English miss, and a more sophisticated black enchantress, who happens to be the lover of his friend and employer. The impetuous captain kisses both of them passionately, but we are told that nothing else happens. He nevertheless feels he has cheated on his wife, though for a man smitten with remorse, he holds up rather well.
He would go as far as killing his wife, but doesn't of course. He'd like to get rid of her, actually—to expose her. And after exposing her, either kill her or spare her, but in any case, leave her. The best thing would be to prove that she is a thief, too, or looks like one the moment she is discovered. It would be that much easier to leave her then, to shake off this creature who has so discombobulated the captain, not even his appetite is what it used to be.
The truth of the matter is that this old sea lion is afraid of women. Women to him are sweet, charming, adorable playthings. He himself is a mountain of flesh, so what he would really like is to play house with these little dolls. Of course he loves frisky kittens, too, who try to scratch his hand or bite his neck. Feminists heap terrible abuses on such men and then jump into bed with them . . . Even they like their warmth. But in novels about great love and great jealousy this is the kind of hero we must have.
What else could its author, an unemployed Hungarian Jewish school master past his prime, write about—and write with unrelenting diligence, for seven long years, from 1935 to 1942, shutting himself in the study of his pleasant Budapest villa? Füst was known for a long time only as a poet; his writer friends used words like universal and cosmic to describe his single slim volume, and later generations looked upon him as the larger-than-life originator of dramatically innovative poetic forms. This prematurely old master, this genuine professional, who spent twenty years studying Tolstoy's silences and who explored the secrets of prose fiction as intently as painters and composers scrutinize the materials of their own craft, did not set foot outside his house for years on end.
Growing up, Füst was a poor boy; he lived with his mother in a cramped cold-water flat and began writing at the kitchen table. He first came alive in the literary cafés of his youth. After studying law, he became a school teacher and published his books at his own expense. But then he married a wealthy, business-minded former student of his, who was devoted to him, idolized him, and supported him. Their house was furnished with choice antiques, fine paintings hung on the wall—there was no reason to go outside, no need to leave the garden.
He only saw people who came to see him, he chose inner exile—into Flaubertian exactitude and thoroughness. A learned aesthete, a great poet was writing a novel at fifty. Misunderstood, unappreciated, a most unlikely candidate for commercial success, Füst was at leisure to create a masterpiece.
When published, the novel was barely noticed; even discriminating readers were slow to appreciate its unique features. The real breakthrough came only twenty years later when the novel began to appear in foreign translations: first in France, then in Germany, in Italy, and just about everywhere in Central Europe. It is said that in 1967—Füst was seventy-nine at the time—he was nominated for the Nobel Prize in literature; death, however, proved quicker than the Swedish Academy.
During the years when he immersed himself in this novel, Füst must have, now and then, skimmed the papers, he must have gotten wind that anti-Jewish laws were being passed, World War II was in the making—the pressure all around kept mounting.
But the solitary giant averted his eyes. He defended himself against the scandal by ignoring it. By creating a world of true feelings in place of the real world. He simply had to protect literature from politics; from the deadly abstractions of both the right and the left. Yet the man who vowed to do this was also the man who in his philosophical-meditative diaries loved to slip into the realm of pure abstractions, wanting desperately to hold on to what was still unsullied, and genuinely human, in this world.
In so doing, Milan Füst, ironically enough,
hit upon jealousy, this abstract passion, which has its victim search for tangible evidence but which forces him to chase phantoms in the end, making him anticipate assiduously the expulsion from the Garden.
What we are all up against is a state of helplessness: we do not know the person whom, in the Biblical sense, we have come to know; so we keep getting reacquainted. But as far as this husband is concerned, his wife is inscrutable, impenetrable. He knows that just as every man must die, love, too, will die. But if it must, then let it (fie now, let's get it over with. Man yearns for order, for well-rounded stories—he wants to conclude his own, too, give it a proper ending, aesthetic balance, if nothing else.
The more you love, the more you want that love to end. Just so that you won't be so vulnerable. The jealous sea captain suffers from being in love, from being imprisoned. On the high seas, where there are no girlies to bother with, where he must do his job and stay alive—out there is the real world. On land, in Paris and London, in secluded flats, in tiny love nests, there is no reality—there he strays into a world of dubious fantasies; he may be a tough character, but this world will break him for sure, he must pay dearly for all that heavenly bliss.
You have a big, foolish man, then, with a good little wife—except he doesn't think she is so good. All this is worked out ever so subtly in the book. It's quite possible that our Lizzy is a tiny bit unfaithful, and also that she isn't. Captain Störr, on the other hand, imagines her at times to be scandalously unfaithful. And so cunning that she can gloss over her wildest flings by sitting at home. It all depends on how you look at it. The captain can't help noting that for each viewpoint there is another scenario, and each one is equally valid, and equally deceptive. Such is the master novelist's sense of humor, his amusing and terrifying relativism.
Milan Füst didn't know how to deal with the hopeless quagmire that was Hungary in the thirties, he couldn't deal with his own situation in that murky mess. He longed to be in Paris or in London —in a normal, civilized city. London especially seemed attractive to Jews in Hungary at the time. America was too far away, Paris, too close. In the end most of them stayed in Budapest.
When the world around him is about to crumble into dust, a Hungarian Jewish poet decides to create something solid and shapely; he wants to lift his handiwork, his novel, out of the formless, viscous rubble. At least on paper he finds a place where only art matters, where evil fate does not force his hand, where an ideally suitable artistic task presents itself: to develop a grand theme in four movements, with disturbing fluctuations and digressions, naturally.
Milan Füst couldn't think of anything better to do, so he emigrated to his novel. In a filthy age he wanted to write pure fiction. And he succeeded—The Story of My Wife is pure, honest fiction. For seven years the author could dwell in this work. But then he had to finish it. Maybe he overdid it a little. He knew so much about the obsessions of an egomaniac, he became suspicious himself —and couldn't wait to be provoked. Like a lion that first gives an angry snort and then waits for his chance to roar and lash out with his lion's paw in earnest.
Milan Füst never went to Holland; he was never in Paris or London, either. Yet the hero of his novel is a Dutch seaman, and the action takes place in Paris and London. Then again, we don't find out much about life in Holland, or about Paris and London. What the novel is really concerned with is whether a temporarily unemployed sea captain's wife cheats on her husband or not. The captain is past forty, by no means a virgin, and when he falls in love, he marries the woman on the spot.
What he is is a middle-aged beginner; his knowledge is not deeply ingrained, he is not blase about the world. On the contrary, he is forever seized with wonder, he delves into things, in his leisurely manner he ponders the mysteries of everyday life. Wild fantasies alternate with sensible admonitions. Does my wife really want to kill me? Nonsense! Hogwash! And on and on in this vein. Füst has a knack for creating uncertainty. He has very little to say about cities and backgrounds; husband and wife have time to observe each other closely; the author places his two characters (actually, one: his Active self) in a much-reduced, laboratory-like setting.
Let us assume that I am a Dutch sea captain: bigger, stronger, more courageous and overpowering by far than the author who, unlike the captain, is not in the habit of knocking dead, just like that, a miserable little cabdriver when the latter, with pistol in hand, wants to empty his pockets. The captain is out of work just now, so aside from one quite wonderful chapter, we have no time to waste on sea stories, no need to provide social commentary and local color— after all, the captain is a perennial transient, a temporary resident in the great cities of Europe; besides his wife he barely gets to know anyone. Unrelentingly, the novelist focuses on the crucial question: is Lizzy faithful or not? And leaves the reader in doubt until the very end. Our initial hunch that she is indeed faithful may become stronger, we may even shed a tear à la Füst for poor, misunderstood Lizzy, yet, ultimately, we can't help sharing Captain Störr's misgivings—maybe Lizzy is a flighty and fast woman after all.
It's possible to go on, of course, without ever finding out. What then can we expect from this lengthy book? For one thing, it will make us become Captain Störr; we will partake of his brooding, his naive wonderment, his not always spectacular adventures. His creator truly had no other ambition than to experience first love and its attendant emotions with the heart and mind of a jealous husband.
The novels of old concentrated on the early phases of love affairs, on events that occurred before the lovers went to bed, and they usually ended without proceeding any further. The basic question was always: Will they or won't they be wed? The Story of My Wife begins right after this phase. At this point, after the marriage, what other disquieting questions can arise: Should I cheat on her? Does she cheat on me? The trails leading to the conjugal bed may now be pointing to other beds. What latter-day novelists do is follow in the tracks of these wayfarers of love.
In all probability there has never been a man or a woman who did not experience profound uncertainty, who didn't feel that their beloved is not theirs. I could be holding her in my arms and she could still be far, far away. Just look at her: she is daydreaming, about someone else, no doubt. Now she looks sad—she probably doesn't love me any more.
Since I have not yet met anyone who was not susceptible to jealousy, I recommend this novel as a guide not to Paris or London but to one's own marriage, for the true subject of the novel is tense, vibrant uncertainty.
Of course not many husbands have the leisure to play private detective; most have better things to do than snoop after their wives. Captain Störr, however, has been relieved by the author of all other obligations. There is no ship under his command now, his money (whatever's left of it) is still in his pocket. Husband and wife are together the whole day, and yet they are not. The captain can never be entirely sure—and this is both his strength and his weakness. With this burly man as his guide, Milan Füst leads us to raptures and humiliations, to murderous desires and displays of uncommon gentleness.
It's gratifying to follow him, for he describes the conditions of his life so very convincingly, and comments on them painstakingly. Whatever is on his mind he rarely blurts out in front of the other characters—he saves it for us.
Füst also keeps shifting our perspective. He makes the long interior monologue more dynamic by switching skillfully to animated dialogue. Our narrator is the kind of person who is forever reminded of other things, he is full of digressions and droll observations—yet, whether the topic at hand is a wild nighttime romp, a murder, or dreamy walks in cemeteries and parks, Füst does what he must.
He develops each sequence masterfully and embellishes them with the most ingenious of devices. The master novelist adheres to his own aesthetic precepts, alternating cleverly and refreshingly between narrative summaries and "evocative delineations," that is, brief surveys of great blocks of time, and focused exposes of shorter stretches.
His somewhat mannere
d prose has a unique rhythm, a captivating ebb and flow; moreover, the regular alternation of voices and viewpoints suggests the wild contradictions at work in the author himself—he knows the language of compassion as well as the language of despair; he can be unusually kind and unusually cruel.
Captain Jacob Störr is a man without illusions, but his one passion: his undying wish to know what makes his wife tick makes him so alert, so eager, so tormented, we can't help liking him. I wouldn't mind joining the captain for a good stiff drink in a bar. Even if I didn't see him again, I'd remember him. If you, too, want to remember this decent seaman, who, though not at all stupid, is still a big fool for bungling life's greatest gift simply because he's too worried about it not being really his—if you want to listen to a commonplace story as told by an irresistible narrator, then do read Captain Störr's reminiscences about his wife.
THE STORY OF MY WIFE
Te vocamus, quod sic plasmavisti hominem et
hominem itidem vocamus, qui tamen debet
praestare seipsum . . . percipe hanc
altercationem in corde nostro diabolicam,
Domine! Et oculos sanctos Tuos in inopiam
nostram conjicere non gravator, sed conspice
portentum clam nobis abditum, in extis . . .
accedit, quod allectationes nutriunt ipsum
velut alece. Et ne nos inducas in
tentationem, supplicamus ad versprum,
peccatum tamen ostium pulsat intratque
domum et intrat prorsus ad mensam. Amove
ergo sartaginem igneam, qua caro siccatur,
