The Story of My Wife

by Milan Fust

  She also said that marriage as a permanent institution was a thing of the past.

  "Can't you see that? Are you blind?" That's just what she asked her. Of the little one. If she was blind. When she had such bright, beautiful eyes.

  "Anyway," she continued, "where will you find people today who could stand living with each other for, say, forty years . . . Forty years!" this sweet creature exclaimed, the older one did (by now I found her sweet, too). But the younger sister quickly retorted:

  "Go ahead, make yourself look ridiculous in front of monsieur." This one was defending devotion with all her little might, maintaining there was such a thing under the sun, devotion unto the grave, unswerving devotion.

  "Yes, I do believe in being faithful," she said, "and in having one great love." Poor me. In spite of my own bitter experience in this area, I was touched to no end by what she said. That's man for you—an odd creature, I tell you; there is no end to his peculiarities. And how quick she was to defend me:

  "That's right; monsieur here is a very objective monsieur. I happen to like him a lot and think we might be able to win him over to the cause." She said this as soon as we settled down. (For one night, after the concert, I did get them to stop in at a café with me. I'd been meaning to suggest it for some time but until now did not dare to actually come out with it.)

  To what cause were they trying to win me over? I kept asking them, but got no answer. In fact, they left me out of their conversation altogether.

  "Yes, all that sounds very nice," declared the older sister, "but there are things you don't know."

  "What don't I know?"

  "That our cause requires not just impartiality but passion, too."

  "And I am not passionate enough?" I cried, overwhelmed with pleasure; but they paid me no mind.

  "Because you don't know men yet: how careless and indolent they can be."

  "I am careless?" I asked her, imploringly, but also radiantly. Because by now the argument was over me, my very own person; in my presence they were discussing me and ignoring me completely. Yet, all this made me feel wonderful, as if I was being tickled or something.

  "Come on now, miss, that's not a nice thing to say. Am I not a hard-working student; don't I knock myself out? And don't I go out of my way to earn your approval?"

  "It's not a question of hard work," said the older one . . . "Would you have killed Barthou, for example?"

  "That's right," chimed in the other. "Or Trepov, or Uncle Drenteln, for that matter?"

  "Kill, did you say? Ladies, please ... I don't even know who Uncle Drenteln is. What are you talking about? Is this some sort of a joke?"

  "Not at all. We meant every word we said, every single word." They were both at it now, as militant as ever.

  "Please answer our question, monsieur. Openly, truthfully."

  "Yes, don't try to skirt the issue."

  "But for God's sake, ladies, what have I to do with Croatian politics?" (I suddenly remembered that these men may be enemies of Croatian independence.)

  "This is not merely a Croatian question," one of them said. "And we'd be surprised if you were not interested—very surprised, for it would reveal a great deal about you.

  "Oh yes, a very great deal . . . But didn't I tell you? This gentleman has no convictions."

  "Monsieur, I am afraid we are worlds apart," the older one declared. But luckily, the waiter showed up just then.

  * * *

  So in this political matter I fell flat on my face, and just for that I became cautious and ordered only grog for everybody. But the girls also wanted some egg nog, so I ordered that, too. I was in a quandry, actually, as to which one of the lovelies I should love. But in a way, the thing was decided already. I picked the little one, if only because she kept calling me monsieur (whereas the other one didn't call me anything). And this was enough of an honor, I dare say; I loved my new title. If she didn't say anything all night besides monsieur, monsieur, I would still have been overjoyed.

  But how was I going to handle Croatian foreign policy?

  "We are members of the C.G.T., you know," declared the younger sister, a little more gently by now, licking the spoon with which she had been stirring her egg nog. (In the meantime the other one went to make a phone call, to tell their folks not to wait up for them.) "But don't mention this in front of Madeleine," she added. "She wouldn't like it."

  Member of the C.G.T. . . . how mysterious, I thought, and almost began to laugh.

  "What about you? What are you?" she asked.

  "What do you mean what am I? I am nothing. Just a crazy Dutchman, my dear girl."

  "Don't 'my dear girl' me."

  "I won't. But you are a dear, and you are still a girl."

  "Perhaps. But not yours."

  "All right, not mine. If you insist on being so heartless. But let me just remind you that you are not entirely right. For as long as I can look at you, you are a tiny bit mine. You had better get used to the notion, mademoiselle."

  "In that case I'd much rather put on a veil," she said. "If I am to be subjected to such bullying."

  "Bullying?" I laughed. "Will you deprive us even of this small pleasure? Don't put on a veil," I pleaded, "please don't. I'll be more modest, I promise—modest and sad."

  "Don't be sad."

  "All right, I won't."

  "But how is it that you have never joined . . . that you've not been accepted . . ." She suddenly remembered what we had been' talking about before; naturally, she would not be sidetracked. "How is it possible?" she said, quite exasperated. "You've never given any thought to political convictions; never to the party of your choice?"

  "No, but I will now," I said rather guiltily. "I will try to make up for my negligence; you will see how very hard I shall try. And do you know why?" And here I looked deeply into her eyes. "Because . . . I adore you . . ."

  "Don't say 'adore'"

  "All right, I won't."

  "Because it's such a hackneyed word . . . such a dubious, thoughtless bit of gallantry."

  "It's not thoughtless, I swear . . . And I'll prove it to you. By doing whatever you ask me to. You will call the shots; I will obey. And make you see it was much more than thoughtless, idle talk."

  At this she did turn serious, finally. And said that in that case, I should be willing to give away my fortune; for they had heard how much money I had, and what a beautiful house I maintained. "But what's the good of all that?" she asked, turning her radiant eyes on me. "Why own all those treasures? When there is so much poverty in the world? Why don't you use your fortune to support a worthy political cause? Or share it with the needy—there are plenty of those around . . ."

  But was it also true, she continued, that I was very strong, as strong as an athlete? It was, I said. (And blushed probably.)

  "That's quite important, you know. Don't let it ever bother you. Physical strength can be very useful to us at times." And she looked into my eyes rather significantly.

  It was Monsieur Peti who told them all this, she went on. (He was the man who had tutored me and then left for America.) But she was sorry to say that this Monsieur Peti was not an honorable man. He led Madeleine on, and that's why her poor sister was so sad all the time ... I did understand what she was getting at, didn't I. . . ? He promised her he'd marry her, yes. But all this was a secret, of course, and heaven forbid that I should let on in front of her that I knew about it . . .

  The poor dears. Only now did I understand her awkward, hesitant moves, or why she would sometimes toss her head back and stare out the window, into the vacant air, toward America, I shouldn't wonder. Oh the poor, poor dears . . .

  But then we drank champagne, and from that they lit up like so many little lightbulbs. And they gazed at me with their sheepish eyes . . . happily almost, though uneasily, too. I had to reassure them, inspire their confidence, lest they take fright again.

  So I started thinking ... I really opened up and talked about things. Things like . . . like music, for instance.
I praised music, classical and contemporary; told them how much I loved it. Whereas the truth of the matter is that I realized, at these concerts more clearly than ever before, how much music bored me—much of it, at any rate. It could be I am way off on this, but I'll put down my thought anyway. I consider the direction art is heading in to be hopeless—a blind alley. Because it is overblown in its means; the apparatus simply got to be too big . . . though it's no use complaining, of course. It's well known that nothing is more tempting for a composer, nothing can lead him more astray, than this technical overabundance. Yet, with more modest means art becomes warmer, more intimate . . . That's all I really wanted to say. A few voices, a light accompaniment, the way it was when the lute was in fashion, or small orchestras, chamber groups—who needs more? Yet, today we have homophony, polyphony, what have you—a thousand different tonalities, combinations, and for hours on end, until you are dead tired just listening to it.

  What about the masterpieces created with these riches? someone might ask. Yes, the masterpieces; nobody who's admired them can simply disavow them. Yet, truth to tell, they, too, tire me out, their brilliance does . . .

  What is more, there are all sorts of adagios in this new type of music, which abuse the right to be effusive, and I don't like that, either . . . that insubstantial quality, about which I never know just what it wishes to evoke in me—my first love, grief, what... I am expressing myself in very rough, general terms, I know, but I am essentially on the right track, I think. For the more definite and recognizable an emotion, the better; on the other hand, the more formless and indistinct it is musically, the more disquieting it becomes. But enough theorizing; needless to say, I didn't share my doubts with them—why should I have? If I did, our evenings would be finished, I couldn't go to any more concerts with them. Why deprive me of these lovely children's company?

  I won't do it, no sir. Soon they had this to say to me: "Please, don't neglect to look into Madame Kollontay's books, we beg of you. A man of such refined sensibility as yourself must get to know her."

  Tears came to my eyes, I tell you. For these two darlings went as far as joining their hands together, in a gesture of prayer.. . . They were tipsy, the little darlings, and were exuding the spirit of youth. Which may be muddled or sickly green, yet for me it remains most beautifully evergreen, and as such must be admired.

  "I hope you know, monsieur, that we really like you," said my sweetheart, the young one. "We like you a lot, dear, kind monsieur. And that's nothing to trifle with."

  Should I now have frightened them with my scientific theories, with my views on life and death or this heartache called love? Wouldn't that have been an outrage? So I lied instead. Somebody has to take it upon himself to lie. As a rule it's the older person who does . . . And he is right, the poor devil.

  On the street I delivered myself of the following admonition:

  "You naughty, naughty girls. Going home this late?" And I laughed heartily. Night was gone; the new day rose from the teeming darkness like a shimmering emerald. I took the two girls' arms, because they were rather weak on their feet. And continued thus:

  "You could be my daughters, the two of you. In the morning you'd be off to school; but before that, you would say: 'Give us some money."

  "But I wouldn't give you any, I'd pretend I didn't want to. You'd have to stretch out your little hands. And I'd laugh to myself and think: What do I need sweets for . . . at my age? But they love it, these naughty, good-for-nothing children."

  I avoided looking at them, though, because I simply got too emotional.

  "And now it turns out that I love the two of you," I said more to myself than to them. "Yes, yes, that's just how it is, why deny it? I love you both, really."

  The two little sisters looked at each other.

  "I adore you. And what this will lead to I don't know." I even explained this a little further. Told them I didn't want to tempt fate, or make myself ridiculous, I explained all that. But then, suddenly, I said this: "Just look at that dawn, isn't it beautiful? As if it just wanted to take off and fly away . . . Yet, it never does."

  But what is one to make of all this? Who will explain it to me? How can I, or anyone, believe that all this beauty is here only to make man miserable?

  And I do want something out of life, how do you like that? I said this defiantly, to an unseen opponent. As there has always been a wild streak in me, I could hardly hold myself at bay now, and was pacing my rooms all night long, furiously, hatefully.

  Should I maybe help fate alone and lower my head, too, so it could strike me down even easier?

  I will marry her, by God, come what may. Provided she'll have me, of course. She just may, you never know. She did tell me how much they both loved me. And that this was no trifling matter.

  But how could it be, for God's sake, especially for a man such as myself? Where will he end up, what will he ever accomplish, if he just manages to get by, timidly, and at the same time squeamishly, too. . . ?

  Hang it all, shouldn't I rather live a little? If it doesn't work out, I can always do something about it.

  That was one day. On the very next, I thought all this was sheer nonsense. Unworkable, unfeasible. Fatally flawed. And as always at such times, I kept examining myself in the looking glass.

  "The fox is the same, only the pate is grayer," my father liked to say. And now me; that's where I am at. For this thing creeps up on you, oh yes. It wasn't even my hair that was gray but my lips, under my eyes . . . those pale shadows here and there. And this simply had to be noticed by anyone so affected.

  Except it was no use. I could offer myself any explanation I wished, there is no remedy for bedazzlement. It came over me even more forcefully in my sleep. In one of my dreams (only Father Barham's legends or Tenniel's drawings had such a profound effect on me), I implored a giant named Fion Cumhall to let me live a little longer. For he did vanquish me, alas, and what had never happened before: his foot was on my throat.

  But I tried to reason with him: "What good will it do you to kill me?" And what was also a first: I begged him to spare me because I was still young, my time hadn't yet come.

  It's quite true; in this dream I was merely eighteen years old. And pale and skinny.

  I will marry her—that's where I was just before. Or I'll marry the other, the older one, I suddenly thought. It will be lovely. I'll be able to see her at least. I'll arrange it so that she will have lunch with us every Sunday. For never to see her again . . . no, I couldn't take that.

  The little one was called Louise, and she was ever so slight, my Louise was. She had big, serious eyes, but no breasts, no curves, only a brooding hardness. And it was precisely this hardness I was in love with ... Or is the mere thought that something like this can still happen to me downright ridiculous? I didn't ask. Anyway, in front of whom should I have been embarrassed at this point? Everytime I was with her I had the feeling that this world— creation!—was a worthy piece of work after all. Not art or music or things invented by man, but she.

  Oh, and when she got sick . . .

  What emptiness, what yawning boredom at those concerts. The older one was sitting right next to me, but even that didn't help. In fact I thought: how can I marry her if she keeps yawning that way?

  And when she finally showed up after weeks of absence—how strange that was, too. I spotted her right away, as soon as she entered, though there were lots of people in the hall, a full house, quite a crush, actually. But it was almost as though the hall itself rose a little and became brighter—I had this distinct impression. In short, I had not been this heady since my youth.

  Let me just point out that Madeleine was only three years older than her kid sister, yet she would have been willing to marry me, I could already tell. Were there any indications? There always are. For example, she began to fix my tea, too, of late . . . Actually, this may not mean all that much; at the university it's customary to do that for a fellow student. But the way she took care of me now, gently, subtly
, asking me if I was tired, if it wouldn't be better to go home, and so on . . . And what was most revealing: the way she accepted my flowers. For now I brought her flowers almost every day, a few stems or even a small bouquet, and as I was usually there early, I simply put it on her desk without saying a word. And she didn't comment on it, either. In this silence lay the true meaning of the moment. As she picked up the flowers, put them in water, nursed them, nestled them . . . every movement she made expressed the significance of the act. And the flowers, placed in a clean glass, stayed on her desk, right next to her laboratory reports, until evening.

  In a word, the message was clear, there was no mistaking it.

  But if she was willing, then perhaps the little one was, too, dear God . . . Why wouldn't she be? Three years is not that much of a difference.

  But then one day I got very scared. It happened the very night she came to a concert again. She was standing under a huge chandelier, surrounded by people, and naturally looked rather wan, but brightened up as soon as she glanced over my way. She immediately left the group . . . and oh the gleam in her eyes . . .

  "Oh, my sweet monsieur," she said radiantly, "I am so glad to see you." And in front of everybody pressed my hand to her heart.

  "But we will remain friends, won't we?" she whispered. For just then Madeleine arrived.

  And that was the word. It turned me melancholy in an instant. For what could she mean asking me if we'll stay friends? She didn't leave me hanging too long:

  "I talked about you with Madeleine," she whispered to me during the concert, and in her silly way she added: "We both know what a respectable, eligible monsieur you are."

  In other words, I should go ahead and marry Madeleine; this had been decided for me.

  Oh, those damn flowers. What have I done again?

  I should add that this concert, too, was overlong, and incredibly boring besides—maddening, I dare say. They performed the ravings of a famous gusher named Mahler for two and a half hours straight; my soul just about shriveled up, my nerves, on the other hand, began to rear like horses.