Eyes Like the Sea: A Novel

by Mór Jókai

  CHAPTER III

  MY MASTERPIECE AND MY HUT

  In the later stages of the painting we could converse. Indeed,conversation is necessary for completing one's study of one's subject,and prevents, besides, the constraint of sitting from becoming tootiresome.

  "Have you read the poems of Petofi?"[12]

  [Footnote 12: The Burns of Hungary.]

  "Oh, at our house we read nothing."

  "Why not?"

  "Because those who come to see us bring no books with them."

  "Then don't you get any newspaper?"

  "Oh, yes, the _Journal des Demoiselles_; but it's a frightful bore."

  "A Hungarian paper would be better, the _Pesti Divatlap_, for instance."

  "I'll tell my mother to order it. You write for it sometimes, don'tyou?"

  "Yes."

  "What?"

  "The description of a desert island among the sedges."

  "Have you ever been on this desert island?"

  "No; I only imagine it."

  "What's the good of that?"

  "It's part of a romance I'm working at."

  "Ah, so you write romances! Will you put us into them?"

  "Oh, no! Romance writing does not consist in merely copying down allthat one sees and hears about one."

  "I should like to know how you set about it?"

  "First of all I think out the end of the story."

  "What, you begin at the end?"

  "Yes. Then I create the characters of the story. Then I deal out tothese characters the parts they must play, and the vicissitudes theymust go through down to the very end of the story."

  "Then, according to that, none of it is true?"

  "It is not real, perhaps, but it may be true, for all that."

  "I don't understand. And how much time do you take to write a story? Isuppose it will come out?"

  "Certainly."

  "Ah, yes, 'tis an easy thing for you to do! You have a rich aunt at OGyalla, and you've only got to say a word to her and she'll get yourbook printed for you. I suppose you've only got to ask her?"

  "I shall not tell my rich aunt a word about it."

  "Then you'll get your book printed at Fani Weinmuller's, I suppose. Nowlisten, that won't do at all. I knew an author who published his ownbook and went from village to village, and persuaded every landedproprietor to buy a copy from him. That is a rugged path."

  "My romance will not be one of those which the author himself has tocarry from door to door; it will be one of those for which the publisherpays the author an honorarium."

  She absolutely laughed in my face.

  And after all, when you come to think about it, surely it is somewhatcomical when a person comes forward and barefacedly says, "Here, I'vewritten something in which there is not one word of truth, andnevertheless I insist upon people reading it, and paying me for writingit."

  "Do you fancy, Miss Bessy, that Petofi was not paid for his poems? Hegot two hundred florins for 'Love's Pearls.'"

  "'Love's Pearls'! And pray what are they?"

  "Lovely poems to a beautiful girl."

  "And did he get the girl?"

  "No, he did not."

  "Well, now, that _is_ a nice thing. A fellow courts a girl, puts hisfeelings into verse, finally gets a basket[13] from her, and thendemands that this basket should be filled for him with silver pieces."

  [Footnote 13: The Hungarian "Kosarat kapni," like the German "einen Korbbekommen" (to get a basket), is the equivalent of our "to get a flea inone's ear," _i.e._, "a rejection."]

  The same day I sent her Petofi's "Love's Pearls," and his "CypressLeaves" also.

  I resumed my portrait painting three days afterwards, and immediatelyasked her whether she had taken up "Love's Pearls."

  "Oh, yes; I took them up to dry flowers in them."

  "But I suppose you've just dipped into the 'Cypress Leaves'?"

  "I don't like such things. I always burst into tears; and then my nosegets quite red."

  I did not pursue the subject further.

  Miss Bessy hastened, however, to sweeten my bitter disappointment withthe delightful intelligence that, at my suggestion, mamma had at oncesubscribed to the _Pesti Divatlap_, and for six months, too.

  I was there when the postman brought the first four copies of the paper.In those days every paper had to be sent through the post in anenvelope, postage stamps had not yet been invented....

  After the solemnity of breaking open the envelope, the assembledwomankind naturally looked to see if there were any pictures, especiallypictures of the fashions.

  Was it not called "Divatlap"?[14] And a fashionable journal it reallywas. That worthy, high-souled patriot, Emericus Vahot, was labouringwith iron determination to make fashion a national affair.

  [Footnote 14: Fashionable journal.]

  "Well, whoever wore that might exhibit herself for money!" That was theuniversal verdict of the ladies. They alluded to one of the fashionpatterns.

  The illustrated supplement to the second number was Gabriel Egressy asRichard III., in the dream scene, surrounded by spectres; the picturewas sketched by our countryman Valentine Kiss.

  Her ladyship asked me which was the head of the principal figure, andwhich the feet. And I must confess that I myself could not quite makeout how Richard III. had got his head between his knees.

  With the illustrated supplement to the third number, however, they werequite satisfied. It was Rosa Laborfalvy[15] as Queen Gertrude, byBarabas, a work of real artistic merit. This interested the ladiesgreatly.

  [Footnote 15: Jokai's future wife, as will be seen in the sequel.]

  "They say she has such wonderful eyes that there's nothing like themanywhere," said Miss Bessy.

  The logical consequence of this should have been a contradictionaccompanied by a flattering compliment on my part; but all at once itwas as if something so squeezed my throat that I absolutely could notget the courtly expression out anyhow. "I have never seen her," Ireplied.

  At the end of the fourth number was a lithograph representing a slim,youthful figure, and beneath it was written the name, Alexander Petofi.It was one of the best sketches of Barabas. It is the one absolutelyfaithful portrait of the immortal poet. As such he was known by allthose who lived with him, that eye gazing forth into the far distance,that mouth opened prophetically, those hands crossed behind him as if hewould hide something in them. The whole portrait seems to say, "I _will_be Petofi"; all the other portraits say, "I _am_ Petofi."

  This picture produced a great impression upon the ladies, for theappearance of a lithographed portrait in a journal was a great event. Inthose days there were none of the beneficent penny papers, whose rightof existence is considered amply justified if the frontispiecerepresents some one battering an old woman's head in with an axe. Onlygreat and famous patriots enjoyed the distinction of figuring ontitle-pages, and photography was not yet invented.... The appearance,then, of Petofi's portrait in an illustrated supplement of the_Divatlap_ created quite a sensation.... The companion at once undertookto read the book of verses which had been sent to the house by me.Bessy, on the other hand, desired to know whether she would findanything of mine in the portion of the journal devoted to theBelles-Lettres. Immediately afterwards she actually hit upon it. It wasa portion of my romance, which appeared there under the title of "Azingovany oaza"--"The Oasis of the Fens."

  "Well, I mean to read this at once."

  I gave her plenty of time to do so, for I only appeared again after thelapse of several days.

  She really _had_ read it. It was the first thing she told me.

  "Now I am curious to know," she added, "what was the beginning of thestory and what will be the end? You know, don't you?"

  "How can I help knowing?"

  "But I don't understand the title. Where does the 'oiseau'[16] come in?"

  [Footnote 16: The Hungarian _oaza_ (oasis) and the French _oiseau_ arepronounced so very much alike, that the ill-instructed Bessy, who hadnever heard of
the former, not unnaturally confounded them.]

  I explained to her that the "_oaz_" was not a flying fowl, but a plot ofverdure concealed in the desert.

  "Then why don't you write 'island'?"

  She was right there.

  "Apropos of island," she continued, "I often see you from the verandahof our island summer-house walking up and down in front of our garden;yet you never give us so much as a glance, though we make noise enough."

  "That is quite possible. At such times I am immersed."

  "Immersed in what?"

  "In working at my romance."

  "Working and walking at the same time?"

  "Such is my habit. I work out the whole scene in my head first of all,down to the smallest details, so that when I sit down it is a meremechanical a-b-c sort of business."

  "Then according to that, when you are marching with rapid strides up anddown that long path, you neither hear nor see anything?"

  "Pardon me, I see grass, trees, flowers, birds, stumps of trees, andhuts of reeds overgrown with brambles. Amongst all these I weave mythoughts like the meshes of a spider's web. And I hear, too. I hear thepiping of the yellow-hammer, the twittering of the titmouse, the notesof the horn from distant ships, the humming of the gnats, and they allhave something to whisper to me, something to tell me. A buzzing wasplends wings to my imagination; but if I meet a human face, the wholething flies out of my thoughts, and a single 'your humble servant' willdissolve utterly my _fata Morgana_, until I turn back and reconstructthe ends of my spider's-web among the freshly-discovered reed-builthuts, tree-trunks and trailing flowers, when the well-known voices ofthe dwellers in the wilderness bring back to me again my scatteredideas; then I retreat into the little wooden summer-house in our garden,and there, disturbed by nobody, I transfer to paper the images whichstand before my mind."

  And Bessy, contrary to my expectation, didn't laugh at thiselucidation. On the contrary, she had grown quite serious. Theexpression of her eyes now resembled the expression which I had giventhem in her portrait.

  "And this gives you pleasure?" she whispered. "It is just as if a manwere to set off dreaming after taking care beforehand that all hisdreams should turn out beautiful."

  "Mr. Muki Bagotay," announced the footman.

  I took up my hat. I could not endure that fellow. He had already enjoyedeverything in reality which existed for me only in imagination....

  The little wooden hut there in the orchard on the Danubian islet(whether it is still there I know not) was the most splendid palace inwhich I ever dwelt. 'Twas there I wrote my first romance. It is truethat it had to put up with a lot of criticism, that first romance. What,indeed, did a young mind which knew nothing of men or of the worldunderstand about romance writing? And yet I loved my first work, just asmuch as a man loves his first-born, though it may be deformed by allsorts of physical and spiritual defects. How plainly I still see beforeme those large, wide-spreading _Reineclaude_ trees, crammed with fruitripe to bursting, which covered the little hut. A little farther off wasan apple-tree covered with blood-red fruit, and then a second withtaffety white, and a third with velvety apples. From the open door ofthe hut one could see right along the overgrown path, which was borderedon both sides by bowery vines. When the warm blood-red rays of summerpierced through the meshes of the foliage, it seemed as if every shadowwas of green-gold. Far away on the banks of the Danube could be heardthe delusive echoes from the military band in the "English Garden,"whilst closer at hand the yellow-hammer piped, and a frog here and therecroaked in the irrigating trenches. I was writing the hardest part of myromance--the love part, that most undiscoverable of all unknown worlds.One may write down a description of the marsh world from theimagination, but not a description of the world of love. If the hearthas not already discovered it, the head can tell us nothing at all aboutit.

  All at once the green-gold shadows were lit up by something bright._She_ was standing there in the door of my hut, dressed in a whitefrock, with a straw hat fastened to two blue ribbons hanging upon herarm, and her dishevelled locks floating down her shoulders. For a momentI fancied that the dream-shapes of my imagination had taken bodily form.Then her ringing peal of laughter assured me that a living person stoodbefore me.

  "How did you come here?"

  "How? Why, by walking over the soft grass, of course."

  "Alone?"

  "Alone! Why not? Whom _should_ I have brought with me, I should like toknow? I suppose I may come to a neighbour's garden unattended?"

  It was quite true that our gardens were only about a hundred feet apart,lying one on each side of the common path, which ran right through theisland.

  "You don't seem to give me a very hearty reception," pouted she, as sheentered my hut.

  My head began to swim.

  "On the contrary, I am overjoyed at the honour you do me, and I'llgather for you at once some of our princely plums."

  Nobody else had such plums then, and it was a good excuse, besides, forquitting the hut.

  "I did not come for the sake of your princely plums; I filch them longbefore you ever taste them. I have come now to see how you make up yourromance."

  I pointed out to her that here was the paper and there the pen, and alla man had to do was to take up the pen, and it went on writing of itsown accord.

  "Then you don't peep into any book first of all?"

  "You can see that I am provided with no tools of that sort."

  "Well, now, sit down, and I'll sit down beside you and see how youwrite."

  And then, not waiting for an invitation, she sat down at the end of mysofa, driving me into the dilemma of sitting down by the table,willy-nilly, likewise. I may mention that my hut was so narrow that thetable reached from the door to the window.

  "I can't write a word, though, at this moment," said I.

  "Why? Because I'm here?"

  "Naturally."

  "Then read me what you have just written."

  "There's a lot of it."

  "So much the better. I can remain here all the longer."

  "Won't they miss you at home?"

  "They know that I am sure to turn up again."

  Vanity is the horn by which one may always catch hold of a man. Itflattered me to read what I had written, whoever the listener might be.In other parts of the kingdom I had already gained applause with myrecitations, but nobody in my own narrow little town had ever heard mespeak. _Nemo profeta in patria._

  And Bessy was a very appreciative audience. You could read from her facethe effect I produced and the interest she took. She rested her face onher hand, smoothed down her hair, and fixed her attention that she mightlisten the better. She seemed quite frightened at the exciting scenes,her eyes and lips opened wide. I do not say this to praise myself, butsimply as a justification of the fact that in those days I could recitewith considerable emphasis. In one place, however, my voice began tofalter.

  "Well, what is it? Can't you read your own writing?"

  "Yes--no, I mean. I think we had better leave off here?"

  "Why? You've come to the most interesting part."

  "I don't want to read it to you."

  "Why? Do you mean to say you write such things as a girl ought not toknow?"

  "No, no! Anybody may read it except myself--before you."

  The girl laughed, but there was something bitter in her laugh too.

  "Oh, don't be anxious on my account, pray! We read, at school, things ofwhich you have no idea. It is an old institution among us that everygirl when she marries shall write a letter to her school friends on thevery day after her wedding. We have a whole collection of such letters."

  "And do you mean to tell me that _you_ have promised to increase thiscollection?" I cried, with all the indignation of my youthful mind.

  The girl must have guessed my anger from my face, for she cast down hereyes and said, in a low voice: "It depends upon whose I shall be."

  Immediately afterwards she laughed uproariously: "You may read yourlove
-scene before me."

  I answered more firmly than ever: "I will not read it before you."

  She understood and stared at me.

  "You fear, perhaps, that I shall take it for a declaration? You think,perhaps, that I shall laugh at you in consequence?"

  "No! You will not laugh at me."

  "Then what are you afraid of?"

  "I do not fear, I wait."

  "Wait! For what?"

  "I am waiting till I count for something in the world; at present I am amere cipher."

  "One who is born a man can never be a mere cipher."

  "Look now! This wooden booth is at present the whole of my property,this little pile of paper my whole claim upon the world; but in my soulthere is a vigorous flame to which I can give no name. This flame wouldsuffice to make a man a pretender to a throne, but it is not sufficientto make him propose to a girl."

  "But you know that I am rich."

  "And I am still richer, for I dine deliciously off a crust of bread, andI sleep sweetly on a bed of straw."

  "Well, and that pleases me too. _I_ like a crust of bread and a bed ofstraw. You do not know me. A man might make a she-devil of me, though hebuilt a temple in my name straight off, enshrined me on the altar, andknelt down before me. But he whom I truly loved might make an angel ofme. I could be happy anywhere: in a shepherd's hut, a strolling player'stent, at a soldier's bivouac, in a schoolmaster's clay cabin. I woulddream of luxury on my bed of straw."

  And with that, she threw herself at full length on my bare sofa, andclasped her hands above her head.

  Oh, what distracting loveliness!

  Was it a blessing or a chastisement on the part of guiding Providencethat I was able, at that moment, to see with my soul as well as with myeyes? This girl had in a few words unfolded before me the whole of hercoming destiny.... I sat down at her feet by the side of the bare oldsofa, and looked into her eyes.

  Very softly I said to her: "She whom I love will not be my slave, but myqueen. I will not filch my happiness, but win it. And she to whom Ishall dedicate my heart shall be crowned by me with an aureola of glory,just as the rich of this world load _their_ darlings with pearls anddiamonds. The lady of my heart must be honoured by all the world--butmost of all by myself."

  At these words the half-closed eyelids opened. The girl began to sobviolently, leaped to her feet, threw her arms round my neck, kissed me,and ran away.

  And I looked after her like one that dreams, while the shrubs and thevine-leaves concealed her vanishing form. The yellow-hammer cried in myear, "Silly boy, silly boy!" And immediately there occurred to my mindthe story of the young man whose confessor gave him a bundle of hay toeat as a penance for a sin unachieved.

  And now, too, when I stand before the big silly bookcase, which isfilled with nothing but my own works, I often think, would it not havebeen better if they had none of them been ever thought out? And insteadof writing so much for the whole world, would it not have been better ifI had written for my own private use, just so much as would go withinthe inside cover of a family Bible? Nowadays, a whole street in mynative town is called after my name: would it not have been better ifall I had there were a simple hut?

  But no! I willed it so, and if it were possible for me to go back to thediverging cross-roads of my opening life, I would tread once more in theself-same footprints that I have left so long behind me.