Eyes Like the Sea: A Novel

by Mór Jókai

  CHAPTER XX

  CONFESSION

  Well, the long and short of it is, confess I must, that I have asweetheart for whose sake I have been unfaithful, not only to my wife,but to my muse also--a sweetheart who has immeshed me in her spider'sweb, and sucked my heart's blood dry, who has appropriated my bestideas, made me scamper after her from one end of the kingdom to theother, and whose slave I was and still am. Often have I wasted half myfortune upon her, and rushed blindly into misfortune to please her. Forher have I patiently endured insult, ridicule, and reprobation. For hersake I have staked life and liberty.

  Sometimes, when I have felt the pinch of her tyranny, I have tried toescape from her; but she has enticed me back again and would not let mego.

  Now, if she had been some pretty young damsel, there might have beensome excuse for me. But she was a nasty, old, painted figure-head of abeldame; a flirting, faithless, fickle, foul-mouthed, scandal-mongeringold liar, whom the whole world courts, who makes fools of all herwooers, and changes her lover as often as she changes her dress.

  Her name is _Politica_,[114] and may the plague take her.

  [Footnote 114: Politics.]

  There was one particular year in which I was over head and ears in lovewith her, and did absolutely everything she wanted. On her account Ifell out with a good friend of mine who was the very right hand of mynewspaper. I fought (also on her account) a duel with pistols withanother good friend of mine, who had no more offended me than I had everoffended him, in fact, we had always respected each other most highly.But Politica insisted upon it, and so we banged away at each other. Thenshe hounded me on against a third good friend of mine, who was anexcellent fellow, and a Hungarian Minister of State to boot, and inducedme to endeavour to thwart his election. And I actually _did_ make thisexcellent fellow's election fall through, this good friend whom Irespected, loved and honoured. Politica demanded it. What a parade shemade when she dragged me along after her triumphal car! She actuallymade me believe that I was now the most famous man in the whole kingdom!And she made me _pay_ for her precious favours, too! What _petitssoupers_ for five hundred men at a time! What hundreds of carriages!What toilets!... But in those days I was quite wrapped up in her.

  After my great triumph a torrent of congratulatory letters and telegramsshowered down upon me. I had actually upset a Cabinet Minister! That_was_ a triumph! Every one who, at any time, or under anycircumstances, had been acquainted with me, called upon me after mybrilliant success. Old school-fellows with whom I had formerly fought inthe playground now recollected me. There was a brisk demand for myautograph. I was proud of it all. I was not even surprised, therefore,when one afternoon they brought into me a visiting card with the name"Mrs. Esaias Medvesi" upon it.

  It was very natural that she also should visit me. The sunbeams of myglory had melted the ice of her displeasure. Six years had now passedsince I had seen her. I could imagine how she had filled out in themeantime. Well taken care of, with no vexations to worry her, harassedby no passions, what other fate could possibly await my fair idealthan--to grow fat?

  All the more startled was I, therefore, when I _did_ see her.

  She had grown quite gaunt. Her old-fashioned dress, which had been madeto fit fuller forms, hung loosely about her. Her face, once so rosy andgay, was now lean and haggard; sombre wrinkles, which met togetherbeneath her chin, had taken the place of her roguish dimples. Only byher eyes could I recognise her: they were still the eyes of yore.

  When she saw me she forced a smile, but I could see how much it costher.

  I have never thought it a proper question to ask any one whose face hasaltered a good deal, "Are you ill?" but she herself led up to it.

  "I have greatly changed, haven't I? 'Tis a wonder that you recognise me.I have been very ill. I have just come from the doctor. I have beensuffering from a quartan ague, which our country doctors could not driveaway."

  "But otherwise you are all right, I trust?"

  "No, I am not. I fancy that my physical ailment is only as stubborn asit is, because my mind also is not as it should be."

  I asked her what was the matter.

  "I have come on purpose to tell you. You always gave me good advice, andI never took it. It may be that I wouldn't take it even now; but atleast it would relieve my mind to tell you all about it. I have a secretdesire which is destroying my whole soul: I go to sleep with it, and Iwake up with it."

  "What desire can it be?"

  "If you but look at my face, you can easily see that it is no sinfulaffection."

  "And yet it must be kept secret?"

  "Yes, for I go about day and night with the thought of becoming aCatholic."

  I was so startled by this, that in my amazement I knew not what to sayto her.

  "It is my fixed resolution. The only thing that can give to my soulpeace on earth and salvation in heaven is conversion to the RomanCatholic Church."

  "How did you come by this resolution? There is no Catholic church in thetown where you reside."

  "But there is a monastery quite close to it, a sweet, quiet, pleasantplace. I am wont to go there when they are not watching me. A mereaccident moved me at first. Curiosity led me into the church when Iheard the holy chants through the door; but now it is devotion whichleads me there. Ah! how much more sublime a place it is than our bald,bare place of worship. Wherever I look I see groups of holy figures whobless and beckon me. And those sublime chants, which seem to come fromthe angelic chorus of heaven, and ravish my soul away to a worldunknown--but oh, how ardently desired! And then the deep silence, whichis scarcely broken by the solemn sanctus-bell; and then the form of thepriest himself, who, like a supernatural being, speaks before the altarin a language which men may not, but God does, understand. When I comeout of such a church it seems to me as if I have been speaking to God."

  I began thinking what would be the end of it all. The lady becameinsistent.

  "What do you advise? What shall I do? My soul compels me to it."

  "My dear friend," I replied, "you know that I am a Protestant--and as aProtestant I am liberally and indulgently inclined towards every othercreed. I _advise_ nobody to change his religion, neither do I dissuadehim from so doing. I have a real veneration for the Catholic faith. Iconsider its ritual majestic and sublime, and its ceremonies areundoubtedly imposing and touching. Had I been born a Catholic, I shouldhave been an ardent champion of my Church. But how can I approve of theconversion of a person in your position? Do you not reflect that yourhusband is an officer of the Calvinist communion?"

  "But it is the very prosaic nature of this communion which offends me.For in what a dull manner do our elders and deacons perform their sacredfunctions! Prayer, sermon, hymns--everything is with them a mere matterof enforced routine. How can they inspire others who have not themselvesthe gift of grace? Such people can only mock at and speak scornfully oftheir neighbours' faith because they have no real faith of their own."

  "But pray recollect that a Protestant schoolmaster loses his post if hiswife changes her religion."

  "He may lose his material comforts, but I lose the repose of my soul."

  "My dear Bessy, I can imagine that a woman with extraordinarilysensitive nerves may find no consolation in Puritan simplicity. If youwould seek refuge in true devotion, procure Allach's prayer-book--themanual of Catholic prayers, you know. In that book you'll findeverything that is sublime, majestic, and heavenly in Catholic theology.Pray out of that book when you are alone and nobody sees you."

  "That is not enough for me. Religion does not consist in prayers andsinging alone."

  "Then perhaps it is the pomp of the external ceremonies which has suchan effect on your mind?"

  "That affects me least of all. But there is in the Catholic Church aninstitution as sublime as it is comforting, an institution sufficient ofitself to spread the Catholic religion all over the round world whereverthere are hearts that bleed, wherever there are those who suffer fromother than merely material aches and pains. T
hat institution is_confession_. It was a gross blunder of John Calvin not to have retainedthat institution for the faithful. He did not know the heart, especiallythe female heart. There is no greater torture in this world than tocarry about in one's soul night and day an evil thought which harassesand pursues, and be unable to tell it to anybody. A Catholic woman canalways find a word of consolation for her despair, a hand stretched outto raise her when she falls; _she_ has a refuge against the accusationsof her own conscience; if she has sinned, she can beg for absolution,and her soul is lightened of its load. But who can absolve me? To whomcan I tell that which tortures me within?"

  Her eyes were fixed and staring like the eyes of a somnambulist who seesnothing before her but a visionary world which others do not see, and atthe same time she raised her index finger and laid it on her parched andcracking lips, as if to keep back the moanings of her dumb distress.

  I was deeply grieved for her. She had no need to tell me what she felt;her features spoke for themselves, and said how much she must havesuffered since the last change in her life.

  "My dear friend," I said at last, "you have now known me for a longtime, and you know that I have always been your well-wisher. If you haveany bitter thought which oppresses you, confess it to me. _AmongstProtestants every man is a priest._ That is our fundamental dogma.Confess to me!"

  She smiled strangely; just as a sick man smiles when the doctor tries topersuade him that he really is well, while he himself is thinking allthe time: "Just you wait a bit, and I'll turn the joke against youand--die!"

  "You will receive my confession, then?"

  "Yes; and rest assured that I'll keep the solemn secret as sacred as aconsecrated priest."

  "As long as I am alive, at any rate. After I am dead, I don't care whatyou do. You may then proclaim it to the world if you like. When I amdead, I authorize you to write a romance about me, a romance like mineyou have never written yet. But _till_ then, not a word to any one ofwhat you will now hear from me. To nobody, not even to your wife!Promise me that! Your word of honour on it!"

  "My friend, there is a crypt within my breast for buried secrets. Yoursecret shall repose among the rest."

  She bent down to my ear, her burning breath scorched my face, and shewhispered: "I confess to you that I wish _to kill my husband_."

  Horrified, I looked into her eyes, they flashed up at me like the eyesof devils. That wish of hers was a real living wish.

  "And what I've said, I'll do"--and she pressed her lips together tillthey were quite thin, and her eyes distended into orbs filled withthreatening fire.

  "Good Heavens! what thought is this?"

  She looked at me with a malicious smile.

  "There, you see you are no priest, and can give no absolution."

  "Nor would a priest give you absolution either. A priest can imposepenance for sin repented of, but he cannot give indulgence beforehandfor a meditated crime. A priest could only say to you what I say now:'Fly to God and cleanse your soul from this dark thought!' How could youever have suffered it to enter your soul, that good and gentle soul ofyours that used always to love and never to hate?"

  "Yes, such I ever was, was I not? I was indeed a loving fool. You oncewrote a tale which I remember reading when a child. In this tale adistracted heart relates how many ways there are of extinguishing life.Amongst other things written there is this: that if honey is allowed tostand till it rots, it turns into the deadliest venom. This is quitetrue as to the honey with which the heart of a poor credulous woman isfull, but it is _not_ true with regard to the honey of the field. I havetried and found that it is not true."

  "Believe me, neither case is true. In married life there is no such seaof bitterness as cannot be made sweet again by a single drop of love."

  "Alas! what I suffer exceeds even the power of your imagination.Contempt, degradation, is my daily bread. Insult follows upon every stepI take. When I speak, my words are misinterpreted; when I am silent, Iam chided; when I weep, I am bullied and brow-beaten."

  "Do you think that perhaps your husband suspects your intention ofchanging your faith?"

  "So much he knows, that I frequently visit the monastery, and often havetalks with one of the monks. I solemnly swear that I've talked to himabout nothing but religion and holy things. He, however, accuses me ofthe nastiest things. Then when we sit together at table, he poisonsevery dish I eat by singing the most derisive songs he can think ofabout those women who rave about cowls and cassocks; in fact, he is_always_ singing such songs in my presence."

  "But, my dear friend, you take these things too tragically. Thesederisive songs have been sung time out of mind. Your husband has notinvented them for your special aggravation. Laugh at him to his face,and he'll hold his tongue."

  "Very well, then. Let what he does to ridicule _me_ be forgiven. Butever since he has begun to suspect my spiritual condition, he leaves nostone unturned to disturb my devotions. If in the afternoon or evening,when the chiming of the cloister bell is wafted over to us, Iinvoluntarily join my hands together, he laughs at me: 'Ha! ha! ha! theyare ringing the bells to call you to prayer, are they?' Now, theCalvinists do not ring for evening prayers, neither do they sound theAngelus, and this is a great grief to me. It is like rolling my bread inthe mud and then making me eat it. This continual ridiculing clings tome like tar; it chokes, it nauseates. I feel just as if I were swimmingin a sea of glue. He relates to me the most villainous anecdotes aboutthe holy images. Last Saturday it rained the whole morning, and I couldnot go to town. He saw my impatience, and said to me derisively, 'Nevermind, _thou female_, it will clear up this afternoon, for the VirginMary wants to dry her son's little shirt for Sunday!' It was well forhim that he left the room that instant, for I was very near driving myknife into his heart!"

  I tried to quiet the excited creature by saying that though this was novery reverent jest, yet it was not an invention of Esaias's. This jestabout the breaking out of the sunshine on Saturday afternoon was acommon saying among the Hungarian country folk, and, taken seriously,had really nothing impious about it, representing, indeed, that sacredfigure, whom all of us are bound to reverence, as a provident motherfrom the homely, rustic point of view.

  "I don't like to hear _that_ name on _his_ lips. Why, I sent away an oldservant of mine called Marcsa for no other reason than because hermaster was always calling her Maria, and every such time it was as if adagger were piercing my heart."

  I saw that the woman was really suffering. It was a case where a heroicremedy was required.

  "My dear friend," I said, "I cannot blame your husband. Your religiousextravagance, which has been not a little stimulated by the irritabilityof your nerves and the nostrums which the provincial doctors have madeyou drink, is a question of 'to be or not to be' for your husband. Ifyou cling to the saints, poor Esaias will feel the earth giving waybeneath him. You are bound to one another, remember. If you go and seekheaven in another church, you will only install hell in your own house.Believe me, if your husband discovers your design, he will fly into afury and tear you to pieces. If I were you I should go to some medicinalwatering place and get your nerves braced up a bit."

  "I see--I see. You do not understand what is the matter with me. Youthink it is a mere feminine ailment, which is, generally, halfaffectation. Look at that recipe. The most famous doctor in the capitalprescribed it for me. I went to him, he diagnosed me. He said that thecountry doctors had not treated my case properly. They had stuffed mefull of quinine, he said, and it was not the medicament that I wanted.So he prescribed me another. Read it!"

  I looked at the prescription and saw it was arsenic.

  "The doctor prescribed six drops for the first day, and a drop moreevery other day up to twenty drops, and then back by single drops to sixagain. Then my fever will return no more. But he cautioned me to keepmost strictly to his prescription, as the remedy was a very dangerousone. Is that so?"

  "It is."

  "I have had it made up in the Jozsefvaros dispensary." And w
ith that shedrew out the flask from her pocket and showed it me.

  "That will do for me. I will now go with this prescription to all theten apothecaries in the town and have it made up by every one of them._Ten times the strength will certainly do for him._"

  Horrified, I seized her hand.

  "Miserable woman, what wouldst thou do? Surely not commit murder?Wouldst thou poison thy husband's body and my soul? Every time I havethought of thee I have seen thee before me in the idealized form of mypure love of early days, and wilt thou now put horror and aversion inthe place of it? Give me that prescription!"

  With terrified, staring eyes, and trembling in every nerve, the womanfell down on her knees before me, and when I said to her: "Hitherto thouhast always had a place in my prayers, dost thou wish me to cast theeforth from my remembrance with curses?" she began to smile.

  "_'Tis the first time in your life that you have 'thou'd' me._ Let methen return the compliment. But no, I cannot _thou_ thee. The word_thou_ cannot come out of my mouth. Don't lift me up. Let me kneelbefore you. I fain would only weep, but no tears will flow. Here is theprescription. Destroy it if you like. I was mad. I knew not what I said.'Tis true. If life be grievous to me, 'tis I who ought to die."

  "What you now say is also a sin. Heaven does not give us that divinespark, the spirit, only that we may fling it back again. Learn to bearyour sorrows in silence. Every one of us has his cross which God haslaid upon him that he may carry it ... If you would believe in thesaints, follow their example. _Be_ a martyr, if God so wills it--that isthe _real_ Catholic faith...."

  She began to sob, but after some little difficulty I contrived to pacifyher. I also provided her with all sorts of good homely counsels. "A goodwife," I said, "ought to humour her husband, and not sit in judgment onhis faults." I told her to bring him to me and introduce me to him.Perhaps I might make some impression on him, and prevail upon him not topress his crotchets too far. It was even possible that I might find himsome work to do, something relating to spiritual subjects which mightoccupy his mind, kindle his ambition, and make him peel off his cynicalhusk. No doubt he was a good and worthy man, who only needed to beproperly taken in hand to get on very well.

  The lady with the eyes like the sea listened with many shakes of thehead, but she had gradually grown much more quiet. Those eyes of hers,how they could express gratitude! It really seemed as if, beneath theinfluence of my words, her face was recovering the rosy hue that it hadlost.

  Alas, no! Vain thought! 'Twas not my words, but something else.

  She arose and rallied her spirits.

  "Very well! I'll take your advice. I will endure. I will be patient. Iwill down with every evil thought. I will show that I can be a goodwife. You shall be satisfied with me. But one thing I'll tell you. Myhusband has threatened to strike me. If ever he does that, then God bemerciful both to him and me."

  Now I knew why her face had turned so red--"If my husband dishonours meby a single blow, I swear that I'll seize a gun and shoot him dead!" Andwith that she rushed out of the room. I felt as if I ought to call afterher: "Don't go home, wretched woman!"

  It was too late. She was already outside the door. She had vanished likea vision of the night.