The Story of My Wife

by Milan Fust

  And no wonder. I was really beginning to get ill from music, especially such music. For just think: at least five hundred different tones could be heard, there was even a huge organ and choruses up in the balcony . . . The composer must have said to himself: Why not? Let them ring out, let them blast away, damn it. And blast away they did. The horns by themselves, the double bases by themselves, then altogether, all five thousand of them, until even the ceiling seemed to be swaying back and forth.

  Now at least I won't have to put up with this bloody racket, I thought. I've had enough—of this as well as all my other twisted and murky affairs. I am through playing hide-and-seek, I've had it.

  And just then—what timing!—they said they wanted to stop in someplace for a drink.

  "I'd love to have a capucino," said the older sister.

  "I'd love some egg nog," put in the little one. Sweetly, demurely. And smacked her lips just a little. But then she remembered:

  "Oh Lordie, what am I doing? I have just gotten out of bed." It occurred to her, it seems, that this was the right moment for her to take off and leave the two of us alone.

  "The very idea," she said, somewhat annoyed, as though she were blaming us for trying to lead her into temptation. For of course, in her heart she was rather conflicted about that egg nog. Still, she was ready to sacrifice herself, the poor darling . . .

  "Don't worry about me," she said sullenly. "I can go home by myself." And sure enough, she began to walk without so much as glancing back.

  Just as well, I thought to myself. At least I'll be able to get everything off my chest. It's better this way.

  So without delay I began to present my views on music.

  And not in oblique parables, either, but quite openly, and I must say with such surprising ferocity, as if I wanted to devastate her with those views.

  I began by saying I didn't like that music . . . didn't like it one bit. Though I may have had reasons up to now to conceal this from her, the time had come to end the silence—we'd both be better off if we told each other the truth.

  "Wait a minute . . . You mean to tell me there was nothing you liked about it?" She stared at me, mildly astounded as she said this.

  "Absolutely nothing," I said emphatically. (Of course I was exaggerating; needless to say there were things I liked. But that's what happens when repressed anger suddenly erupts.)

  "I didn't like it at all, miss. I think these works are dull—dull as a stick of carrot."

  My skin tingled with pleasure as I said this; I felt exhilarated for having come out with it at long last.

  What I found astonishing, though, was the calm, the tolerance with which she greeted all this. She wasn't that surprised—she did close her eyes for a moment, it's true, but did it as one who knows full well she will pass over this and turn to the next page, as it were—unpleasant truths are often acknowledged this way by people of science.

  That's just the way it is, she must have thought to herself.

  And this high-minded serenity drove me absolutely up the wall. Or maybe the sad truth is that I am a savage at heart. Why did I have to treat her so cruelly? Or was there no affection in me, no kindness toward her? I can't even say that because there was . . . But if so, why did it give me such murderous pleasure to tell her off? As if I were pounding her head with a weeding hoe; as if I tossed a heavy sack off my heart and flung it in her face. Except that these so-called people of culture are phony even under their skin; they have no idea what art (let alone life) is really all about, and never know what to consider good or beautiful. Sophistry is the essence of their being; the question they invariably ask themselves is: How would a distinguished mind react to this? And then they gauge their own enthusiasm accordingly. . . . Then again, what's wrong with all that? Why shouldn't there be falsity in the world?

  "Don't think, miss, I am all that ignorant," I said to her and looked slyly into her eyes. "Even if I do express myself clumsily ... In my youth I gave these questions a great deal of thought."

  Now I was quite worldly again, fair-minded, charming. I didn't want her to think she was dealing with some beast, some coarse Naturbursch who didn't know what the hell he was talking about.

  "I'll have you know, miss, that at one time I played the oboe, in addition to the violin; it's not an easy combination, but with us Dutch music lovers, it is almost a tradition."

  And then I told her just about everything: that oratorios were a crashing bore, with their interminable dactylic verses and arid parlando passages—everything, in short, that preyed on my mind.

  "They're just no good, these 'great' works, believe me," I said to her. "For one thing, they are far too long. And they are full of unsurprising technical displays, which are a strain on the ear after a while. For what is art, really . . . have you thought about that one? It's all play; froth and whimsy . . . How can we enjoy anything that doesn't exhilarate the senses, that doesn't somehow affect our spontaneity? The trouble with you people is that you confuse duty with pleasure. You want to learn, you want to educate yourself, and think you are enjoying yourself. You are a hard worker, miss, and are convinced you are in raptures. You feign an unquenchable thirst for culture even to yourself, and say: This is no joke, this is Bach! Consequently, even those dactyls must be splendid . . ."

  She again closed her eyes, and again ever so patiently.

  "And the shorter works?" she asked impassively.

  "How do I know, for heaven's sake?" I was doing an admirable job restraining myself but was filled with spite just the same. "I am not crazy about them, either. Why, let's just look at this little song: 'There are things ever so small and still precious. Take pearls, take roses: they're small, yet are worth so much.' Now is this a song, I ask you? It is a philistine commonplace. The composer may very cleverly stress that a pearl, though insignificantly small, is 'sooooo very precious,' yet what's the point? [For the sake of accuracy I offer hereby the full, original text of the song—I've looked it up since then. It was written by Paul Heyse, music by Hugo Wolf:

  Auch kleine Dinge können uns entzücken,

  Auch kleine Dinge können teur sein.

  Bedenkt wie gern wir uns mit Perlen schmücken.

  Sie werden schwer bezahlt und sind nur klein.

  Bedenkt, wie klein ist die Olivenfrucht

  Und wird um ihre Güte doch gesucht

  Denkt an die Rose nur, wie klein sie ist

  Und duftet doch so lieglich, wie ihr wisst.

  (They left out green peas—that's tiny, too. Captn. J.S.)] Is this what women should sing while ironing? Is this what will cheer them up while tending the baby? It nearly drove me crazy when I heard the audience going wild over this song at one of the concerts, clapping until their hands were sore."

  "You were, too."

  "What do you mean I was, too?"

  "Oh yes," she said and tossed her head back defiantly. "You were applauding too, and how . . . And afterwards, on the street, you even remarked—I remember it clearly—how clever and simple that theme was."

  "Could be," I said at first. For why blanch over things? What she said was true. She put me in my place, I won't deny it.

  "It could very well be," I repeated. "It happens. One says so many things during a lifetime . . ."

  "Even things that go against your convictions?"

  "In my despair, even that."

  "What do you mean in your despair?"

  "I mean out of humility."

  "Out of humility? But why?"

  "Do you think I know? One humbles himself, Mademoiselle Madeleine; not only me, lots of people do; many an artistic success is born this way, I assure you. You sit there in that great hall and say to yourself: These people clapping so enthusiastically cannot all be idiots. There must be something wrong with me. And maybe there is something lovely about the pearl being so tiny and all . . . And then you start clapping, too, as hard as you can. Because the last thing you want, miss, is to look like a fool."

  "All of that I can understand.
But why the enthusiasm? Why pretend to be enthralled, and then even account for the rapture? Don't you see you've overdone it? That you've been . . . playacting almost?"

  "Even that happens sometimes, mademoiselle," I said. And slowed down because, frankly, I didn't know what else to say.

  "Yes, even that. There are times when one is compelled to do all sorts of strange things."

  "What do you mean compelled? You are being strange. Am I to take it, then, that you do not always tell the truth."

  "Not always. And that's a definite not always. But how could I, miss? Life doesn't allow you to . . . You will discover it, too, and will remember my words. But you will still believe me, won't you, that right now I am being honest?"

  "I guess so. But how do I know when now is?"

  "I will let your heart be the judge of that."

  "Oh but my heart has deceived me more than once," she said, throwing her head back again. (Just like at the university when, lost in thought, she smoothed back her blonde hair.) "It seems I've experienced another disappointment," she said with a smile, and signalled to the waiter to bring the check.

  "I thought I would marry you," she suddenly said.

  "Come again, miss?"

  "Didn't you notice that I ... I welcomed your attentions? I thought I would bind my life to yours, for a time, anyway, as long as you find me pleasing. I had the feeling, you see, that I've finally found a likable, decent man."

  "Is that what you thought, miss?"

  "Oh, even my little sister encouraged me; she said this time I had nothing to fear. She'll be so disappointed, the poor girl . . . But it's all the same now," she added as her eyes misted over.

  By then, however, I could say whatever I liked.

  Still, I wanted to know why such a trifle should make her lose her trust in me.

  Even if it is a trifle, she said, it alienated her from me. She was very sorry but she felt alienated.

  "For to go on acting out a role, and for such a long time, too . . . We never expected you to bring such a sacrifice."

  "Wait a minute," I said; "let's not be hasty about this. You are still young, Madeleine, you haven't had much experience. Life is no joyride, you know; it can teach you a thing or two . . ."

  "I know," she interrupted. "It teaches you to cheat, to be ruthless, right? Depending on your preference. You choose it and life teaches you."

  "Hold it, will you?" I said again. "You are a very smart woman, Madeleine, but you don't know everything. You have no idea what a man has to go through, how many times he must fall and hurt himself before he realizes that with the naked truth he won't get anywhere . . . he'll never be content."

  "Content? Why should he be content? If it means humiliating himself?" And she blushed all over. "Anyway, I have only contempt for such theories. Theories which hold that we cannot exist without lies, that lies are better for us than the truth. Yes, I despise them . . . They emanate from the rubbish heap and that's where they belong."

  What did I answer her? Nothing, most probably. And not only because I couldn't, because she was so right—purity is always right—but because my own youth stood before me that instant; I saw the same proud bearing, the same uncompromising sternness. I, too, had contempt for such theories then.

  And with the passage of time all that is forgotten? Perhaps I myself blushed at that moment.

  In short, up to that point I hadn't taken mademoiselle too seriously. I was too busy smiling at her childlike silliness, not realizing that I was also laughing at her cherished beliefs. That I didn't feel like smiling any more became pretty obvious, I guess.

  For after all, how low can a man sink?

  As far as Madeleine was concerned, she stuck to her guns, and with good reason, I thought. "Wait five minutes," I used to say in my younger years to people who very zealously advocated a certain position, only to defend the opposing viewpoint with equal enthusiasm moments later. In other words, they had no problem abandoning their position. I never liked that sort of thing, found it pretty contemptible, in fact. Your original convictions do deserve some allegiance.

  As do your experiences ... In short, I did try to plead my own case, arguing that I was young once, too, and not that long ago, either, or at least it didn't seem that long ago. What is more, I also had ideals; except that ideals were one thing and experience quite another. Of course this was something I also refused to accept— from anyone.

  "But then one day I did; and you will, too, I assure you. And when you do, think of me. A proud young lady like you will bang her head against the wall many more times before realizing what this jamboree is all about ..." I coughed up a few more of these commonplaces, in short. Except that now she wasn't going to let me off the hook.

  I shouldn't take it ill of her, she said very seriously, but she first began to have doubts about me when I told her that John Bunyan was my friend.

  This wasn't a pleasant thing to hear, needless to say, if only because it happened to be true.

  "Look here, dear," I said, somewhat angrier this time, "I can't very well explain everything to you—after all, you are still both children. It would be churlish of me, and anyway, I don't know you that well. Should I have told you that I was an unbeliever who wanted to believe, and picked up Bunyan for that reason? Should I have burdened you with all my doubts and torments?"

  "Yes," she answered without hesitation. "You could have trusted me. And even if you didn't, there was no reason to say such things. I mean: wasn't this an attempt to make me look ridiculous? I wouldn't do this to anyone, monsieur—least of all to someone I respected."

  "You are quite right." And to myself I thought: I might as well tell her off ... it hardly matters now.

  "You were crazy about the music, right?" she taunted.

  "How else was I going to worm my way into a kid's heart?" I countered. "Two kids' hearts, as a matter of fact." Oh, I got into the swing of it all right, the dark street resounded with my eloquence. (We were walking up and down winding passageways near the Vielle de Temple.) In other words, I fully recovered my wits, found my voice, hit upon the right arguments; and after that things went smoothly enough. I never did like to express myself too delicately. I called them annoying little ninnies, and asked her if she had any advice on how to deal with such creatures.

  "I grant you, I am not worthy of their friendship," I went on. I won't ever see them again, and that's all right, too. . . . But what could I do about it? One can put up with an awful lot, that is one of the things life taught me. "Just the same, you will allow me a few parting words, won't you."

  "Go right ahead," she said coolly.

  "I loved you, too, but your younger sister I loved even more. (Her behavior annoyed me to no end, so I came out with it.) And do you know how I love her? Like one loves a daughter, yet not quite the same way. Miserably, in other words, perversely; with the knowledge that this is corruption itself, like everything else I was destined to go through in life. What should he do who is too old for his emotions—tear out his heart? What should I do, miss? You are a wise one, you're as wise as they come—you tell me."

  She gave me a shocked look. And then said something to the effect that I was still fairly young, something like that, though it really doesn't matter whether or not she actually said it. Fact is she then went on to say this:

  "That's all right. You were being honest at least. I'll talk to my sister, whom I love, too, of course . . . For whom I'd give my life and blood," she added, painfully, passionately. And with that she left me, most probably because tears appeared in her eyes.

  * * *

  Let's just go on, I said to myself. Actually, something happened right around then. I sat up in bed one night and asked myself: You really don't want your misery any more, do you?

  No, I don't, I answered. But then I said: Yes, I do.

  For that's the way man is. He goes on killing himself, tormenting himself, to silence in him the very thing that would fade away anyhow; and when it does, when it finally dies away, h
e looks around in great surprise: Is it possible? Could it be that he is no longer interested in his own life; in what he lived for until now: his grief, his deep-set anger? And before he knows it, he is desperately reaching out for it, like a miser trying to retrieve invested capital.

  But as we know, such attempts are bound to fail. You can't dispose of your past . . . especially when you don't really want to . . . For nothing terrifies you more than to end up with nothing.

  So I worked even harder than one ought to at such times. Being alone was becoming harder to take; I had no one by now save my servant boy, of whom I grew so tired, I began to treat him most cruelly. . . . Oh but let's skip the nasty details.

  After what happened I left the university, of course. Actually, I managed to transfer to nearby Alfort, where at a school of veterinary medicine, chemistry was taught quite decently. I am in attendance at the school to this day. I commute from Paris four times a week and am quite satisfied with the establishment—all the more as I happened to make a couple of discoveries, one right after another, before even settling in. One had to do with a new electronic process, the other was this (I'll be brief, not to worry):

  Actually, I was busying myself with something entirely different then—titration, I believe, but the result was quite surprising. The mixing of two liquids gave me the idea for a splendid new cooling process—it came to me so fast, I could hardly believe it myself. I mean, it was hard to conceive of such a sudden illumination.

  The thing was so simple it spoke for itself. As soon as I combined the two liquids, everything congealed around them, they even cracked the water bowl in which I did the mixing. What was most important, though, was that the two frozen liquids could easily be separated; they were adaptable, in other words . . . And a discovery like that always opens up new vistas.

  The truth is whenever I am involved in something like this, I am slow to get started—locomotive was what one of my former wife's friends called me, and that was an apt description, because I do huff and puff a lot at first, but then I take off. And there's no stopping me then, until I am all through . . .