Love in a Bottle

by Antal Szerb

  Ajándok—for that was the little girl’s name—was the late-born child of elderly parents. She wandered through the gardens, not bothering to dry her weeping eyes, her lips red from sulking and her mouth turned down, reluctant to venture as far as the main road. It was a wonderfully clear night, full of palpitating stars, with not a single cloud in all its pathless expanse. Peering through hedges, she could make out, here and there, broken-down old people sitting in the porches in front of their houses, their faces gazing up at the shining galaxies. Even the dogs were silent. Perhaps they had all gone off to celebrate in some other place, where their kind have a seat at their masters’ bone-covered tables. At the far end stood the windmill, its huge four-armed sails motionless, as under a spell, with not a whisper of wind to drive them.

  “Perhaps I should just throw myself in the river,” the child thought sadly. “The fishermen would haul me up in their nets before dawn, with golden fishes in my hair, and lay my body out in the market square, and everyone would come and cry over me, and a rich and powerful man would take me back to the village in a golden coach, and my parents would wail and weep, and say: ‘She was such a little thing when she was alive, and now she’s dead, and she was the most beautiful of all of them.’ And a hundred young men would come and stare at me, but it would be too late, my mouth would be cold and white, and I would be all cold and white, as white as a lily.”

  Ajándok was indeed beautiful, as beautiful as fairy gossamer, soft and supple, with long golden hair. But she was still very young, not yet marriageable, not at all ready to be led away as a bride. And she was as solitary as a river by night. She gazed long and thoughtfully at her barely rounded arms, thinking of the future bridegroom she would one day cradle in them—the young man who had only now set out across unimaginably distant seas, his road beset by every sort of terror—and she grieved that the lamp in her eyes could never cast its beam to that faraway place because it was running out of oil and, one night soon, would die out altogether.

  She had now reached the silent mill. It lay in darkness. The sight of its mute sails deepened her loneliness and made the far-off stranger seem even more hopelessly remote. Somewhere in its kitchen darkness was preparing dinner, and oh! she wished, if only the mill could suddenly launch itself into the sky above the fields, like a terrifying bird of the night, clanking and rattling as it flew, and reach heaven by dawn! In heaven, among the golden clouds… that was where she would find her rest.

  A merry din was heard as everyone—the miller, his mother, Lidi, Bálint, the serving girls and the young workmen—came banging their way up the wooden stairs and into the mill. The long table was already laid and waiting. There was to be a double celebration that night, for the moment they arrived at the front door Bálint had gone up to the miller, doffed his cap and asked for Lidi’s hand in marriage. There had been none of the customary sending of an apple, or a woman with two oven mops, or the man with the flask of wine: this suitor had no need of such tokens—the couple had understood one another quite long enough. Nor was there any of the ritual wrangling between the families, just handshakes all round, the men crowding round Bálint to pump his hand and the women showering Lidi with kisses. Ajándok went over, fell on her older sister’s neck in tears, then promptly ran out of the room.

  After waiting a suitable length of time for her to calm down and become more amenable, her grandmother went to see how she was. She tracked her down to the woodshed, where she was sitting on a pile of logs.

  “Why are you crying, my pretty flower? Tell me why.”

  Ajándok made no answer. She did not know what to say. She just clung to her granny’s shoulder while the sobs shook her like a winnowing sieve.

  “My little one, my blessed girl, don’t cry. Haven’t you got a lovely father to guide your thoughts, and your beautiful older sister, see, who’s now become engaged? Who ever saw anyone cry on such a wonderful day? You have everything you could possibly want. You’ve got your pussy-cat Mirók, the little scamp, with a silk ribbon round his neck, and your lovely shock-headed doll Faraj. Nobody sends you out into the fields at dawn to sweep up the gleanings. You live like the fairy Ilona. You aren’t like any of the other girls. You have lovely blonde hair, my angel, and the colour of the ever-faithful forget-me-not in your eyes. Your skin is finer, your bones are more delicate than other people’s, and we take such good care to shelter you from the sun, and the wind, and nasty words that put a curse on you—so you really mustn’t cry.”

  Ajándok replied: “It’s no use—not even if Mirók and Lidi, and Faraj, and all the treasures of the fairy Ilona were tucked under my pillow… Granny, I’m so alone in this big wide world.”

  “Ah, now I see. So the little girl would like to be a big girl, is that right, my little lily-of-the-valley? I know only too well what a bitter thing it is to be single on flowery St John’s Night and not have a young man. At times like this a girl is like a look-out tree. There she stands, all alone, naked to the wind, gazing around the wide meadow for days on end, waiting for the time for when she will finally be fed with the sweet food of the heart… and then, just before dawn, she hears the neighing of horses telling someone: ‘That’s where the miller’s beautiful daughter lives’—and the bridegroom enters, with dust on his boots, and a diamond-studded whip in his hand.”

  “Granny… if you really know everything… tell me when he will come, and what sort of man he will be.”

  The old lady became serious.

  “You are asking me a very big thing, my flower. It’s not for us to look for short cuts to find out what the future will bring in its own good time. But you know there is a way to do it, and it’s lucky that you ask me this question on St John’s Night, because it’s the best time for every sort of magic. So keep your ears open, my girl, and make the sign of the cross, in case some passing evil spirit should overhear our conversation and draw near.”

  Ajándok did as she was told. She could feel the magic of the night, and the dark air closing in around her filled with unseen presences, all just waiting for her to turn her back or shut her eyes for a second, when they would poke their fearsome great heads out at her.

  “Now listen carefully, my girl. You must go up to the very top of the mill, to the wheel that drives the sails. There, at the bottom of a large chest, you will find all the lengths of ceremonial herbs and grasses I have dried over the fire on previous St John’s Nights. Gather them up into a little bundle and bring it down with you. On the stroke of midnight, you must leave the mill and, whatever happens to you then, do not look behind you but go straight to the old ruined well. There, you must say three Hail Marys over the water, lie down beside the rim, and place the bundle under your head. You will then fall asleep, and you will sleep just as you would in your own bed. Pay very careful attention to your dreams, because the person you see in your dreams will be the bridegroom you long for. Do as I say, and be sure to forget none of what I have told you.”

  Ajándok wiped away her tears and set off for the attic at the top of the mill. She had never liked going up there, not even by day: but this was St John’s Night, after all. It was a fearful place. Here, it was said, the mad young mill-worker Gergely had hanged himself. The winding staircase seemed to go on for ever in the darkness, twisting and turning all the way. At every landing it was as if someone had been sitting there just a moment before and then fled noisily up another flight. After countless turnings and twistings she reached the round window, the huge Cyclops eye of the mill. She thought of those evenings in her childhood, all those times when on her way home from the fields she had seen some creature stick its terrifying head out of the window, then draw it back… perhaps someone was lurking there now? But she gathered up her strength and peered out through it. Down below lay the empty fields. Between the clusters of pitch-black trees, and as far as the most distant seas, the world was utterly deserted. As she sat there, on the staircase that went on for ever, the little girl’s heart beat in total isolation.

  Th
en, just a few steps higher, stumbling and very close to tears, she felt a wave of dizziness. She snapped her mouth shut, and suddenly—she nearly screamed—she bumped into something. It was the attic door. After an awkward scraping it gave way to the pressure of her hands. As she entered her nose was assaulted by the smell of musty old jumble. She was surrounded by unfamiliar objects, each demanding its due, its toll of pure terror.

  “Courage, Ajándok. The heroines of fairy stories have faced far more terrifying ordeals on the path to the diamond-studded gates.” It was an altogether different Ajándok, now defiant and sinister to behold, who ran unsteadily over the creaking floorboards in the blue light shed by the thin, fruitless ploughings of the moon that added to her fear. An unseen joist blocked her way, almost jumping up at her, and she had to step over it as over a dead animal. It was followed by what looked like another. Seeing it, she leapt back and sat down hard on the joist. Something was hanging from this second beam, a black, lumpish mass. Her heart fluttered like the wings of a lost bird, as her tearful eyes slowly made out that this object, the source of so much alarm, was nothing more than a haunch of ham hung up to be smoked.

  Without knowing how she managed it, she eventually found herself at last in the centre of the boarded space where the great chest stood. She rummaged through the pile of old clothes, calendars and household jumble, gathered up the herbs in her trembling hands, stuffed them into her bag, gave a deep sigh and started on her way back. Fear gripped her once again, even though the situation was now a little less desperate. At what seemed an immense distance down below she could now make out the light from the fireplace, signalling that there would at some point be an end to her frightful journey. But she was still a good few paces from the door when her feet froze in terror, rooting her to the spot.

  She had heard a whirring, rustling sort of noise, and it made her flesh creep the way it does when someone stares at us from behind. But she dared not turn round. She was incapable of movement. The moon held her body trapped between its narrow spikes, and she stood there like a person bewitched. Very slowly, as in a nightmare, she managed to force herself round, and immediately clapped her hand to her eyes. This was no dream. Beneath the cloth sail of the windmill stood the pitch-black figure of a man, with something held tight under his arm. Ajándok screamed. The mysterious figure gave a sudden start, flitted away between the sails, and vanished.

  Still clutching her bundle, Ajándok ran back down to her room. People begged, demanded, to know what had happened. But she had no words to describe her terror.

  Now they were all seated around the table. The vapour from the warm wine had lifted everyone’s spirits, and the sight of the two keys, one for the bride’s old home and one for the new, had driven away all thoughts of night. Kindliness shone in everyone’s eyes, and their laughter wore festive garments.

  There was a knocking at the door. Silence fell, and people were still trying to decide who this very late visitor might be when he finally entered. The unexpected caller was a figure clad in black, his boots covered in dust, with a large book bound in pigskin clutched under his arm. His cloak—which looked wide enough to drive clouds along with—hung down all round him, like the folded wings of a raven. Indeed his whole aspect was that of a great wind-blown bird, and his voice, when he spoke, was low and hoarse with the dust of the highways of seven counties.

  “My name is Máté the Scholar. I am one of the paupers of the famous order of St Lazarus. I am a wanderer, good people, and exhausted from a long journey. I must ask you for a place to sleep this fine night, and a little milk, and a loaf of bread, since I cannot pay you for them.”

  The miller was a hospitable and jovial man, and he made the pauper of St Lazarus take his seat at the table, though he did not particularly relish this sort of visitor. And indeed, although the scholar filled his place at a corner of the table quietly enough, there was little about him of the cheerfulness that filled his neighbours. It was as if his black cloak cast its shadow over the entire table, like some huge-winged buzzard hovering over the courtyard killing the joy of the merry chickens, and after his arrival the conversation became rather subdued. The talk was all of plans for the wedding, finding a best man who would also be a skilful rhymester, and calculating just how much wine would have to be ordered. They tried to draw the wandering scholar in, but to no avail. He heard them out, but in a manner that suggested he had never known what the words ‘wedding’, ‘bride’ or ‘happiness’ might mean.

  For all that, the old lady took good care of him. She set down a fresh, uncut loaf of bread before him, and a full mug of milk. It was St John’s Night, and she knew what she was doing. He fell to, but ate very strangely, not as a Hungarian would. He scrutinised the loaf from one side and then the other, and sniffed the milk cautiously before every sip, as if afraid that they were about to poison him. Meanwhile he spoke not a word, and looked to neither left nor right.

  Nor did he notice that there was someone who never stopped staring at him. It was his immediate neighbour, Ajándok. From the very first glance the little girl’s heart had taken pity on the wandering scholar—this poor, uncouth, abandoned vagrant with thorns clinging to his clothes from his wanderings in distant forests. Finding a creature beside her who seemed even more of an orphan than she felt herself to be, sad little Ajándok’s sorrow began to dissolve, and her kindly heart longed to comfort him.

  The scholar finally noticed her when she leant over to him to put some sugar in his milk. His first response was to cover the mug with his hand in terror; but then he acquiesced, and even thanked her.

  “No one ever puts sugar in my milk,” he observed plaintively. “I always have it without. But sugar is very good, if you can get it.”

  “But if you want it, why don’t you ask?”

  “Me, ask for sugar? I’m afraid that wouldn’t go down well with the master.”

  “But when you find a good master, who looks kindly on you?”

  “I’ve met very few of those. I know I look like a scarecrow. But I don’t ask for much. All I want is a bite to eat and somewhere to lay my head. When people oblige I never thank them, and if they don’t they live to regret it. I just keep moving on—there are plenty of other villages and my legs are long. I never sit anywhere long enough to warm my seat.”

  Sensing the miller’s gaze fully upon him, he stopped.

  “So where are you from, master scholar?” was the question. The scholar behaved as if he hadn’t heard.

  Soon enough, people lost interest in him, their thoughts full of their own happy plans.

  But Ajándok fussed around him even more devotedly, finding a cushion for him to sit on, as if he were a specially honoured guest, cutting his bread for him and pouring his milk into her own ornately decorated mug. He even managed to thank her, in his scarcely audible voice. She blushed at this display of magnanimity, and gazed at him with such a loving look that he reddened slightly in return—the faint glowing of embers beneath a layer of ash.

  “Have you come very far?” she suddenly asked, timidly.

  “I certainly have,” he replied. “Through seven forests, from the land of seven cities. In Transylvania I studied up to the thirteenth grade… I lived in a cave with twelve companions… a dark cave, with bears and owls… we were barely human ourselves… and the nights were bitter cold… Then we moved on… crossing over flimsy footbridges… carrying torches… up into the heart of the mountain.”

  His speech came in fragments, as if he wanted to drop the subject at every turn but was unable to withstand Ajándok’s loving gaze. “In the heart of the mountain we came upon a threshing wheel… we stopped before it, all thirteen of us… we knew one of us would have to die… either myself or one of the others… so we all climbed up and stood on it… and it started to turn… then suddenly, ‘Jaj!’—my best friend fell… he screamed at us as he lay there among the whirling blades… it was all up for him… But we survived… twelve of us now… and now we could go… anywhere in the world we
wanted… for whatever foolish reason. But this is not a fit story for you, my little sister. It’ll give you bad dreams.”

  “Never mind that—tell me more. Where did you go after that?”

  “Where did I go? I couldn’t tell you the number of countries—you would be an old maid, my dear little sister, by the time you’d heard it all. As King Solomon said: ‘To grow in wisdom is to grow in suffering.’ The fact is, since I first held this book under my arm I’ve not had a moment’s rest. The breeze starts to rise just before dawn, and I think, perhaps on the slopes of some faraway hill there’ll be a fountain of wine to quench my thirst; or in some snowy cave of ice, who knows? perhaps I might at last have my wish and get some sleep, and find what I need—a longboat waiting for me on the shore of the Óperencián sea to take me to my rest on the eternal waves. So long as there are country roads under my feet, I shall never find rest.”

  Ajándok asked, rather petulantly, why he had come there if the world was so much wider elsewhere.

  “Everyone who goes wandering, my little sister, does so because there’s somewhere he wants to get to. The end of the world is just that, the end of the world, and they say that once you get there you will be able to find rest. When I finally reached this wide plain I saw this mill standing in the distance and I felt happier than I had for years. My dear little sister, you are a miller’s daughter, you can never have known how wonderful it is to be no longer pursued by the wind, when you have lost the power of your wings and are sleeping under the open sky… and suddenly there stands the mill, with its sails.”

  It had grown very late. Wishing one another a peaceful good night, people rose from the table. Lidi’s cheeks burnt in anticipation of the promised kisses that the autumn would bring, and everyone knew that her dream of Bálint would be one of roses. All that awaited Ajándok was the cold bed of a child.