Love in a Bottle

by Antal Szerb

  The old lady led the scholar Máté to his sleeping place, a bench covered with sheepskin. He stretched himself out along it, pulled his cloak over him, and in that manner fell instantly and soundly asleep.

  Silence pervaded the entire mill. The chairs and long table could now stretch out and rest too. Soft, rustling sounds were heard. The happy dreams of warm bodies came to life. Down the cracked and crannied chimney, over the hearth, in and out of the mountains of grey ash, those dreams, the miracles and nightmares of flowery St John’s Eve, glided silently.

  Then the great bell tolled. It seemed determined to flood the whole plain with its outpouring. Twelve o’clock.

  Ajándok rose, pulled on her dress, took out the bundle, and tiptoed out of the mill.

  The moon was so bright it was like a second day, in a whiter, more silent world where the flowers were less lush. But she did not look behind her, and as she stepped out she no longer felt afraid, and her grief melted away. She felt sure that on just such a moonlit night, in a landscape sent down from another world, the person she was expecting would be sure to appear.

  And there stood the well. Inside its crumbling rim the frogs croaked their ancient watery songs. It was said that the well was as ancient as the mill, and the mill was so old that even to think how old it was would take for ever.

  She said the three Hail Marys, put the bundle down beside the well, rested her head on it and savoured the smell of the dried herbs. And there she lay for a long, long time, in great peace, as if on her own bed. On her white brow the nimble fingers of tiny dreams spun a bridal wreath… until, after who knows how long, or when she became aware of it… there was a man standing next to the well, a tall, pitch-black figure, his eye raised heavenwards in rapture. The moon stroked his face with its soft hands, and made him as handsome as the prince of some far-off Western land.

  She stood up. She knew. This man was her bridegroom.

  It was the scholar.

  She went up to him, and without knowing what she was doing—she was still in a dream—took his hand. With unhurried deliberation, like someone taking a vow, she declared: “You are my betrothed.”

  He gave a start, then stared at her as if she were a miraculous being risen from the well. “Is that what you want, Ajándok?”

  “It’s not I who want it. I don’t want anything. It was the magic that brought me to you, by night, on flowery St John’s Night. You are the man I was told I would see. My husband-to-be.”

  “As you say, Ajándok. It is true. It was no chance wind that brought me to this place. But all the same—do you know who I am?”

  “You are a wanderer, and a weary one, seeking rest. I know that you are my bridegroom.”

  “But think about this carefully, Ajándok, and may God bless you. You see this book under my arm? In it you may read terrible things. And I am the one who frightened you earlier, in the attic—it was my way into the house.”

  “God bless that moment!”

  “But I am not an ordinary person. No girl has ever loved me. I am a vagrant. I don’t know how to live in one place!”

  “You are my husband: I shall follow you everywhere.”

  “Ajándok, wonderful things do happen in this world. The wind racing by will sometimes turn and send a bunch of flowers spinning to the ground; hurricanes will crouch down and play among the corn stalks, like children. And,” he shouted, “I do believe that you are my betrothed, that you will stay with me for ever, and I shall never wander again.” He fell to his knees and kissed the hem of her dress.

  “All my wanderings have been for your sake, Ajándok, my betrothed. Because of you I have carried the dust of the road of every land on my shoes. You are the clearing, the open glade in which I can rest at last. You are the long-lost palace to which I am now returning, the bed in which I shall finally sleep; the scarf that will seel my ever-watchful eyes; the little nest that will calm my beating wings; the golden chain that will fetter my flying feet. I have finally found what I have always been looking for, and now the mill will always be there for me, the mill and its sails!”

  Ajándok could only listen in silence and let the kisses fall on her happy hand. She was in another world, where one drank the fragrant milk of moon-white cows.

  Then the scholar drew himself up and said, almost fearfully: “I have one last journey to make, Ajándok, through the village. Thus it is written in my book. And then… I shall throw away the book and never travel again. Will you come with me on that one last journey, my betrothed?”

  “Of course I shall.”

  Hand in hand they raced down the little hill on which the mill stood, and into the village. From house to house, courtyard to courtyard, they ran in silence, nor did the dogs bark at them. Then the scholar began to exercise his miraculous craft. The moment he reached a farmyard he would lift up his book and begin to read (he could see the words even in the dark). In it was written the name of the owner, and what sort of man he was—according to which the scholar proceeded to reward or punish him. There was one who was envious and quarrelsome: the scholar blew behind the left ear of his cow, and from then on its calf would drink blood along with its milk, and in no time at all his entire young stock was destroyed. At the next place the owner was a good man, and there the scholar blew behind the cow’s right ear, and thereafter the milk would be rich, the calf it suckled would grow well, and the faces of his children would be ruddy with health. He also wrought justice by means of the pigs. The bad farmer’s pig had its tail twisted slightly, and no bacon or ham ever came from that pig, for by the autumn it was dead. If he made a baleful sign on a fruit tree, it would be impossible to rid it of caterpillars: the sign simply brought forth wave after wave of new ones. But where he left a favourable sign the tree would produce fine fruit, so lush you could hardly bear to sink your teeth into it. The bad farmer’s land he scattered with salt, and it became saline and produced nothing. Over the good man’s land he made a sign with his staff, whereupon the mice gave it a wide berth and hail never struck it. Thus he went from house to house, like a nocturnal bishop on his rounds.

  Meanwhile, in the intimate language of plighted lovers, the two of them built up their plans for their future life together. The was no doubt in the scholar’s mind that the miller would grant him his daughter’s hand, and he took it for granted that he would be rich. He knew that out in the marshland there was a hidden treasure, guarded by black dogs. He was the only person who understood their tongue, and they would allow him access to it. They agreed that the house of Máté the scholar would be built directly opposite the mill. It would not be an ordinary house, but a tower with a flat roof, and on it the two of them would sit out, on evenings just like this, and smile as they talked about times past, when the scholar was still a vagrant wandering the highways and Ajándok was a young girl, playing with her dolls and too young for marriage. Their cows would have glass bells hanging from their necks; they would never have to shout at their servants—when summoned they would obey in perfect silence; Ajándok would walk on tiptoe round the bedroom, and the door wouldn’t squeak; when their saucepans banged together they would make music, and Mirók the kitten would sit in pride of place on a tower of cushions. Their front door would be forever open, and all sorts of vagrants would come and stay with them, but because of these visitors they would often not leave the house for weeks, and on Sundays they would do nothing but just sit there gazing at each other, and Ajándok would say: “See, here I am at home, the children are growing up, and when my beloved comes back they will be as tall as he is,” and Máté the scholar would add: “See, here I am at home. The country roads were bumpy and hard going, but now the earth has grown soft and rich, the highways are behind me, and I can rest.”

  Thus, in a shared waking dream, they built their house of air: the vagrant looking to have a roof over his head and his betrothed, the child Ajándok; and both believed they really would live in it. Confidently they made their way through the sleeping village, and the scholar brought
blushes from his bride’s cheek by talking of the little one they would one day have. His hair would be blond, like his mother’s. He would not come into the world, as his father had, with all his teeth full-grown: in fact he wouldn’t be like him at all, but calm and church-going, and the blessing of the holy water of baptism would shine on his brow for ever. The old ladies of the village would dandle him on their knees, and angels would sing to him. He would be truly beautiful, the king of all his little companions.

  In the heart of the village, just outside the church, they stopped, Máté the scholar and Ajándok, to exchange tokens. Ajándok was still too young to own a beautiful embroidered scarf, so she simply gave him the ribbon she tied in the hair of Faraj her doll.

  “But what can I give you, Ajándok? I had a veil, made of gossamer, which I once bought from a peddler who was two hundred years old, and other little knick-knacks too, but I used the gossamer to bind a wound, and I gave the knick-knacks away in one place or another on my way here, before I got to you, and now I have nothing to give my betrothed. Do you know what, Ajándok? I shall give you this book. You don’t yet know how to use it; I am the only one who knows how to do that. But… when I have a home, what need will I have of it then, and what will my loss of wisdom mean to anyone? I shall give it to you—when we get to the end of the village.”

  The child waiting to be born rushed up to them, his tiny hands raised in the air. The cheerful babble filled their hearts with a feeling of benevolence, and they stood there, the pride and joy of the village.

  But the night was waning, and they still had a way to go. Here and there the first faint colours were already dappling the white walls of the houses, and the air was chill.

  They went on to within a stone’s throw of the end of the village. There they stopped outside a house with a fearsome reputation. The owner was a wicked man, drunk and boorish, the associate of thieves. Ajándok drew closer to her betrothed. She no longer felt anger now towards the malefactor because, in her dream, she knew her husband would take good care of her; and they now had a child, a beautiful child with large, beautiful eyes.

  Then the scholar opened his book, and studied it for a long time. Slowly the colour drained from his face. He slumped against the sharp fence, beat his brow and looked distraught for what seemed an age, then he suddenly seized the terrified Ajándok by the shoulder and demanded: “Ajándok, what shall we call our child?”

  In her terror she could not reply.

  “His name will be Never Was, because we never shall have children. Get up. Clear off out of here. We shall never see each other again!”

  Then he collapsed in misery against the fence. Ajándok just stood there, wringing her hands. She felt everything slipping away through her fingers.

  The scholar looked up at her. “Are you still here, Ajándok? It’s no use. It’s written here. I can’t help it. And even if I tried, it would be no use. There are even more terrible things in this book, and even worse things inside me. Off you go, Ajándok, and pray for my soul. Pray for the damned.”

  Ajándok stood shivering in the chilly dawn, then buried herself in his arms: “I shall never leave you, I shall never ever leave you!”

  And though her blood froze in her veins when she saw what would have to be, she did not move from his side. But he never spared her a glance. Pulling his cloak around him, he stepped quietly up to the window of the house. Inside lay the child, sleeping open-mouthed in its cot. The scholar pressed his deathly pale face against the window and stared boldly into the room: his glance was so terrible and so fierce that Ajándok steeled herself to place her hand in front of his eyes to protect the child, before she realised that that terrible look would have bored right through her bloodless fingers. Dreadful minutes passed while he continued to stare; then the child woke and gazed at the window in wide-eyed astonishment. Suddenly its two eyes darkened, and it burst into a faltering, abandoned cry. The cry produced sounds of movement inside the house, the scholar seized Ajándok and hauled her after him as he ran. They ran like murderers being driven off with pitchforks.

  The rim of the sky was already pale, and a great cloud was passing solemnly overhead, like a dragon emerging from a swamp, as they do at the approach of sunrise. The air was heavy, as before a storm, when the trees dare not move but huddle with hunched shoulders, awaiting judgement. They finally stopped a little way beyond the village, where the marshland began. The scholar sat down on a boundary stone and spoke:

  “See, I pass back and forth over the land like a hailstorm. I am a thing of ill omen, the secret horror of whispered prayers. Ajándok, many times in the past you have been terrified by the mere sound of my name, but to set eyes on me is a truly fearful thing. People cross themselves when they see me. So you should know: I am a garabonciás, a wandering scholar with occult powers. People drive me away with long whips. I do not want to do what I do, and perhaps it would be better if I didn’t, in truth, because, my God! sometimes my lungs are left gasping for breath. So, poor little Ajándok, do you still love me?”

  She answered: “You are my betrothed!”

  Filled with sadness, he continued: “Look, Ajándok, it is already dawn. The wind is rising. There will be a storm, and I am awaited. No mortal girl has ever loved me. Ajándok, let us exchange a kiss, just once, so that I know how it tastes, and through it I shall hold you in my memory for ever. For who knows whether we shall ever see each other again.”

  “We cannot exchange kisses before we have exchanged tokens. Give me your book. I shall lock it well away, and look after it carefully, in a safe, safe place. Tell me you will never wander more; that we will make our home in the tower-house, as you promised, and be the pride and joy of the village.”

  “Dear little Ajándok, ask whatever you want—the golden lamb of the imperial princess, the diamond ring from the ear of the shaman’s horse, Sleeping Beauty’s enchanted bed—I shall set any one of these down before you for the sake of a single kiss. But I cannot give you the book. I know that now, and everything else is a lie. The book must always be mine. I can no more be free of it than I can be free of what I am.”

  “You must give me either the book, or nothing!”

  “Well, then… yes… I see, that’s how it must be—I shall never know what it is to be kissed by a mortal girl. But the tower-house, and the idea of living in it… how could I ever have believed that? The sun is coming up—gentle St John’s Night is over. Thank you for coming with me on this one journey, Ajándok.”

  She burst into tears. So far her tears had been those of a child, without real meaning. Now the child Ajándok wept every one of her grown woman’s tears.

  “Ajándok, don’t cry,” he said. “You see, I am the one who should be crying. It is far better for you this way. I cannot share my life with anyone. I might blind you by looking you too fiercely in the eye; your frail skeleton would shatter in my embrace; our children would have been changelings, born with beards. It was cruel misfortune that we ever met, and there is nothing we can do about it. For sure, the wanderer will never find a home, or the orphan a mate.”

  Then the wind started up again. Something—a mass of something crouched low, a ball with a foot in the shape of a thorn bush—came scuttling down the highway, whipped along by the wind.

  “See, the Devil’s chariot!” he shouted. “My faithful companion, my one true friend, here you come again, sent as a messenger by the storm! The open road, the joys of the full gallop, await me! I feel my wings growing back; by evening I shall have reached the city. I shall sleep at the top of the church tower and at midnight I shall ring the bells and make my escape on the back of a bull I have made mad, then I shall plunge into the swamp and tomorrow I shall be in Mauritania, under a blazing sun.”

  The wild windstorm gave its answer, throwing the dust from the nearby road in his eyes. But every speck of dust that flew into them struck a spark as from flint. His body expanded with every gust of air, straining to leave the earth behind, like the flames that hover flickeri
ng over the bonfire of someone possessed by the devil. And, like an organ freed into sound by a master, his voice boomed out, edged with sardonic laughter, terrible to hear.

  “See, Ajándok, see! They’re turning! The sails of the windmill are turning, driven by the wind! Let it drive me away, too, for I am a wandering scholar possessed by the devil, the son of a witch, raised by dragons, and this is my home, under stormy skies.”

  A mighty cloud of dust enveloped the huge black figure, as he ran off whooping down the highway, pursuing the battle that raged, howling, in the heavens.

  Ajándok rose, wiped away her tears, and set off homewards. Her face was calm, serious—the face of one whose heart has been pierced by seven daggers. The storm tore at her frail body but could not break the flower of love in her, a flower that would never wilt.

  That day, and for many years after, there was much talk in the village of the wandering scholar who put the wind in the windmill’s sails, who went through the village on St John’s Night and bewitched the heart of the poor little outlawed girl. Miraculous things were told of him even after he had left. There were those who met him on the highway, galloping along in his horseless chariot; others caught sight of him sitting on his long black cloak as he flew above the fields; and one old grandmother swore blind that the garabonciás had charmed the dragon out of the swamp, saddled it and flown off to Mauritania, where it was so hot that the natives died if they didn’t slip a piece of dragon’s meat under their tongues to keep them cool, and when he got there the wandering scholar intended to slay the dragon, weigh out the meat, and return home one day, heaped with treasure.

  The mill was seldom still. The work continued apace, and the wealth of the old miller and the young one alike grew steadily. But Ajándok never again left its confines. She hardly ever spoke. She died within a year, from some mysterious internal disease. Over her grave grows the ever-faithful forget-me-not.