by Sándor Márai
She drew the fur across her chest once more, as if cold or embarrassed, hesitated, then continued in a fainter, more tremulous voice. “Why can’t I have what I want? . . .” she asked. Her voice was perfectly quiet now, and she was taking deep gulps in an attempt to hold back her tears, speaking humbly, without a trace of Tuscan pride. “What should I have done? . . . I gave him everything a woman can give a man, passion and patience, children, excitement, peace, security, tenderness, freedom from care . . . everything. People tell me that you understand love the way a goldsmith understands gold and silver: question me then, stranger, examine my heart, make your judgment, and give me your advice! What should I have done? I have humbled myself. I was my husband’s lover and accomplice. I understood that there had to be other women in his life, because such was his nature. I know he desired in secret and that he came running back to me to escape the pressures of the world, to escape his own passions and adventures, and that he still escapes because he is frightened, because he is no longer young, because death is breathing down his neck. Sometimes I have willed him to grow old and to be plagued by gout, so that he should be mine again, so I could bathe his aching feet. . . . Yes, I have longed for old age and for sickness, may Our Lady forgive me and may God pardon my sins. I gave everything. Tell me what else I should have given. . . .”
She was abjectly begging for an answer, her voice faint, her eyes full of tears. The man thought about it. He stood before her, his arms crossed over his chest, and his verdict was courteous but final.
“You should have given happiness, signora.”
The woman bent her head and raised her handkerchief to her eyes. She stood dumbly weeping. Then she gave a great sigh and answered subserviently in a cracked voice.
“Yes, you are right. It was only happiness I couldn’t give him.”
She stood, head bowed, fondling the gold brooch with her delicate fingers, as if distracted. Still staring at the floor, she added, “Don’t you think, stranger, that there are certain men to whom you cannot give happiness? There is a kind of man whose whole attraction, every virtue, every charm, emanates from his incapacity for happiness. The entire faculty for happiness is absent; he is stone deaf to happiness, and, just as the deaf cannot hear the sweet sound of music, so he is insensible to the sweet sound of happiness. . . . Because you are right, he never was happy. But, you see, this is the man that heaven and earth have chosen for me, and it was not as if he found happiness anywhere else, either, however he looked for it, in over fifty years. He is like the man who buries his treasure in a field then forgets where he has buried it. He digs up everything in sight, he turns his whole life over. . . . I sold my rings and pendants so that he could travel further afield to seek it, because, believe me, there was nothing I wanted more than to see him happy. Let him seek happiness on voyages across seas, in strange cities, in the arms of black women and yellow women, if that is his fate. . . . But he always came back to me, sat down beside me, called for wine or read his books, then spent a week with some slut with dyed hair, usually an actress. That’s the kind of man he is. What should I do? Throw him out? Kill him? Should I go away myself? Should I kill myself? . . . Every morning after mass I have knelt before the Savior in our small church, and, believe me, I searched my heart carefully before coming to you with my grief and wounded pride. Now I will go home and my pride will no longer be wounded. You are right: I did not give him happiness. From now on I shall only want to serve him. But please tell me, for I am desperate to know: seeing that there are men incapable of happiness, do you think the fault is entirely mine? He is restless and melancholy and seeks happiness at every turn: in the arms of women, in ambition, in worldly affairs, in murderous affrays, in the clinking of gold coins; he seeks it everywhere, all the while knowing that life can give him everything but happiness. Is there anyone else like this? . . .”
She spoke the last words challengingly, as if she were demanding something or accusing him. Now it was he who bowed his head.
“Yes,” he said. “Take comfort. I do know such a man. He stands before you.”
He spread his arms and bowed deeply, as if to signal that the consultation was over. The woman gazed at him for some time. Her fingers trembling, she clasped her fur coat together and the two of them moved toward the door. Then as if talking to herself, by way of good-bye, she said:
“Yes, I felt that. . . . I felt as soon as I stepped into the room, that you too were that kind of man. Perhaps I felt it even before I set off in the snow. But he is so terribly lonely and sad. . . . There is a kind of sadness that may not be consoled: it is as if someone had missed some divine appointment, and had found nothing to interest him since. You have more self-knowledge than he does, I can tell that from your voice, see it in your eyes, feel it in your very being. What is the trouble with these people? Is it because God has punished them with too much intelligence, so they experience every feeling, every human passion, with the mind rather than the heart? . . . The thought had occurred to me. I am a simple woman, Giacomo, and there is no need for you to shake your head or to be polite. I know why I say these things. I make no apology for my simplicity. I know there are forms of intelligence beyond those admired by the vainly intellectual, that the heart has its own knowledge, and that it too is important, very important. . . . You see, I came to you for advice, but now that it is time to go it is I who am feeling sorry for you. How much do I owe you?”
She drew a silver-crocheted purse from the lining of the coat and extended it nervously toward him.
“From you, signora,” said the man, bowing once more as at the end of a dance, his knee slightly bent, his arms spread wide, “I will not accept any money.”
He declared this in a spirit of generosity, humbly enough but with just enough hauteur in his voice for the woman to turn around at the threshold.
“Why?” she asked over her shoulder. “It is what you live on, after all.”
He shrugged.
“You, dear lady, have already paid a great price. I would like you to be able to say that you met with a man who gave you something for nothing.”
He escorted her as far as the stairs, where they looked at each other once more in the gloom with serious and somewhat suspicious expressions on their faces. He raised the candle high to light his guest’s way, for it was already dark and the bats were beginning to flitter through the stairwell of The Stag.
The Contract
It was dark. They were ringing the bells of Santa Maria, and down in the shadows the bar and restaurant of The Stag were tinkling with silver and glass as they spread the tables, when he heard sleigh bells. He stood still a moment, leaning over the banisters, listening. He, too, was a bat, suspended upside down over the world, the kind of creature who comes to life only when the dull lights and sounds of evening awaken him. The sleigh stopped by the doors of The Stag, someone shouted, servants came running with lanterns and fixed them to the ends of long pointed poles, settling silence on the intimate noises of restaurant and bar, the kind of noises he loved to hear down the corridors of inns in foreign towns, when he would emerge from his room on tiptoe, his black gold-buckled half soles on his feet, his white cotton stockings stretched tight over his full legs, wearing a violet-colored frock coat and a narrow, gilt-handled sword strapped to his waist under the black silk cloak that came down to his ankles, his hair carefully sprinkled with rice powder, his fingers bright with rings, a purse made of fish bladder containing gold coins hanging at his side, and a packet of marked cards in his pocket; and, thus prepared for the evening, he would be ready to face the world, impatient for adventure, his heart expectant and melancholy, expectancy and melancholia being much the same thing, then patter down the stairs, eyes darting here and there, knowing that in various rooms in the same town there would be women sitting next to candles from which the smoke gently billowed while they looked into the mirror, quickly tying a bow in a bodice, pinning flowers in their hair, anointing themselves with rice powder and perfume, adjusting th
e beauty patch on their faces, knowing that musicians would already be tuning up in the theaters, the stage and auditorium rich with the sour-bitter smoke of oil lamps, and that everyone was preparing for life, for the evening, which would be festive, secretive, and intimate: it was the time at which he loved to stop on the stairs of strange inns and listen to the faint brushing noises of waiters and servants and the clinking and chinking of the cutlery, the glass, the silver, and the china. There was nothing finer in life for him, anywhere in the world, than observing preparations for festivities: the prelude, the fuss, every detail infused with the sense of anticipation of all that was unpredictable and surprising. What delight it was to dress at about eight o’clock, when the church bells had stopped ringing, and when pale hands, their movements sensitive and mysterious, reached from windows to fasten the shutters, thereby closing out the world and safeguarding the house which always represents some mutuality, some turning away from worldly affairs; to put on one’s clothes and prepare for the evening with the pleasant quickening of the heart that tells us we are capable of anything, of both happiness and of despair; to stride with sure, light steps past houses, toward the dim shores of the darkening evening. It was this part of the day he loved best: his walk changed, his hearing grew keener, his eyes glittered and he could see in the dark. At such times he felt wholly human, but also, in the complex but not at all shameful sense of the word, like a creature of the wild that, after sunset, when tamer beasts have retired to shallows and watering holes, stands like a great predator, still and silent in the brush, listening to the sounds of twilight, his head raised in rapt attention. So it was now when they were laying tables that he heard the shuffling, tinkling noises rising from the restaurant, and in that instant the whole world seemed festive. Was there any feeling to compare with it, he wondered, a feeling that so quickened the heart and made it pound with apprehension as that of waiting for festivities to begin?
The clatter had stopped now. The shuffling of feet was followed by the sounds of a lighter, younger pattering movement, then he heard the knocking of shoes with wooden soles breaking into a run. “An important guest!” he thought as he stuck his tongue out and licked his dry lower lip in quick, thirsty anticipation. The agitation of the house coursed through him. To his highly developed ear, the word “guest” was one of the most magical sounds in the world, along with other words like “prize,” “prey,” “suddenly,” and “luck”: it was, in short, among the finest sounds a man could wish to hear. “A substantial guest!” he thought in approval, with a pleasant excitement. The light of the torches moved about the upper floor. The voices below were barking short, hard words: the guest must have been at the very door, the host of The Stag bowing before him, issuing stern orders and promising who-knows-what earthly and divine delights. “A difficult guest!” he thought, like a fellow professional, for he himself was just such a “difficult” guest who liked to make his host squirm with a long series of testing questions, to visit the kitchen and examine the size of the salmon, capon, or saddle of venison for himself, to try its quality, to have a much-praised vintage brought up from the cellar then take his time sniffing the cork after the bottle was opened, to wave away the offered wine with contempt and ask for a new bottle and, when it arrived, solemnly and with utmost concentration, to taste the thick, oily, blood-red drops of the French or South Italian grape, then, graciously, with a slightly sour expression, finally agree on the potential of some specific wine, and to turn round at the top of the cellar stairs, or at the door of the kitchen, with a finger half-raised to remind his host in harsh, admonitory tones that he should take care that the chestnuts, with which they were to stuff the breast of the turkey, be boiled in milk and vanilla first, and that the Burgundy be warmed in its straw carafe precisely forty minutes before serving; and it was only after all this that he would take his place at the table and haughtily survey the hall, rubbing his eyes to signify a slight weariness and satisfaction, taking in the furniture and the paintings, whose arrangement and whose local or international character did not truly interest the “difficult” guest, since the most difficult part was over, and one only had to watch that the serving staff always stood at a distance of two paces, far enough not to hear any whispered conversation, but close enough to leap to the table at the lowering of an eyelid and attend to any business immediately. “They are negotiating something!” he thought, for the hard voice of the guest and the humble, fawning voice of the host were still engaged in conversation. “A guest from out of town!” he thought. He remembered that there was a ball tonight at Francesca’s, a masked ball, to which the local nobility had been invited. There had been a lot of talk in town about the ball in the last few days, and all the tailors, cobblers, haberdashers, ribbon makers, seamstresses, and hairdressers were proudly complaining that they couldn’t keep up with demand, as a result of which he himself had spent three useless days vainly demanding his two frilly evening shirts from the washerwoman, who was too busy starching, washing, and ironing the finest linen for Francesca’s ball, and the whole town was filling up with guests preparing for wonderful games and high festivities, all caught up in the kind of exciting, intense, and, to all purposes, good-natured activity that in its own twisted and mysterious manner touches even those who are not directly involved in the affair. . . . I expect a lot of people will be spending the night after the ball at The Stag, he thought. The weather is dreadful, the Tuscan woman was almost eaten by wolves, and the local gentry and their ladies are hardly likely to set straight off after the event across snow-covered roads, at dawn, in their sleighs and foot muffs. And this “difficult” guest, he too must be bound for the ball, he thought, and felt a sharp stab of envy, as people do when they suddenly discover that they are barred from attending a desirable occasion. The feeling surprised him. It reminded him of his childhood when he learned that adults were planning something strange and wonderful without him. He shrugged, listened a moment longer to the discussion between guest and host, then turned back to his room.
“In other words, nobody!” the harsh commanding voice declared at the foot of the stairs, down in the depths. The answer must have been silent: he could imagine the obliging landlord, his hand crossed over his heart, his upper body bowed, and his eyes cast heavenward to indicate that everything would be as the guest demanded. But something about the voice stopped him as he was about to enter his room. It was a familiar voice, an intimately and frighteningly familiar voice, the kind a man recognizes because there has already been unavoidable and close contact between it and him. This instinctive recognition was an important force in his life: he had set his compass by it. He raised his head, listening intently, like an animal on the scent. The voice was unmistakable! He stood at the door with a serious, almost respectful look on his face, his fingers on the handle, his whole body tense, some instinct telling him that he was on the verge of a fateful encounter. He knew by now that the footsteps slowly, laboriously ascending the stairs with such even tread were a vital component of his own life, that the anonymous voice rising from the depths was bringing him a personal message. The “difficult” guest was looking for him. The astrological chart of his life was, in a few moments, once again, and not for the last time, about to undergo a dramatic readjustment. He took a deep breath and straightened up. A nervous shudder ran through him, and as always in such situations, his instinct momentarily overcame his reason, and he felt the urge to run into his room, climb through the window, shimmy down the storm drain of The Stag, and disappear in the accustomed manner, into the evening and the blizzard. It was, after all, the only voice he was afraid of, this “resonant” voice already drawing closer in the half-light on the stairs. He recognized the same unavoidable “resonance” when it radiated from women or from men who belonged to women. He had been happy enough to fight a duel in Tuscany, bare-chested in the moonlight, with only a narrow sword in his hand, against an old man maddened by jealousy who was skillful and dangerous with swords; he had been quite prepared to leap f
rom rooftops and to tangle with vagrant scoundrels on the floor of a dive in a pub brawl; he was, in short, afraid of nothing but this “resonance,” which he associated with a specific feeling, for he sensed that every feeling, but this one above all, was woven to bind him. It was this that really frightened him. That was why he thought he should shut the door now, seize his dagger, and leave by the window. At the same time he knew that, in the end, there was no escape from this particular kind of resonance, that it was a trap from which one could not escape unscathed. So he waited at the threshold, his hair standing on end, with fear and anticipation, gripping the handle of the door, staring over his shoulder, scanning the dim space with sharp, suspicious eyes, seeking the man who would shortly address him in that familiar voice. It was past eight o’clock. The steps hesitated, apparently tired, resting at a turn of the stair. There was no more clattering of cutlery in the bar and the silence was such that you could hear the snow fall; it was as if the mountains, the snow-covered street, the river, and the stars, the whole of Bolzano, were holding its breath. “There is always this moment of silence at a vital turn in a man’s life,” he found himself reflecting, and smiled with satisfaction at the phrase, because he was, after all, a writer.