Antal Szerb - Journey by Moonlight

The faint smile again passed over Ervin’s face, then he bent his head, and made no answer.

“Answer me, Ervin, answer, I beg of you. Don’t you miss them?”

“No,” he said in a toneless voice, with a wild look on his face. “I miss nothing.”

There was a long silence between them. Mihály was trying to understand Ervin. It couldn’t be otherwise. He must have purged everything from himself. Since he had had to tear himself away from everyone, he had dug up from his soul the very roots of anything that might flower into those feelings that bind people together. Now there was no pain, but he lived on in this fallow, this barren, land, on the bare mountain … Mihály shuddered to think of it.

Then a sudden thought struck him:

“I heard a story about you … how you exorcised a woman who was visited by the dead, here, in some mansion in the Via dei Consoli. Tell me, Ervin: that was Éva, wasn’t it?”

Ervin nodded.

Mihály jumped up in excitement, and gulped down the remaining wine.

“Oh, Ervin, tell me … how was … what was she like, Éva?”

What was Éva like? Ervin considered this. “Well, how should she be? She was very beautiful. She was, as always … ”

“How? She hadn’t changed?”

“No. Or rather, I didn’t notice any change in her.”

“And what is she doing?”

“I’m not very sure. She spoke a lot about how lucky she’d been, and how much she’d moved about in the West.”

Had anything flared up in Ervin when they met? He dared not ask.

“You don’t know what she’s doing now?”

“How should I know. It’s a few years, I believe, since she was here in Gubbio. But I have to say, my sense of time is pretty unreliable.”

“And tell me … if you can … how did it happen that … how did you get the dead Tamás to leave?”

Mihály’s voice sounded with the fear that filled him whenever he thought of it. Ervin again smiled that little smile.

“It wasn’t difficult. The old house made her see ghosts. Those doors of the dead have affected others in the same way. I merely had to persuade her to move out. Then again, I believe she played the whole thing up a little. Well, you know Éva … I’m afraid she never actually saw Tamás. She wasn’t having visions. Although it is possible that she was. I can’t say. You know, I’ve had to deal with so many apparitions and ghosts over the years, especially here in Gubbio with its doors of the dead, I’ve become rather sceptical in this respect … ”

“But then … you did cure her?”

“Not at all. As usually happens in these cases. I spoke to her very seriously, prayed with her a little, and she calmed down. She came to see that the place of the living is with the living.”

“Are you sure of that, Ervin?”

“Absolutely sure,” he replied with great seriousness. “Unless you choose what I chose. Especially among the living. But why am I preaching this to you? Even you know this.”

“She said nothing at all about how Tamás died?”

Ervin did not answer.

“Tell me, would you be able to exorcise the memory of Tamás, and Éva, and all of you, out of me?”

Ervin thought deeply.

“Very difficult. Very difficult. And I don’t know if it would be a good thing, because what would you be left with then? Really, it’s very hard to counsel you, Mihály. Pilgrims as desperate for help and so hard to help don’t often come to Sant’ Ubaldo. What I could advise, what my duty should advise, you wouldn’t accept. The store of mercy opens only for those who want to share in it.”

“But what will become of me? What shall I do tomorrow, and the day after? I expected a miraculous answer from you. I superstitiously believed that you would give me advice. Should I go back to Budapest, like the Prodigal Son, or start a new life, as a worker? Because I have done an apprenticeship. I’ve got a trade. It would be possible. Don’t leave me to myself. I’m so alone already. What shall I do?”

Ervin fished out a large peasant’s watch from the depths of his cowl.

“Right now, go and sleep. It’s almost midnight. I have to go to chapel. Go and sleep. I’ll take you to the room. And during my matutine I’ll think about you. Perhaps it’ll become clear … it’s happened before. Perhaps I’ll be able to tell you something tomorrow morning. Now go and sleep. Come.”

He led Mihály to the hospice. Given the deep state of distress that gripped him there seemed a fitness in the semi-darkened hall in which pilgrims down the centuries had dreamed of miraculous cures for their sufferings, yearnings and dearest hopes. Almost all the bunks were empty, though two or three pilgrims were asleep at the further end.

“Lie down, Mihály, and sleep well. Have a good, peaceful night,” said Ervin.

He made the sign of the cross over him, and hurried away.

For a long time Mihály sat on the side of the hard bed, his hands crossed on his lap. He was not in the least bit drowsy, and he was very depressed. Would anyone be able to help him? Would his road ever lead anywhere?

He knelt and prayed, for the first time in years.

Then he lay down. It was difficult to sleep on the hard bed, in unfamiliar surroundings. The pilgrims stirred restlessly on their bunks, sighed, moaned in their sleep. One of them kept calling for aid on Saints Joseph and Catharine and Agatha. When Mihály finally drifted off day was already breaking.

He woke in the morning with the exquisite feeling that he had dreamed of Éva. He did not remember the dream, but his whole body registered the silky euphoria that only that dream could give, or waking passion on very rare occasions. In the context of this bleak, ascetic sleeping-place, this mellow feeling took on a strange, paradoxical, sickly-sweet quality.

He rose, washed himself, an act of no little self-mortification in the antiquated washing-place, and went out into the courtyard. It was a bright, cool, breezy morning. The bell was just tolling for Mass, and brothers, lay people, monastery servants and pilgrims were hurrying from all directions into the chapel. Mihály joined them, and attended devoutly to the timeless Latin of the service. He was filled with a festive, happy feeling. Ervin would surely tell him what to do. Perhaps he would have to do penance. Yes, he would become a simple workman, earning his bread with the labour of his hands … He had the feeling that something new was beginning in him. It was for him that voices rose in song, for him rang out the crisp and mellow tones of the spring bells. For his special soul.

When Mass was over he went out into the courtyard. Ervin came up to him, smiling:

“How did you sleep?”

“Well, very well. I feel quite different from last night, I have no idea why.”

He looked at Ervin, full of expectation; then, when he said nothing, asked:

“Have you thought about what I should do?”

“Yes, Mihály,” Ervin said quietly. “I think you should go to Rome.”

“To Rome?” he blurted out in astonishment. “Why? How did you arrive at that?”

“Last night in the choir… I can’t really explain this to you, you’re not familiar with this type of meditation … I do know that you must go to Rome.”

“But why, Ervin, why?”

“So many pilgrims, exiles, refugees have gone to Rome, over the course of centuries, and so much has happened there … really, everything has always happened in Rome. That’s why they say, ‘All roads lead to Rome.’ Go to Rome, Mihály, and you’ll see. I can’t say anything more at present.”

“But what shall I do in Rome?”

“What you do doesn’t matter. Perhaps visit the four great basilicas of Christendom. Go to the catacombs. Whatever you feel like. It’s impossible to be bored in Rome. And above all, do nothing. Trust yourself to chance. Surrender yourself completely, don’t plan things … Can you do that?”