Antal Szerb - Journey by Moonlight

“Because all that interests me is what she was then, in the Ulpius house.”

“Perhaps you aren’t aware that she won’t be here much longer? She’s managed to hook a young Englishman who’s taking her with him to India. They leave in the next few days.”

“That’s not true.”

“Oh, but it is. Take a look at this.”

She drew another letter from her reticule. The handwriting was Éva’s. It was addressed to János. It gave a brief account of her impending trip to India, and the fact that she did not propose returning to Europe.

“You didn’t know?” asked Erzsi.

“You win,” said Mihály. He got up, paid, and went out, leaving his hat behind.

Outside he staggered for a while in a blind daze, his hand pressed against his heart. Only after some time did he notice that Erzsi was walking beside him, and had brought him his hat.

Erzsi was now quite changed: meek, timid, her eyes all tears. It was almost moving, the tall dignified woman in this posture of a small girl, as she walked beside him, in silence, with his hat in her hand. Mihály smiled, and took his hat.

“Thank you,” he said, and kissed Erzsi’s hand. Timidly, she stroked his face.

“Well, if you’ve no more letters in your reticule, then perhaps we can go and dine,” he said with a sigh.

During the meal they exchanged few words, but those were full of intimacy and tender feeling. Erzsi was filled with a loving desire to console, Mihály with his own suffering, and the great quantity of wine he got through in his unhappiness made him gentle. He saw how much Erzsi still loved him, even now. What happiness, if he in turn could love her, and thus free himself of the past and the dead. But he knew it was impossible.

“Erzsi, in the depths of my heart I wasn’t to blame for what happened between us,” he said. “True, that is easily said. But you see, for so many years I had done everything to make myself conform, and I only married you, as a kind of reward, when I really thought that at last everything was all right, that I had at last made my peace with the world. And then all the demons turned on me — my entire youth and all that nostalgia and rebellion. There’s no cure for nostalgia. Perhaps I should never have come to Italy. This country was created out of nostalgia, by kings and poets. Italy is the earthly paradise, but only as Dante saw it: the earthly paradise on the peak of Mount Purgatory, a mere stopping place on a journey, a supernatural aerodrome where spirits take off for the distant circles of heaven, when Beatrice lifts her veil, and the soul ‘feels the great power of the old yearning … ’”

“Oh, Mihály, the world won’t tolerate a man giving himself up to nostalgia.”

“It doesn’t tolerate it. It doesn’t tolerate any deviation from the norm. Any desertion or defiance, and sooner or later it turns the Zoltáns on you.”

“And what do you want to do?”

“That I don’t know. What are your plans, Erzsi?”

“I’ll go back to Paris. We’ve talked about everything now — I think it’s time I went to my room. I’m leaving early tomorrow morning.”

Mihály paid, and escorted her back.

“I would love to know that you will be all right,” he said as they walked. “Say something to reassure me.”

“It’s not as bad for me as you think,” said Erzsi, and her smile was now genuinely proud and satisfied. “My life is very full now, and who knows what wonderful things lie in store for me? In Paris I’ve found myself to some extent, and what I want in life. My only regret is that you’re not part of it.”

They were standing outside Erzsi’s hotel. Taking his leave of her, Mihály looked again at Erzsi. Yes, she had changed a great deal. For better or worse, who could say? She was no longer the fine presence she had been: there was something broken in her, some inner coarsening of texture that showed in the way she dressed and spoke, and overpainted her face in the Parisian fashion. Erzsi had become somehow more common, was somehow surrounded by the ambience of some stranger, some mysterious and enviable stranger. Or perhaps of János, his arch-rival … This element of newness in the woman he had so long known was inexpressibly seductive and disturbing.

“What will you do now, Mihály?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to go home, for a thousand and one reasons, and I really don’t want to be alone.”

For an instant their eyes met, in the conspiratorial glance developed by the year they had spent together, then, without another word, they hurried up to Erzsi’s room.

The passion that had driven them so painfully together when Erzsi was still Zoltán’s wife now rose again in both of them. During those months they had both tried to fend off their desire, but the desire had been stronger and opposition only made it more savage. Now again they met in the teeth of a major obstacle. All that had happened between them, the seemingly irreparable grievances driving them so violently apart, served only to intensify the passion that threw them into one another’s arms. With the miraculous joy of recognition Mihály discovered it all again: Erzsi’s body which, physically, he desired more than the body of any other woman, Erzsi’s gentleness, Erzsi’s wildness, Erzsi’s whole night-time being which was utterly unlike the Erzsi who was revealed in the words and deeds of daylight, the passionate, loving Erzsi, so wise in the ways of love. And Erzsi revelled in her capacity to strip Mihály of the lethargic indifference in which he spent so much of his days.

Later, all conflict resolved, they gazed delightedly at one another, exhausted and fulfilled, with eyes of wonder. Only now did it occur to them what had happened. Erzsi began to laugh.

“Well, would you have believed this, this morning?”

“Not me. Would you?”

“Me neither. Or, I don’t know. I did come to do you a favour.”

“Erzsi! You’re the most wonderful woman in the whole world.”

He really thought that. He had been stunned by the womanly warmth in which she bathed him, and was gratefully, childishly happy.

“Yes, Mihály, I must always be good to you. That’s what I feel. No-one should ever hurt you.”

“Tell me … shouldn’t we give our marriage one more try?”

Erzsi grew serious. She had of course expected this question, if only because her sexual vanity required it … but could it be a realistic proposition? … For a long time she gazed at Mihály, hesitant and questioning.

“We should have another try,” he said. “Our bodies understand each other so well. And they are usually right. Nature’s voice, don’t you think? … What we mess up with our minds our bodies can still put right. We must have another go at living together.”

“Why did you leave me there if … if that’s the case?”

“Nostalgia, Erzsi. But now it’s as if I’ve been released from a kind of spell. True, I was a most willing slave and victim. But now I feel healthy and strong. I must stay with you, it’s quite clear. But of course I’m being selfish. The question is, what would be best for you?”

“I don’t know, Mihály. I love you so much more than you love me, and it frightens me how much suffering you cause me. And … I don’t know where you stand with the other woman.”

“With Éva? But did you think I had spoken to her? I just yearned after her. A spiritual illness. I’m going to be cured of it.”

“First get yourself cured, then we can discuss it.”

“Fine. You’ll see, we’ll talk about it soon enough. Sleep well, my dear, dear one.”

But during the night he woke, and reached out for Éva. Grasping the hand that lay on the blanket he remembered it was Erzsi’s and, overcome with guilt, released it. Then he thought, wryly, sadly, wearily, how very different Éva was after all. From time to time he might feel an intense desire for Erzsi, but even this desire played itself out, and after it nothing remained but the sober and boring acknowledgement of facts. Erzsi was desirable and good and clever and everything, but she lacked mystery.