Gyula Krudy - Sunflower

“To the best of my knowledge, thus far every woman in your splendid family has married,” Mr. Pistoli somberly observed.

“I am the last surviving member of the family,” said Eveline. “The last one to bear the name of Nyirjes de Nagynyirjes.”

“Oh, that can be helped, as long as one stays on good terms with the king. You must know the ways and means, which axles to grease, and if you’re not afraid to take some trouble, the honorable family name can be saved for posterity. For all of us, here in Northeastern Hungary, live for the sake of history. After us there will be no more Hungarians of the ancient sort, our kind. Our morality, our customs, the noble traits of our lineage will be extinct. Hungary, as we know it, will not be here much longer. The newfangled, modern types will displace us from the land of our ancestors. This is why I feel so sad on account of every unmarried Hungarian maiden. Children, more and more children must be born to Hungarian women, to ensure the survival of our kind.”

Pistoli declaimed his words in the form of a toast. He clinked glasses with the girls, and waited, expecting to be contradicted, but the two young ladies preferred to remain silent. Miss Maszkerádi, eyes downcast under long eyelashes, patiently held her peace, although the visitor’s eyes did not leave her for one second.

“I happen to be a widower…And a widower is a wretched man. In his cold bed what can he do but remember the way it used to be, under the former dispensation. Everything in his house reminds the miserable widower of woman’s almightiness, her splendor and her joy of life — and this after he’d just about learned how to make a woman happy. A widower never beats his new wife, for he knows all too well how much that hurts. If he gets irate, he takes out his anger on the pipe stem, for memories wafting from the graveyard make him forgiving amidst the troubles of this world. All day long the widower stays silent like a snail in its house. Twirling his mustache, brushing his boots, inspecting his pockmarks in the mirror, he winks an eye, like the wise man he is, not wanting to catch his servants in the act of stealing. After a bad night, a widower, at the very most, might scold his boots. Otherwise his face is wrapped in a perpetual smile, like an actor’s, while he keeps his clenched fists out of sight under his vest. Nor does he intend to flourish them ever again after the funeral. He’ll hold his peace forever now, silently wagging his head over the transience of this world, and he feels unspeakable contempt for those men who, desperate to sound cheerful, are constantly boasting, praising the graciousness of their deceased wives. Every girl worth her salt ought to marry a widower, for he will appreciate her, spoil and pamper her, be as gentle with her as one taming a wild dove.”

Miss Maszkerádi swallowed as lightly as a dreamer, wary lest her lovely dream fade.

“Just what I need,” she breathed, raising her eyelashes, the blade of her knife-sharp glance flashing against Mr. Pistoli’s white vest.

“Life,” Pistoli went on, in rather measured accents, weighty, halting, like a wise old county magistrate, “life is no joke, my dear young lady (who could be my daughter). For the farsighted, the folks in the know, life is a deer park, where gentle breezes and fragrant grape leaves keep you company, complete with afternoon foot-soakings, peaceful snoozes, fine hounds and desirable wenches, the hell with all care; a long life, a nice pipe from time to time, mellow dinners: that’s the way to spend life, life that digs your grave even now, steadfastly, like the ever-burrowing mole. To want nothing, and ask only for peace and quiet. Hope for nothing besides fair weather on the morrow. Trust no one, believe no one, think no extraordinary thoughts, just live, live, and love; fall asleep, and wake up healthy…Wear comfy slippers and pass the night in a feather bed. Live out a happy and long old age, the best part of life. To get an honest night’s sleep, and then a snooze after lunch, let out a few whoops, fight and make up. Will you marry me, you glorious rosebud?”

He reached out and took Miss Maszkerádi by the arm.

The stern young lady did not resist. Dreaming, she sat on, only her eyelashes glowed, darkling as spent stars. When she spoke, it was almost as if she were talking to herself:

“Life is a great masked ball, my good sir,” she spoke musingly, as if picking her words from somewhere afar. “I can’t really tell: are you actually asking for my hand?”

Pistoli did not wish to rush matters, for he had learned around women that a judiciously even and sedate comportment always works better than rash, impulsive behavior. Enjoying his moment in the limelight, he took his time stuffing his small pipe. After a prolonged and painful sigh he motioned at the Gypsy band to step forth and play his favorite song. Hearing this tune, his eyes bulged like old maids crowding in a window. His foot, tapping, created a racket like ghosts riding roughshod under the table. He raised both hands repeatedly, a paterfamilias trying for a moment’s quiet among unruly offspring. Finally he slammed his fist on the tabletop like a highwayman. The Gypsies ceased. Pistoli’s head swung left and right a few more times.

“My life…is at your disposal,” he said, in a husky voice. “I’m ready to jump from any church steeple at the crack of dawn, if that happens to be your wish.”

“Then you really love me? When nobody loved me till now,” Miss Maszkerádi murmured.

“I’m past the midpoint of my life, I’ve eaten the better part of my bread, like they say, and I’ve never loved anyone but you,” was Mr. Pistoli’s solemn reply.

“But Mr. Pistoli!” exclaimed Eveline.

“Let’s stop fooling around. Miss Eveline, I’m here to betroth the young lady, your guest. I beg you to give her to me in marriage.”

Mr. Pistoli, having said this, lowered himself onto one knee, much to the amusement of the ladies of Hideaway. The Gypsies underscored this with a tremolo flourish of strings, meanwhile nearly smashing the sides of the contrabass, whereupon the dogs began to howl, waking the haystack-embedded watchman, who was already approaching at a run.

“I am in love like a common vagabond. I implore you to forgive me.” Mr. Pistoli turned clasped hands toward Eveline.

“Let’s not get all mushy,” Miss Maszkerádi interjected dryly. “In this house it’s always Eveline who winds up the musical clock to play the tune from grandma’s time. I happen to be a seriously world-weary woman, my fine young man. Let’s talk turkey now, like traveling salesmen in the waiting room at the train station. What will you give me if I marry you?”

Pistoli dusted off his knee. In his frustration he gave a twist to his thick mustache like a pork butcher left holding the knife while the squealing pig runs off. Women he very much preferred to address in theatrical tones like a wandering comedian, ranting and raving, “slain,” only to move on, without wasting one serious word all his life. As a rule he bestowed his favors on women only as long as they believed his lies. Like lunatics, these women stared goggle-eyed, nostrils flaring and quivering, ears pricked up at his never-before-heard avowals, and gazed out through the window in a prolonged brown study. Yes, Mr. Pistoli’s favorites were women prone to hysteria, whom he would sniff out seven counties off. He would rub his hands together in ecstasy hearing news of a woman who had had her hair shorn because she fancied it singed her shoulders. He capered like a billy goat when a woman confessed to him that she had swallowed her child. And he was utterly elated meeting a young wife at Munkács, who confided in a whisper that ever since her chin sprouted a man’s beard she’s been afraid to look in a mirror. He dealt with these women like a lion tamer, and packed up as soon as he tired of the fun.