The Story of My Wife (49 page)

But
how
could it be, for God's sake, especially for a man such as myself? Where will he end up, what will he ever accomplish, if he just manages to get by, timidly, and at the same time squeamishly, too. . . ?

Hang it all, shouldn't I rather live a little? If it doesn't work out, I can always do something about it.

That was one day. On the very next, I thought all this was sheer nonsense. Unworkable, unfeasible. Fatally flawed. And as always at such times, I kept examining myself in the looking glass.

"The fox is the same, only the pate is grayer," my father liked to say. And now me; that's where I am at. For this thing creeps up on you, oh yes. It wasn't even my hair that was gray but my lips, under my eyes . . . those pale shadows here and there. And this simply
had
to be noticed by anyone so affected.

Except it was no use. I could offer myself any explanation I wished, there is no remedy for bedazzlement. It came over me even more forcefully in my sleep. In one of my dreams (only Father Barham's legends or Tenniel's drawings had such a profound effect on me), I implored a giant named Fion Cumhall to let me live a little longer. For he did vanquish me, alas, and what had never happened before: his foot was on my throat.

But I tried to reason with him: "What good will it do you to kill me?" And what was also a first: I begged him to spare me because I was still young, my time hadn't yet come.

It's quite true; in this dream I was merely eighteen years old. And pale and skinny.

I will marry her—that's where I was just before. Or I'll marry the other, the older one, I suddenly thought. It will be lovely. I'll be able to see her at least. I'll arrange it so that she will have lunch with us every Sunday. For never to see her again . . . no, I couldn't take that.

The little one was called Louise, and she was ever so slight, my Louise was. She had big, serious eyes, but no breasts, no curves, only a brooding hardness. And it was precisely this hardness I was in love with ... Or is the mere thought that something like this can still happen to me downright ridiculous? I didn't ask. Anyway, in front of whom should I have been embarrassed at this point? Everytime I was with her I had the feeling that this world— creation!—was a worthy piece of work after all. Not art or music or things invented by man, but she.

Oh, and when she got sick . . .

What emptiness, what yawning boredom at those concerts. The older one was sitting right next to me, but even that didn't help. In fact I thought: how can I marry her if she keeps yawning that way?

And when she finally showed up after weeks of absence—how strange that was, too. I spotted her right away, as soon as she entered, though there were lots of people in the hall, a full house, quite a crush, actually. But it was almost as though the hall itself rose a little and became brighter—I had this distinct impression. In short, I had not been this heady since my youth.

Let me just point out that Madeleine was only three years older than her kid sister, yet she would have been willing to marry me, I could already tell. Were there any indications? There always are. For example, she began to fix my tea, too, of late . . . Actually, this may not mean all that much; at the university it's customary to do that for a fellow student. But the way she took care of me now, gently, subtly, asking me if I was tired, if it wouldn't be better to go home, and so on . . . And what was most revealing: the way she accepted my flowers. For now I brought her flowers almost every day, a few stems or even a small bouquet, and as I was usually there early, I simply put it on her desk without saying a word. And she didn't comment on it, either. In this silence lay the true meaning of the moment. As she picked up the flowers, put them in water, nursed them, nestled them . . . every movement she made expressed the significance of the act. And the flowers, placed in a clean glass, stayed on her desk, right next to her laboratory reports, until evening.

In a word, the message was clear, there was no mistaking it.

But if she was willing, then perhaps the little one was, too, dear God . . . Why wouldn't she be? Three years is not that much of a difference.

But then one day I got very scared. It happened the very night she came to a concert again. She was standing under a huge chandelier, surrounded by people, and naturally looked rather wan, but brightened up as soon as she glanced over my way. She immediately left the group . . . and oh the gleam in her eyes . . .

"Oh, my sweet monsieur," she said radiantly, "I am so glad to see you." And in front of everybody pressed my hand to her heart.

"But we will remain friends, won't we?" she whispered. For just then Madeleine arrived.

And that was the word. It turned me melancholy in an instant. For what could she mean asking me if we'll stay friends? She didn't leave me hanging too long:

"I talked about you with Madeleine," she whispered to me during the concert, and in her silly way she added: "We both know what a respectable, eligible monsieur you are."

In other words, I should go ahead and marry Madeleine; this had been decided for me.

Oh, those damn flowers. What have I done again?

I should add that this concert, too, was overlong, and incredibly boring besides—maddening, I dare say. They performed the ravings of a famous gusher named Mahler for two and a half hours straight; my soul just about shriveled up, my nerves, on the other hand, began to rear like horses.

And no wonder. I was really beginning to get ill from music, especially such music. For just think: at least five hundred different tones could be heard, there was even a huge organ and choruses up in the balcony . . . The composer must have said to himself: Why not? Let them ring out, let them blast away, damn it. And blast away they did. The horns by themselves, the double bases by themselves, then altogether, all five thousand of them, until even the ceiling seemed to be swaying back and forth.

Now at least I won't have to put up with this bloody racket, I thought. I've had enough—of this as well as all my other twisted and murky affairs. I am through playing hide-and-seek, I've had it.

And just then—what timing!—they said they wanted to stop in someplace for a drink.

"I'd love to have a capucino," said the older sister.

"I'd love some egg nog," put in the little one. Sweetly, demurely. And smacked her lips just a little. But then she remembered:

"Oh Lordie, what am I doing? I have just gotten out of bed." It occurred to her, it seems, that this was the right moment for her to take off and leave the two of us alone.

"The very idea," she said, somewhat annoyed, as though she were blaming us for trying to lead her into temptation. For of course, in her heart she was rather conflicted about that egg nog. Still, she was ready to sacrifice herself, the poor darling . . .

"Don't worry about me," she said sullenly. "I can go home by myself." And sure enough, she began to walk without so much as glancing back.

Just as well, I thought to myself. At least I'll be able to get everything off my chest. It's better this way.

So without delay I began to present my views on music.

And not in oblique parables, either, but quite openly, and I must say with such surprising ferocity, as if I wanted to devastate her with those views.

I began by saying I didn't like that music . . . didn't like it one bit. Though I may have had reasons up to now to conceal this from her, the time had come to end the silence—we'd both be better off if we told each other the truth.

"Wait a minute . . . You mean to tell me there was nothing you liked about it?" She stared at me, mildly astounded as she said this.

"Absolutely nothing," I said emphatically. (Of course I was exaggerating; needless to say there
were
things I liked. But that's what happens when repressed anger suddenly erupts.)

"I didn't like it at all, miss. I think these works are dull—dull as a stick of carrot."

My skin tingled with pleasure as I said this; I felt exhilarated for having come out with it at long last.

What I found astonishing, though, was the calm, the tolerance with which she greeted all this. She wasn't that surprised—she did close her eyes for a moment, it's true, but did it as one who knows full well she will pass over this and turn to the next page, as it were—unpleasant truths are often acknowledged this way by people of science.

That's just the way it is, she must have thought to herself.

And this high-minded serenity drove me absolutely up the wall. Or maybe the sad truth is that I
am
a savage at heart. Why did I have to treat her so cruelly? Or was there no affection in me, no kindness toward her? I can't even say that because there was . . . But if so, why did it give me such murderous pleasure to tell her off? As if I were pounding her head with a weeding hoe; as if I tossed a heavy sack off my heart and flung it in her face. Except that these so-called people of culture are phony even under their skin; they have no idea what art (let alone life) is really all about, and never know what to consider good or beautiful. Sophistry is the essence of their being; the question they invariably ask themselves is: How would a distinguished mind react to this? And then they gauge their own enthusiasm accordingly. . . . Then again, what's wrong with all that? Why shouldn't there be falsity in the world?

"Don't think, miss, I am all that ignorant," I said to her and looked slyly into her eyes. "Even if I do express myself clumsily ... In my youth I gave these questions a great deal of thought."

Now I was quite worldly again, fair-minded, charming. I didn't want her to think she was dealing with some beast, some coarse
Naturbursch
who didn't know what the hell he was talking about.

"I'll have you know, miss, that at one time I played the oboe, in addition to the violin; it's not an easy combination, but with us Dutch music lovers, it is almost a tradition."

And then I told her just about everything: that oratorios were a crashing bore, with their interminable dactylic verses and arid parlando passages—everything, in short, that preyed on my mind.

"They're just no good, these 'great' works, believe me," I said to her. "For one thing, they are far too long. And they are full of unsurprising technical displays, which are a strain on the ear after a while. For what
is
art, really . . . have you thought about that one? It's all play; froth and whimsy . . . How can we enjoy anything that doesn't exhilarate the senses, that doesn't somehow affect our spontaneity? The trouble with you people is that you confuse duty with pleasure. You want to learn, you want to educate yourself, and
think
you are enjoying yourself. You are a hard worker, miss, and are convinced you are in raptures. You feign an unquenchable thirst for culture even to yourself, and say: This is no joke, this is Bach! Consequently, even those dactyls must be splendid . . ."

She again closed her eyes, and again ever so patiently.

"And the shorter works?" she asked impassively.

"How do I know, for heaven's sake?" I was doing an admirable job restraining myself but was filled with spite just the same. "I am not crazy about them, either. Why, let's just look at this little song: 'There are things ever so small and still precious. Take pearls, take roses: they're small, yet are worth so much.' Now is this a song, I ask you? It is a philistine commonplace. The composer may very cleverly stress that a pearl, though insignificantly small, is 'sooooo very precious,' yet what's the point? [
For the sake of accuracy I offer hereby the full, original text of the song—I've looked it up since then. It was written by Paul Heyse, music by Hugo Wolf:

Auch kleine Dinge können uns entzücken,

Auch kleine Dinge können teur sein.

Bedenkt wie gern wir uns mit Perlen schmücken.

Sie werden schwer bezahlt und sind nur klein.

Bedenkt, wie klein ist die Olivenfrucht

Und wird um ihre Güte doch gesucht

Denkt an die Rose nur, wie klein sie ist

Und duftet doch so lieglich, wie ihr wisst.

(They left out green peas—that's tiny, too. Captn. J.S.)
]
Is this what women should sing while ironing? Is this what will cheer them up while tending the baby? It nearly drove me crazy when I heard the audience going wild over this song at one of the concerts, clapping until their hands were sore."

"You were, too."

"What do you mean I was, too?"

"Oh yes," she said and tossed her head back defiantly. "You were applauding too, and how . . . And afterwards, on the street, you even remarked—I remember it clearly—how clever and simple that theme was."

"Could be," I said at first. For why blanch over things? What she said was true. She put me in my place, I won't deny it.

"It could very well be," I repeated. "It happens. One says so many things during a lifetime . . ."

"Even things that go against your convictions?"

"In my despair, even that."

"What do you mean in your despair?"

"I mean out of humility."

"Out of humility? But why?"

"Do you think I know? One humbles himself, Mademoiselle Madeleine; not only me, lots of people do; many an artistic success is born this way, I assure you. You sit there in that great hall and say to yourself: These people clapping so enthusiastically cannot all be idiots. There must be something wrong with me. And maybe there
is
something lovely about the pearl being so tiny and all . . . And then you start clapping, too, as hard as you can. Because the last thing you want, miss, is to look like a fool."

"All of that I can understand. But why the enthusiasm? Why pretend to be enthralled, and then even account for the rapture? Don't you see you've overdone it? That you've been . . . playacting almost?"

"Even that
happens sometimes, mademoiselle," I said. And slowed down because, frankly, I didn't know what else to say.

"Yes, even that. There are times when one is compelled to do all sorts of strange things."