surely as ever again I may find myself even half-way drawn to a man by
the inner passion of an Uranian love--not by the mere friendship of a
colder psychic complexion--if that man really shows me that he cares
for me with respect, with intimate affection, with trust... then he
shall know absolutely what manner of man I am! He shall be shown
frankly with what deeper than common regard he has become a part of my
soul and life! He shall be put to a test!... with no shrinkings on my
part. Better break apart early, than later... if he say that we break!
Never again, if unquiet with such a passion, would I attempt to wear
to the end the mask, to fight out the lie, the struggle! I must be
taken as I am, pardoned for what I am; or neither pardoned nor taken.
I have learned my lesson once and well. But the need of my maintaining
such painful honesty has come seldom. I have been growing in to
expecting no more of life, no realizing whatever of the Type that had
been my undoing, that must mean always my peace or my deepest
unrest... till I met you, Imre! Till I met you!"
"Met you! Yes, and a strange matter in my immediately passionate
interest in you... another one of the coincidences in our interest for
each other... is the racial blood that runs in your veins. You are a
Magyar. You have not now to be told of the unexplainable, the
mysterious affinity between myself and your race and nation; of
my sensitiveness, ever since I was a child, to the chord which
Magyarország and the Magyar sound in my heart. Years have only added
to it, till thy land, thy people, Imre, are they not almost my land,
my people? Now I have met thee. Thou wert _to be;_ somewhat, at least,
to be for me! That thou wast ordained to come into the world that I
should love thee, no matter what thy race... that I believe! But, see!
Fate also has willed that thou shouldst be Magyar, one of the Children
of Emesa, one of the Folk of Árpád!"
"I cannot tell thee, Imre,... oh, I have no need now to try!.... what
_thou_ hast become for me. My Search ended when thou and I met. Never
has my dream given me what is this reality of thyself. I love this
world now only because thou art in it. I respect thee wholly--I
respect myself--certain, too, of that coming time, however far away
now, when no man shall ever meet any intelligent civilization's
disrespect simply _because_ he is similisexual, Uranian! But--oh,
Imre, Imre!--I _love_ thee, as can love only the Uranian... once more
helpless, and therewith hopeless!--but this time no longer silent,
before the Friendship which is Love, the Love which is Friendship."
"Speak my sentence. I make no plea. I have kept my pledge to confess
myself tonight. But I would have fulfilled it only a little later,
were I not going away from thee tomorrow. I ask nothing, except what
I asked long ago of that other, of whom I have told thee! Endure my
memory, as thy friend! Friend? That at least! For, I would say
farewell, believing that I shall still have the right to call thee
'friend'--even--O God!--when I remember tonight. But whether that
right is to be mine, or not, is for thee to say. Tell me!"
I stopped.
Full darkness was now about us. Stillness had so deepened that the
ceasing of my own low voice made it the more suspenseful. The sweep of
the night-wind rose among the acacias. The birds of shadow flitted
about us. The gloom seemed to have entered my soul--as Death into
Life. Would Imre ever speak?
His voice came at last. Never had I heard it so moved, so melancholy.
A profound tenderness was in every syllable.
"If I could... my God! if I only could!.. say to thee what I cannot.
Perhaps... some time.... Forgive me, but thou breakest my heart!.... Not
because I care less for thee as my friend.... no, above all else, not
that reason! We stay together, Oswald!... We shall always be what we
have become to each other! Oh, _we_ cannot change, not through all our
lives! Not in death, not in anything! Oh, Oswald! that thou couldst
think, for an instant, that I--I--would dream of turning away from
thee... suffer a break for us two... because thou art made in thy nature
as God makes mankind--as each and all, or not as each and all! We are
what we are!... This terrible life of ours... this existence that men
insist on believing is almost _all_ to be understood nowadays--probed
through and through--decided!... but that ever was and will be just
mystery, _all_!...... Friendship between us? Oh, whether we are near or
far! Forever! Forever, Oswald!... Here, take my hand! As long as I
live... and beyond _then_! Yes, by God above us, by God in us!... Only,
only, for the sake of the bond between us from this night, promise me
that thou wilt never speak again of what thou hast told me of
thyself--never, unless I break the silence. Nevermore a word of--of
thy--thy--feeling for me. There are other things for us to talk of,
my dear brother? Thou wilt promise?"
With his hand in mine, my heart so lightened that I was as a new
creature, forgetting even the separation before me, I promised.
Gladly, too. For, instead of loss, with this parting, what gain was
mine! Imre knew me now as myself!--he really knew me: and yet was now
rather the more my friend than less, so I could believe, after this
tale of mine had been told him! His sympathy--his respect--his
confidence--his affection--his continued and deeper share in my
strange and lonely life--even if lands and seas should divide us
two--ah, in those instants of my reaction and relief, it seemed to me
that I had everything that my heart had ever sought of him, or would
seek! I made the promise too, gladly with all my soul. Why should he
or I ever speak of any stranger emotions again?
Abruptly, after another long pressure of my hand, my friend started
up.
"Oswald we must go home!" he exclaimed. "It's nearly nine o'clock,
surely. I have a regimental report to look at before ten... this affair
of mine tomorrow."
Nearly the whole of our return-ride we were silent. The tram was full
as before with noisy pleasure-trippers. Even after quitting the
vehicle, neither of us said more than a few sentences... the beauty of
the night, the charm of the old Z... park, and so on. But again Imre
kept his arm in mine, all the way we walked. It was, I knew, not
accident. It was the slight sign of earnest thoughts, that he did not
care to utter in so many words.
We came toward my hotel.
"I shall not say farewell tonight, Oswald," said Imre, "you know how I
hate farewells at any time... hate them as much as you. There is more
than enough of such a business. Much better to be sensible.. to add as
few as one can to the list.... I will look in on you tomorrow... about
ten o'clock. I don't start till past midday."
I assented. I was no longer disturbed by any mortal concerns, not even
by the sense of the coming sundering. Distrust--loneliness--the one
was past, even if the other were to come!
The hotel-portier handed me a telegram, as we halted in the light of
the doorway.
"Wait till I read this," I said.
The dispatch ran: "Situation changed. Your coming unnecessary. Await
my letter. Am starting for Scotland."
I gave an exclamation of pleasure, and translated the words to Imre.
"What! Then you need not leave Szent-Istvánhely?" he asked quickly, in
the tone of heartiest pleasure that a friend could wish to hear.
"_Teremtette!_ I am as happy as you!.... What a good thing, too, that
we were so sensible as not to allow ourselves to make a dumpish,
dismal afternoon of it, over there at the Z.... You see, I am right,
my dear fellow.. I am always right!... Philosophy, divine philosophy!
Nothing like it! It makes all the world go round."......
With which Imre touched his _csákó_, laughed his jolliest laugh, and
hurried away to the Commando of the regiment.
I went upstairs, not aware of there being stairs to climb... unless
they might be steps to the stars. In fact the stars, it seemed to me,
could not only shine their clearest in Szent-Istvánhely; but, after
all, could take clement as well as unfriendly courses, in mortal
destiny.
III.
FACES--HEARTS--SOULS.
"Think'st thou that I could bear to part
With thee?--and learn to halve my heart?"
"No more reproach, no more despair!"
BYRON
".... Et deduxit eos in portum voluntatis sorum".
_Psalm._ CVI, 30.
Next morning, before I was dressed, came this note:
"I have just received word that I must take my company out to the
camp at once. Please excuse my not coming. It does not make so much
difference, now that you are to stay. Will write you from the Camp.
Only a few days absence. I shall think of you.
Imre.
P. S. Please write me."
I was amused, as well as pleased, at this characteristic missive.
My day passed rather busily. I had not time to send even a card to
Imre; I had no reason to do so. To my surprise, the omission was
noticed. For, on the following morning I was in receipt of a lively
military _Ansichtskarte_ with a few words scratched on it; and at
evening came the ensuing communication; which, by the by, was neither
begun with the "address of courtesy", as the "Complete Letter-Book"
calls it, nor ended with the "salute of ceremony", recommended by the
same useful volume; they being both of them details which Imre had
particularly told me he omitted with his intimate "friends who were
not prigs." He wrote:
"Well, how goes it with you? With me it is dull and fatiguing enough
out here. You know how I hate all this business, even if you and
Karvaly insist on my trying to like it. I have a great deal to say to
you this evening that I really cannot write. Today was hot and it
rained hard. Dear Oswald, you do not know how I value your friendship.
Yesterday I saw the very largest frog that ever was created. He looked
the very image of our big vis-a-vis in the Casino, Hofkapellan
Számbor. Why in God's name do you not write? The whole city is full of
_tiz-filléres_ picture-postcards! Buy one, charge it to my account,
write me on it.--
Imre.
P. S. I think of you often, Oswald."
This communication, like its predecessor, was written in a tenth-century
kind of hand, with a blunt lead-pencil! I sent its authour a few
lines, of quite as laconical a tone as he had given me to understand
he so much preferred.
The next day, yet another communication from the P... Camp! Three
billets in as many days, from a person who "hated to write letters,"
and "never wrote them when he could get out of it!" Clearly, Imre in
camp was not Imre in Szent-Istvánhely!
"Thank you, dear Oswald, for your note. Do not think too much of that
old nonsense (_azon régi bolondság_) about not writing letters. _It
depends._ I send my this in a spare moment. But I have nothing
whatever to say. Weather here warm and rainy. Oswald, you are a great
deal in my thoughts. I hope I am often in yours. I shall not return
tomorrow, but I intend to be with you on Sunday. Life is wearisome.
But so long as one has a friend, one can get on with much that is part
of the burden; or possibly with _all_ of it.--Yours ever--
Imre"
I have neglected to mention that the second person of intimate Magyar
address, the "thou" and "thee", was used in these epistles of Imre, in
my answers, with the same instinctiveness that had brought it to our
lips on that evening in the Z... park. I shall not try to translate
it systematically, however; any more than I shall note with system
its disused English equivalents in the dialogue that occurs in the
remainder of this record. More than once before the evening named,
Imre and I had exchanged this familiarity, half in fun. But now it
had come to stay. Thenceforth we adhered to it; a kind of serious
symbolism as well as intimate sweetness in it.
I looked at that note with attention: first, because it was so opposed
in tenor to the Imre von N... "model". Second, because there appeared
to have been a stroke under the commonplace words "Yours ever". That
stroke had been smirched out, or erased. Was it like Imre to be
sentimental, for an instant, in a letter?--even in the most ordinary
accent? Well, if he had given way to it, to try to conceal such a sign
of the failing, particularly without re-writing the letter... why, that
was characteristic enough! In sending him a newspaper-clipping, along
with a word or so, I referred to the unnecessary briskness of our
correspondence. ".... Pray do not trouble yourself, my dear N..., to
change your habits on my account. Do not write, now or ever, only
because a word from you is a pleasure to me. Besides I am not yet on
my homeward-journey. Save your postal artillery."
To the foregoing from me, Imre's response was this:
"It is three o'clock in the morning, and everybody in this camp must
be sound asleep, except your most humble servant. You know that I
sometimes do not sleep well, Lord knows why. So I sit here, and scrawl
this to thee, dear Oswald... All the more willingly because I am
_awfully_ out of sorts with myself..... I have nothing special to
write thee; and nevertheless how much I would _now_ be glad to _say_
to thee, were we together. See, dearest friend... thou hast walked
from that other world of thine into my life, and I have taken my place
in thine, because for thee and for me there shall be, I believe, a
happiness henceforth that not otherwise could come to us. I have known
what it is to suffer, just because there has been no man to whom I
could speak or write as to thee. Dear friend, we are much to one
another, and we shall be more and more... No, would not write if it
were not a pleasure to me to do it. I promise thee so. We had a great
regimental athletic contest this afternoon, and I took two prizes. I
will try to sleep now, for I must be on my feet very early. Good
night, or rather good-morning, and remember...
Thine own
Imre."
This letter gave me many reflections. There was no need for its
closing injunction. To tell the truth, Imre von N... was beginning to
bewilder me!--this Imre of the P... Camp and of the mail-bag, so
unlike the Imre of our daily conversations and moods when vis-à-vis.
There was certainly a curious, a growing psychic difference. The
naïveté, the sincerity of the speaking and of the acting Imre was
written into his lines spontaneously enough. But there was that
odd new touch of an equally spontaneous something, a suppressed
emotion--that I could not define. My own letters to Imre certainly
did not ring to the like key. On the contrary (I may as well mention
that it was not of mere accident, but in view of a resolution
carefully considered, and held-to) the few lines which I sent him
during those days were wholly lacking in any such personal utterances
as his. If Imre chose to be inconsistent, I would be steadfast.
All such cogitations as to Imre's letters were however soon unnecessary,
inasmuch as on the tenth day of his Camp-service, he wrote:
"Expect me tomorrow. I am well. I have much to tell thee. After all, a
camp is not a bad place for reflections. It is a tiresome, rainy day
here. I took the second prize for shooting at long range today.
Imre."
Now, I did not suppose that Imre's pent-up communicativeness was
likely to burst out on the topic of the Hungarian local weather, much
less with reference to his feats with a rifle, or in lifting heavy
weights. I certainly could not fancy just what meditations promoted
that remark about the Camp! So far as I knew anything, of such
localities, camps were not favourable to much consecutive thinking
except about the day's work.
I did not expect him till the afternoon should close. I was busy
with my English letters. It was a warm August noon, and even when
coat and waistcoat had been thrown aside, I was oppressed. My
high-ceiled, spacious room was certainly amongst the cooler corners
of Szent-Istvánhely; but the typical ardour of any Central-Hungary
midsummer is almost Italian. Outside, in the hotel-court, the fountain
trickled sleepily. Even the river steamers seemed too torpid to signal
loudly. But suddenly there came a most wide-awake sort of knock; and
Imre, with an exclamation of delight--Imre, erect, bronzed, flushed,
with eyes flashing--with that smile of his which was almost as
flashing as his eyes--Imre, more beautiful than ever, came to me, with
both hands outstretched.
"At last.... and really!" I exclaimed as he hurried over the wide
room, fairly beaming, as with contentment at being once more out of
camp-routine. "And back five hours ahead of time!"
"Five hours ahead of time indeed!" he echoed, laughing. "Thou art
glad? I know I am!"
"Dear Imre, I am immeasurably happy", I replied.
He leaned forward, and lightly kissed my cheek.
What!--he Imre von N--, who so had questioned the warm-hearted
greetings of his friend--Captain M--! An odd lapse indeed!
"I am in a state of regular shipwreck," he exclaimed; standing
up particularly straight again, after a demonstration that so
confounded me as to leave me wordless!--"I have had no breakfast,
no luncheon, nothing to eat since five o'clock. I am tired as a dog,
and hungry--_oh, mint egy vén Kárpáti medve!"_ [Literally, "as an old
Carpathian bear".] "I stopped to have a bath at the Officers'
Baths.. you should see the dust between here and the Camp... and to
change, and write a note to my father. So, if you don't mind, the
sooner I have something to eat and perhaps a nap, why the better. I
am done up!"
In a few moments we were at table. Imre manifestly was not too fagged
to talk and laugh a great deal; with a truly Homeric exhibition of his
appetite. The budget of experiences at the Camp was immediately drawn
upon, with much vivacity. But as luncheon ended, my guest admitted
that the fatigues of the hot morning-march with his troop, from P....
(during which several sunstrokes had occurred, those too-ordinary
incidents of Hungarian army-movements in summer) were reacting on him.
So I went to the Bank, as usual, for letters; transacted some other
business on the way; and left Imre to himself. When I returned to my
room an hour or so later, he was stretched out, sound asleep, on the
long green sofa. His sword and his close-fitting fatigue-blouse were
thrown on a chair. The collarless, unstarched shirt (that is so much
an improvement on our civilian garment) was unbuttoned at the throat;
the sleeves rolled up to his shoulders, in unconscious emphasizing of
the deepened sun-tan of his fine skin. The long brown eye-lashes lying
motionless, against his cheek, his physical abandonment, his deep,
regular, soundless breathing... all betokened how the day had spent
itself on his young strength. Once left alone, he had fallen asleep
where he had sat down.
A great and profoundly human poet, in one famous scene, speaks of
those emotions that come to us when we are watching, in his sleep, a
human being that we love. Such moments are indeed likely to be
subduing to many a sensitive man and woman. They bring before our eyes
the effect of a living statue; of a beauty self-unconscious, almost
abstract, if the being that we love be beautiful. Strongly, suddenly,
comes also the hint at helplessness; the suggestion of protection from
_us_, however less robust. Or the idea of the momentary but actual
absence of that other soul from out of the body before us, a vanishing
of that spirit to whom we ourselves cling. We feel a subconscious
sense of the inevitable separation forever, when there shall occur the
Silence of "the Breaker of Bonds, the Sunderer of Companionships, the
Destroyer of Fellowships, the Divider of Hearts"--as (like a knell of
everything earthly and intimate!) the old Arabian phrases lament the
merciless divorce of death!
I stood and watched Imre a moment, these things in my mind. Then,
moving softly about the room, lest he should be aroused, I began
changing my clothes for the afternoon. But more than once the spell of
my sleeping guest drew me to his side. At last, scarce half dressed, I
sat down before him, to continue to look at him. Yes.. his face had the
same expression now, as he slumbered there, that I had often remarked
in his most silent moments of waking. There were not only the calm
regular beauty, the manly uprightness, his winning naïveté of
character written all through such outward charm for me; but along
with that came again the appealing hint of an inward sadness; the
shadow of some enrooted, hidden sorrow that would not pass, however
proudly concealed.
"God bless thee, Imre!" my heart exclaimed in benediction, "God bless
thee, and make thee happy!... happier than I! Thou hast given me thy
friendship. I shall never ask of God... of Fate... anything more...
save that the gift endure till we two endure not!"
The wish was like an echo from the Z... park. Or, rather, it was an
echo from a time far earlier in my life. Once again, with a mystic
certainty, I realized that _those_ days of Solitude were now no longer
of any special tyranny upon my moods. That was at an end for me,
verily! O, my God! _That_ was at an end!....
Imre opened his eyes.
"Great Árpád!", he exclaimed, smiling sleepily, "is it so late? You
are dressing for the evening!"
"It is five o'clock," I answered. "But what difference does that make?
Don't budge. Go to sleep again, if you choose. You need not think of
getting supper at home. We will go to the F-- Restaurant."
"So be it. And perhaps I shall ask you to keep me till morning, my
dear fellow! I am no longer sleepy, but somehow or other I do feel
most frightfully knocked-out! Those country roads are misery..... And
I am a poor sleeper often,.... that it is, in a way. I get to
worrying... to wondering over all sorts of things that there's no good
in studying about... in daylight or dark."
"You never told me till lately, in one of your letters, that you were
so much of an insomniac, Imre. Is it new?"
"Not in the least new. I have not wished to say anything about it to
anybody. What's the use! Oh, there many are things that I haven't had
time to tell you--things I have not spoken about with anyone--just as
is the case with most men of sense in this world... eh? But do you
know," he went on, sitting up and continuing with a manner more and
more reposeful, thoughtful, strikingly unlike his ordinary nervous
self, ".. but do you know that I have come back from the Camp to you,
my dear Oswald, certain that I shall never be so restless and troubled
a creature again. Thanks to you. For you see, so much that I have shut
into myself I know now that I can trust to your heart. But give me a
little time. To have a friend to trust myself to _wholly_--that is new
to me."
I was deeply touched. I felt certain again that a change of some
sort--mysterious, profound--had come over Imre, during those few days
at the Camp. Something had happened. I recognized the mood of his
letters. But what had evolved or disclosed it?
"Yes, my dear von N..." I returned, "your letters have said that, in a
way, to me. How shall I thank you for your confidence, as well as for
your affection?"
"Ah, my letters! Bother my letters! They said nothing much! You know
I cannot write letters at all. What is more, you have been believing
that I wrote you as... as a sort of duty. That whatever I said--or a
lot of it--well, there were things which you fancied were not really
I. I understood why you could think it."
"I never said that, Imre," I replied, sitting down beside him on the
sofa.
"Not in so many words. But my guilty conscience prompted me. I mean
that word, 'conscience', Oswald. For--I have not been fair to you,
not honest. The only excuse is that I have not been honest with
myself. You have thought me cold, reserved, abrupt... a fantastic sort
of friend to you. One who valued you, and yet could hardly speak out
his esteem--a careless fellow into whose life you have taken only
surface-root. That isn't all. You have believed that I... that
I... never could comprehend things... feelings... which you have lived
through to the full... have suffered from... with every beat of your
heart. But you are mistaken."
"I have no complaint against you, dear Imre." No, no! God knows that!
"No? But I have much against myself. That evening in the Z...
park... you remember... when you were telling me"...
I interrupted him sharply: "Imre!"
He continued--"That evening in the Z-- park when you were telling
me"--
"Imre, Imre! You forget our promise!"
"No, I do _not_ forget! It was a one-sided bargain, _I_ am free to
break it for a moment, _nem igaz?_ Well then, I break it! There! Dear
friend, if you have ever doubted that I have a heart,... that I would
trust you utterly, that I would have you know me as I am.... then from
this afternoon forget to doubt! I have hid myself from you, because I
have been too proud to confess myself _not enough for myself!_ I
have sworn a thousand times that I could and would bear anything
alone--alone--yes, till I should die. Oswald--for God's sake--for our
friendship's sake--do not care less for me because I am weary of
struggling on thus alone! I shall not try to play hero, even to
myself... not any longer. Oswald..., listen... you told me your story.
Well, I have a story to tell you... Then you will understand.
Wait... wait... one moment!... I must think how, where, to begin. My
story is short compared with yours, and not so bitter; yet it is no
pleasant one."