He knew all this, but only intellectually, and the intellect meant nothing in the face of this desire, which knew only one thing: the woman he had thought of as unattainable and elusive for fifteen years was here; at last he could see her in broad daylight, at last he might discern from her body of today what her body had been like then, from her face of today what her face had been like then. Finally he might read the unimaginable expression on her face while making love.
He clasped her shoulders and looked into her eyes: "Don't fight me. It's absurd to fight me."
12
But she shook her head, because she knew that it wasn't absurd for her to refuse him; she knew men and their approach to the female body; she was aware that in love even the most passionate idealism will not rid the body's surface of its terrible, basic importance; it is true that she still had a nice figure, which had preserved its original proportions, and especially in her clothes she
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looked quite youthful; but she knew that when she undressed she would expose the wrinkles in her neck, the long scar from stomach surgery ten years before.
And just as the consciousness of her present physical appearance, which she had forgotten a short while before, returned to her, so there arose from the street below (until now, this room had seemed to her safely high above her life) the anxieties of the morning; they were filling the room, they were alighting on the prints behind glass, on the armchair, on the table, on the empty coffee cup?and her son's face dominated their procession; when she caught sight of it, she blushed and fled somewhere deep inside herself; foolishly she had been on the point of wishing to escape from the path he had assigned to her and which she had trodden up to now with a smile and words of enthusiasm; she had been on the point of wishing (at least for a moment) to escape, and now she must obediently return and admit that it was the only path suitable for her. Her son's face was so derisive that, in shame, she felt herself growing smaller and smaller before him until, humiliated, she turned into the mere scar on her stomach.
Her host held her by the shoulders and once again repeated: "It's absurd for you to fight me," and she shook her head, but quite mechanically, because what she was seeing was not her host but the face of her son-enemy, whom she hated the more the smaller and the more humiliated she felt. She heard him reproaching her about the canceled grave, and now, from the chaos
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of her memory, illogically there surged forth the sentence she had shouted at his face with rage: The old dead must make room for the young dead, my boy!
13
He didn't have the slightest doubt that this would actually end in disgust, for even now the look he fixed on her (a searching and penetrating look) was not free from a certain disgust, but the curious thing was that he didn't mind; on the contrary, it aroused him and goaded him on as if he were wishing for this disgust: the desire for coition approached the desire for disgust; the desire to read on her body what he had for so long been unable to know mingled with the desire immediately to soil the newly deciphered secret.
Where did this passion come from? Whether he realized it or not, a unique opportunity was presenting itself: to him his visitor embodied everything that he had never had, that had escaped him, that he had missed, every-thing that by its absence made his present age intolerable, with his thinning hair, his dismally meager balance sheet; and he, whether he realized it or only vaguely suspected it, could now strip all these pleasures that had been denied him of their significance and color (for it was precisely their terrific colorfulness that made his life
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so sadly colorless), he could reveal that they were worthless, that they were only appearances doomed to destruction, that they were only metamorphosed dust; he could take revenge upon them, demean them, destroy them.
"Don't fight me," he repeated as he tried to draw her close.
14
Before her eyes she still saw her son's derisive face, and when now her host drew her to him by force she said, "Please, leave me alone for a minute," and she escaped his embrace; she didn't want to interrupt what was racing through her head: the old dead must make room for the young dead and monuments were useless, even her monument, which this man beside her had honored for fifteen years in his thoughts, was useless, all monuments were useless. That is what she silently said to her son. And with vengeful delight she watched his contorted face and heard him shout: "You never talked like this before, Mother!" Of course she knew that she had never spoken like this, but this moment was filled with a light, under which everything became quite different.
There was no reason why she should give preference to monuments over life; her own monument had a single
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meaning for her: that at this moment she could abuse it for the sake of her disparaged body; the man who was sitting beside her appealed to her; he was young and very likely (almost certainly) he was the last man who would appeal to her and whom, at the same time, she could have, and that alone was important; if he then became disgusted with her and destroyed her monument in his thoughts, it made no difference because her monument was outside her, just as his thoughts and memory were outside her, and everything that was outside her made no difference. "You never talked like this before, Mother!" She heard her son's cry, but she paid no attention to him. She was smiling.
"You're right, why should I fight you?" she said quietly, and she got up. Then she slowly began to unbutton her dress. Evening was still a long way off. This time the room was filled with light.
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Dr. Havel After Twenty Years
1
When Dr. Havel was leaving for a cure at a spa, his beautiful wife had tears in her eyes. She had them there out of compassion (some time ago he had been stricken with gall bladder attacks, and until that time she had never seen him sick), but she also had them there because the coming three weeks of separation aroused jealous anguish in her.
What? Could this actress?admired, beautiful, so many years younger than he?be jealous of an aging gentleman who in recent months had not left the house without slipping into his pocket a small bottle of tablets to relieve his insidious pains?
That, however, was the case, and no one understood her. Not even Dr. Havel, for she seemed to him invulnerably supreme, judging by her appearance. It had charmed him all the more when he had begun to know her better several years before and discovered her simplicity, her homebodiness, and her shyness; it was curious: even after they were married, the actress altogether disregarded the advantages of her youth; it was as if she was bewitched by love and by her husband's formidable reputation as a womanizer, so that he seemed to her to always be elusive and unfathomable, and even though he tried to convince her every
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day with infinite patience (and absolute sincerity) that he did not have and never would have anyone but her, she was still bitterly and madly jealous; only her natural refinement kept a lid on this nasty feeling, but i( continued to bubble up even more.
Havel knew all this; at times it moved him, at times it angered him, and sometimes it wearied him, but because he loved his wife he did everything to relieve her anguish. This time again he made an attempt to help her: he greatly exaggerated his pain and the dangerous state of his health, for he knew that the fear his wife felt because of his illness was uplifting and comforting to her, whereas the fear inspired in her by his health (a fear of infidelities and pitfalls) wore her down; he often talked about Dr. Frantiska, who was going to treat him at the spa; the actress knew her, and the thought of her physical appearance, completely benign and absolutely alien to any lecherous ideas, reassured her.
When Dr. Havel was seated in the bus, looking at the tearful eyes of the beauty standing on the sidewalk, to tell the truth he felt relieved, for her love was not onl
y sweet but also oppressive. Once at the spa he didn't feel so well. After partaking of the mineral waters, which he had to do three times a day and which went right through his body, he had pains and felt tired. And when he met good-looking women in the colonnade, with dismay he found that he felt old and didn't desire them. The only woman whom he had been granted among the boundless number was the good Frantiska,
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who jabbed injections into him, took his blood pressure, prodded his stomach, and supplied him with information about what was going on at the spa and about her two children, especially her son, who, she said, looked like her.
This was his state of mind when he received a letter from his wife. Ah, alas, this time her refinement had kept poor watch over her passionate jealousy; the letter was full of grievances and complaints; she said she did-n't want to reproach him with anything, but that she hadn't slept the whole night; she said she well knew that her love was a burden to him, and she was able to imagine how happy he was now that he was away from her and could rest a bit; yes, she understood how much she irritated him, and she also knew that she was too weak to change his life, which was always to be besieged by hordes of women; yes she knew it, she didn't protest against it, but she cried and couldn't sleep. . . .
When Dr. Havel had read through this list of laments, he recalled the three years during which he had tried patiently but in vain to portray himself to his wife as a reformed libertine and a loving husband; he felt immense weariness and hopelessness. In anger he crumpled up the letter and threw it into the wastebasket.
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2
The following day he felt a little better; his gall bladder no longer hurt at all, and he felt a slight but unmistakable desire for several of the women whom he had seen walking through the colonnade in the morning. This small gain was, however, wiped out by his recognition of something far worse: these women passed him by without the least show of interest; to them he blended into the ailing parade of pale mineral-water sippers.
"You see, it's getting better," said Dr. Frantiska, after prodding him that morning. "But stick strictly to the diet. The women patients you run into at the colonnade are fortunately rather old and sick, so they shouldn't bother you, and for you it's better that way, because above all you need to rest."
Havel was tucking his shirt into his pants; he was standing in front of a small mirror hanging in a corner above the washbasin and bitterly examining his face. Then he said very sadly: "You're wrong. I clearly noticed that among the majority of old women there was a minority of quite pretty women strolling through the colonnade. Only they didn't spare me so much as a glance."
"I'll believe anything you like, but not that," the woman doctor replied, and Dr. Havel, having torn his eyes away from the sad spectacle in the mirror, peered into her unquestioning, loyal eyes. He felt much gratitude toward her, even though he knew she was only
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expressing belief in a tradition, belief in the role she had become accustomed to seeing him play: a role of which she disapproved (but always softheartedly).
Then someone knocked at the door. When Frantiska opened it a little, the head of a young man, nodding in greeting, could be seen. "Ah, it's you! I'd completely forgotten!" She asked the young man to come into the consulting room and explained to Havel: "This is the editor of the spa magazine; he's been looking for you for the past two days."
The young man began to apologize at length for dis-turbing Dr. Havel at such an awkward time, and tried to take on a facetious air (unfortunately it turned out somewhat forced and unpleasantly strained). He said that Dr. Havel should not be angry with Dr. Frantiska for betraying his presence here, for the editor would have caught up with him anyway, maybe even in the bathtub with the carbonic water, and also that Dr. Havel should not be angry at his audacity, for this attribute was one of the necessities of the journalistic profession and without it, he wouldn't be able to earn his living. Then he became talkative about the illustrated magazine, which the spa put out once a month, and he explained that in every issue there was an interview with some prominent patient taking the cure. He mentioned a few names, among them a member of the government, a woman singer, and a hockey player.
"You see," said Frantiska, "the beautiful women at the colonnade haven't shown an interest in you; on the other hand you interest journalists."
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"That's an awful step down," said Havel. He was, however, quite pleased with this interest, and he smiled at the editor, refusing his proposal with touchingly transparent insincerity: "I, my dear sir, am neither a member of the government nor a hockey player, and even less a woman singer. And although I don't want to underestimate my scientific research, it interests experl s rather than the general public."
"But I don't want to interview you; that didn't even occur to me," replied the young man with prompt sincerity. "I want to talk with your wife. I've heard that she's going to visit you here."
"Then you're better informed than I," said Havel rather coldly; he then approached the mirror again and looked at his face; it didn't please him. He buttoned the top button of his shirt and kept silent while the young editor became embarrassed and lost his avowed journalistic audacity; he apologized to the woman doctor, he apologized to Dr. Havel, and he was glad to be leaving.
3
The editor was scatterbrained rather than stupid. He didn't think much of the spa magazine, but, being its sole editor, every month he had to do the things necessary to fill the twenty-four pages with the requisite
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photographs and words. In the summer it was tolerably easy, because the spa teemed with prominent guests, various orchestras took turns at the open-air concerts, and there was no lack of gossip items. On the other hand in the damp and cold months the colonnade was filled with countrywomen and boredom, so he couldn't let an opportunity escape him. When yesterday he had heard somewhere that the husband of a well-known actress was taking a cure here, the husband of the very one who was appearing in the new detective film that was currently and successfully distracting the gloomy spa guests, he began immediately to hunt for him.
But now he was ashamed.
He was always unsure of himself and for this reason slavishly dependent on the people with whom he came in contact. It was in their sight and judgment that he timidly found out what he was like and how much he was worth. Now he concluded drat the had been found wretched, stupid, and tiresome, and he took this all the more to heart because at first sight he had rather liked the man who had so judged him. And so he uneasily telephoned the woman doctor the same day to ask her who in fact the actress's husband was, and learned that he was not only a top physician but was also very famous in other ways too; had the editor really never heard of him?
The editor confessed that he hadn't, and the woman doctor indulgently said: "Well, of course, you're still a child. And fortunately you're an ignoramus in the field in which Havel has excelled."
When more questions to more people revealed that
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the field was erotic knowledge, in which Dr. Havel was said to have no competition in his native land, the edi-tor was mortified to have been called an ignoramus, and even to have confirmed this by never having heard of Havel. And because he had always longingly dreamed of someday being an expert like this man, it bothered him that he had acted like a disagreeable fool precisely in front of him, in front of his master. He remembered his own chatter, his silly jokes, his lack of tact, and he humbly had to agree that the verdict he read in the master's disapproving silence and absentminded look into the mirror was justified.
The spa town in which this story takes place is not large and people meet one another several times a day, whether they want to or not. And so it wasn't difficult for the
young editor soon to come across the man he was thinking about. It was late afternoon, and a crowd of gall bladder sufferers was slowly moving among the pillars of the colonnade. Dr. Havel was sipping the smelly water from a porcelain mug and grimacing slightly. The young editor went up to him and began confusedly to apologize. He had never suspected, he said, that the husband of the well-known actress was he, Dr. Havel, and not a different Havel; in Bohemia there were many Havels, and unfortunately the actress's husband had not been associated in the editor's mind with that famous doctor, about whom the editor had, of course, long ago heard, and not only as a top physician, but?perhaps he might venture to say it?also on account of the most varied rumors and anecdotes.
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There's no denying that the young mans words pleased Dr. Havel in his ill-humored state of mind, especially the remarks about the rumors, for Havel well knew that they were subject, like man himself, to the laws of aging and extinction.
"You don't need to apologize," he said to the young man, and because he saw the editor's embarrassment, he took him gently by the arm and got him to take a stroll through the colonnade. "Anyhow, it's not worth talking about," he consoled him. At the same time, though, he himself dwelled on the apology and several times said: "So you've heard about me?" and each time laughed happily.
"Yes," the editor eagerly assented. "But I didn't imagine you at all like this."
"Well, how did you imagine me?" asked Dr. Havel with genuine interest, and when the editor stammered something, not knowing what to say, Havel said gloomily: "I know. Unlike real people the characters in stories, legends, and anecdotes are made of a substance not subject to the corruption of age. No, by this I don't mean to say that legends and anecdotes are immortal, certainly they too age, and with them their characters, only they grow old in such a way that their appearance does not change and deteriorate but pales slowly, becomes transparent, and eventually merges with the transparency of space. So in the end Pepe le Moko disappears as well as Havel the Collector, and also Moses and Pallas Athena and Saint Francis of Assisi. But consider-that Francis will slowly grow pale, and with him the lit-
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tle birds that are sitting on his shoulder, and the fawn that rubs against his leg, and the grove of olive trees that provides him with shade; consider that his whole landscape will become transparent with him, and together they will slowly turn into comforting azure, while I, my dear friend, just as I am, naked, torn out of a legend, am going to vanish against the background of an implacably garish landscape and before the eyes of derisive, living youth."