"What? I don't understand. Ah, you mean the marriage-part of it? Dear me, no! nothing of the sort! I an only too delighted that it has come about for him. His bride has gone out to Hong-Kong with him, and they expect to settle down into the most complete matrimonial bliss there. Besides, she is a woman that I have always admired simply unspeakably... oh, quite platonically, I beg to assure you!.. as have done just about half the men in Szent-Istvánhely, year in and out—who were not as lucky as my friend. She is absolutely charming—of high rank—an old Bohemian family—beautiful, talented, with the best heart in the world..... and-Istenem!" he exclaimed in a sudden, enthusiastic retrospect... "how she sings Brahms! They are the model of a match.... the handsomest couple that you could ever meet."
"Ah... is your marine friend of uncommon good-looks?" He glanced across at the acacia-tree opposite, as if not having heard my careless question, or else as if momentarily abstracted. I was about to make some other remark, when he replied, in an odd, vaguely-directed accent. "I beg your pardon! Oh, yes, indeed... my friend is of exceptional physique. In the service, he is called 'Hermes Karvaly'... his family name is Karvaly.... though there's Sicilian blood in him too—because he looks so astonishingly like that statue you know—the one by that Greek—Praxiteles, isn't it? However, looks are just one detail of Karvaly's unusualness. And to carry out that, never was a man more head over heels in love with his own wife! Karvaly never does anything by halves."
"I beg to compliment on your enthusiasm for your friend... plainly one of the 'real ones' indeed," I said. For, I was not a little stirred by this frank evidence, of a trait that sometimes brings to its possessor about as much melancholy as it does happiness. "Or, perhaps I would better congratulate Mr. Karvaly and his wife on leaving their merits in such generous care. I can understand that this separation means much to you."
He turned full upon me. It was as if he forgot wholly that I was a stranger. He threw back his head slightly, and opened wide those unforgettable eyes—eyes that were, for the instant, sombre, troubled ones.
"Means much? Ah, ah, so very much! I dare say you think it odd.... but I have never had anything... never... work upon me so!.... I couldn't have believed that such a thing could so upset me. I was thinking of some matters that are part of the affair—of its ridiculous effect on me—just when you came here and sat down. I have a letter from him, too, today, with all sorts of messages from himself and his bride, a regular turtle-dove letter. Ah, the lucky people in this world! What a good thing that there are some!" He paused, reflectively. I did not break the silence ensuing. All at once, "Teremtette!" he exclaimed, with a short laugh, of no particular merriment,—"what must you think of me, my dear sir! Pray pardon me! To be talking along—all this personal, sentimental stuff—rubbish—to a perfect stranger! Idiotic!" He frowned irritably, the lines in his brow showing clear. He was looking me in the eyes with a mixture of, shall I say, antagonism and appeal; psychic counter-waves of inward query and of outward resistance.... of apprehension, too. Then, again he said most formally, "I never talked this way with any one—at least never till now. I am an idiot! I beg your pardon."
"You haven't the slightest need to beg it," I answered, "much less to feel the least discomfort in having spoken so warmly of this friendship and separation. Believe me, stranger or not... and, really we seem to be passing quickly out of that degree of acquaintance... I happen to be able to enter thoroughly into your mood. I have a special sense of the beauty and value of friendship. It often seems a lost emotion. Certainly, life is worth living only as we love our friends and are sure of their regard for us. Nobody ever can feel too much of that; and it is, in some respects, a pity that we don't say it out more. It is the best thing in the world, even if the exchange of friendship for friendship is a chemical result often not to be analyzed; and too often not at all equal as an exchange."
He repeated my last phrase slowly, "Too often—not equal!"
"Not by any means. We all have to prove that. Or most of us do. But that fact must not make too much difference with us; not work too much against our giving our best, even in receiving less than we wish. You may remember that a great French social philosopher has declared that when we love, we are happier in the emotion we feel than in that which we excite."
"That sounds like—like that 'Maxims' gentleman—Rochefoucauld!"
"It was Rochefoucauld."