Gyula Krúdy - Life Is A Dream

The melancholy journalist did not seem to be a properly appreciative audience, for he was almost uncivilly inattentive during Loczi’s recital, likewise ignoring the signals sent his way by the little stenography professor’s twitching, scary eyebrows. Titusz remained distracted even when Loczi at last came to the conclusion that Count Pinchy’s unexpected survival was in fact attributable to the intervention of his, Loczi’s, uncle, the parish priest of Rosemont, of whom it was said in the Uplands that none of those who received his extreme unction ever died.

(‘By the way, what is your religion?’ asked Steepletippy abruptly, not without a certain suggestiveness.

‘Roman Catholic,’ replied the journalist apathetically.

‘You could have told us earlier,’ said the duelling second, with an air of mystery.)

… But just as the two men were making serious preparations to leave their distracted listener, the journalist exclaimed: ‘Allow me to accompany you, wherever you’re going’ said T. F., putting on his green Tyrolean hat and grabbing his umbrella-cane as if this equipment were meant to validate his appearance in high society.

The hat and the umbrella-cane must have had some effect on the duelling seconds, because after they exchanged glances Steepletippy announced: ‘Very well, my good friend, I don’t mind, you may come with us. We have a meeting at the Café Orfeum with some country squires who want to consult us about conducting an affair of honour somewhere in western Hungary. So don’t hold it against us if we can’t keep you company.’

The city’s finest hansom cab awaited them in front of the tavern, for in those days duelling seconds rode in two-horse cabs to conduct their business about town. Possibly some of the passers-by crossed themselves seeing this splendid cab speed about with the solemn-looking passengers inside, and the better-informed men-about-town right away started the guessing game about the identity of the man whose affair made Mano drive at such insane speed back and forth on Crown Prince and Vaci Streets, with the pockmarked painter sending greetings to one side of the street and Steepletippy ceremoniously doffing his top hat towards the other, even if there were no acquaintances passing that way — he made sure just in case, because the gentleman in the cab must always be the first in greeting.

But it was night now, and the two duelling seconds did not mind that the humble journalist nimbly clambered up on the box next to the driver, not wanting to inconvenience the gentlemen seated inside the fiacre. The steeds of the carriage stopped at a barely perceptible tug of the reins in front of the night café, bathed in mysterious lights as the portly doorman, clad in a hussar’s uniform, rushed forth as one greeting long-awaited guests.

The air was fresh and mild even in the entrance hall, without any of the unpleasant smells associated with vulgar cafés-chantants — only a faint perfume lingered in the air as if some fashionable music-hall diva had just flitted across the hall, graciously lowering her swan’s-down opera cloak to accommodate the attendants. The grey beard of the leader of the band was draped over his violin as if he were coaxing the soft, meditative French-style chansons out of his curly strands.

Formerly, as a ‘budding journalist’ attending ‘the school of life’, Finedwell had been a frequent visitor to this place, but ever since the Café Ferenci had opened, with its more relaxed and cheerful atmosphere — as Titusz ‘grew older’ and placed less emphasis on his clothes — he was seen less often at this elegant establishment. Who would want to don a tail-coat night after night and tell lies about all the fancy soirées he’d been to earlier in the evening? That was for greenhorns, not for an old hand such as himself, who was, moreover, about to die.

… For this reason Finedwell did not even enter the inner sanctum of the coffee house but sat down in the outer wing where he intended to pass the time with a bottle of beer until his friends were done with their business inside. This part of the café was where the music-hall actors played pool, and several of them were seated at one of the marble-topped tables with their hats on, as if out here the atmosphere was freer than inside in the plush world of red velvets where the band was playing.

Well, well, although I wasn’t born a gentleman I will have to die as one, reflected Finedwell for the second time this evening, as he sat at the corner table, letting his eyes rest on the game of billiards played by the music-hall comedy duo of Baumann and Gyarfas, and it occurred to him that these comics would keep on playing their game of billiards long after he was gone and buried with a bullet in his forehead or his heart — depending on which part the colonel preferred to aim at.

But his thoughts took a sudden turn for the better as he was greeted in rapid succession by the following individuals.

First, a tall horse dealer, whose moustache twirled to a point made him look like a supercilious person, but here he was, contented with passing the boredom of nocturnal hours by marking, on a blackboard, the billiards score for the two comedians. Next, an equally lanky waiter with a dyed moustache who emerged from the fairyland of the café’s inner regions to greet Finedwell, about whose upcoming drama he had read in the papers.

Then came Karolin Turf, the flower seller, formerly mistress of aristocrats, who now in her old age said to the journalist: ‘Here, take this flower, it’s my present to you.’ The manager of the café, who had the look of a lieutenant in civilian clothes, bowed as deeply before the journalist as he would have for a millionaire. And finally, the keeper of the cloakroom, with a pin between her lips and a hat-check ticket in her hand, ready to take charge of Titusz’s appurtenances, but not daring to touch the umbrella-cane laid across the table …

Returning these greetings, Finedwell realized that here he sat in the café with his hat still on, that swine-gelder’s hat which had thus far worked its magic everywhere he showed up with it. In the gilt-framed mirrors he was able to enjoy several views of the hat, with the chamois-beard fanning out in the back.

Perhaps, after all, I will accomplish something in life yet, reflected Finedwell, although my life may not last another twenty-four hours, if we really think about it.

But now, just as Finedwell was tempted by glum thoughts, fate again intervened to make him forget his sorrows for another spell. It so happened that a blonde and well made-up female head appeared at the doorway that partitioned the haut monde from the everyday, and the flirtatious smile sent by this lady’s head towards the melancholy journalist resembled those seen in the window displays of beauty parlours. On another occasion, seeing this made-up, expressionless doll’s face would have brought a suitably grave expression on Finedwell’s visage, but now, on this night, his fingers went to his hat and he saluted like an army officer. Seeing this, the lady stepped forth in the entirety of her splendour, as if some window display dummy at a fashionable Inner City couturier had set out, still wearing the sign ‘Latest Parisian Style!’ pinned on by a shop assistant. This was a fatuous and vicious female whom the journalist had known ever since the days when she had been called a scullery maid in the ‘night world’. Since then she had become the kept mistress of a wealthy furniture-maker, and thus it was as a lady of fashion that she inquired after the journalist who was to fight a duel on the morrow against the deadliest shot of the National Casino. It must have been the well-informed tall waiter who had betrayed to ‘Magnate’ Elza the fact that the journalist thus condemned to die was here in the outer passage of the café, making the fashion-plate beauty stir from her peacock-like display stance.