Gyula Krúdy - Life Is A Dream

That was when, as I stood under my window, I glimpsed in front of the house a strange-looking man I had never seen before, a man whose appearance I believe would have astonished persons even more experienced than I am.

He was in the process of clambering down from a village cart equipped with little bells that were still swaying, as if to broadcast a message far and wide about their sad state of being lost.

Here was a man whose gleaming white beard and long hair made him look like St Peter, but it did not seem likely that he would climb on the roof and fly off to Madrid. His bent, yet fairly tall frame was wrapped in some sort of monk’s habit, such as a simple-minded sacristan would wear on the saint’s feast day at some shrine in our region, in order to inspire children and even old women to kiss his hand. He carried a pilgrim’s staff topped by a copper cross that no doubt enabled him to perform all sorts of miracles within reach of smoked meats left hanging in the chimney. He wore a variety of amulets and medallions pinned over his chest that must have brought good luck to others, but were unlikely to improve this old man’s lot. No matter how many rosaries he draped about himself, death trailed not far behind his back. His worn and faded boots had long forgotten to whinny like freshly tanned horsehide. By now, especially around the knees, the worn tops of these boots had become quite loose, as if there were no more maids and young wenches needing a hug and a squeeze in this land. These boots were looking forward to their last ride, on the hearse drawn by St Michael’s steeds, demanding no further effort from them.

He climbed up the front steps of the old house as if he had been here before, and spoke in a voice one hears resounding in a barrel-maker’s workshop: ‘I am Nyergesujfalusi, apostle and missionary. I would like to stay here in this house because it is conveniently close to town.’

Nyergesujfalusi was by no means one of those smelly old vagrants who, in their twilight years, still trail every stench picked up at various stations of their lives. On the contrary, he paid great attention to cleanliness. Although he had travelled just about everywhere, there was about him not a hint of the Püspökladány train station’s aroma, redolent as a caravanserai, a melange compounded of smells from the eastern and north-eastern parts of the country. No, Nyergesujfalusi brought not a whiff of sheep pens and horse stables that folks from the lowlands can never shake off, which follow them like an invisible swarm of flies no matter how fast they drive the dogcart. Neither did those gamey, smoky and sooty nomad Gypsy aromas from Transylvania waft into the house in his wake, as I had feared at first. No, our guest lacked even that close and stifling air that inevitably accompanies flat-footed pilgrims who waddle like ganders on the highway, sweating and raising a cloud of dust, camp out in the shade of a wild pear tree, and sit in a thicket to study the movements of ants, ladybirds and stag beetles under their noses, meditating on the wonders of nature… Rather, Nyergesujfalusi emanated the tallow candle smell that strikes the nose on passing the door of a church which has been shut down for a while. It was the scent of the confessional booth where the priest rests his weary head on his palm while hearing out a penitent’s tiresome and monotonous list of sins. Illuminated altarpieces have this scent when the faithful humbly address the holy icon, always trying to justify their acts and thoughts. (But of course all rationalization is in vain; the view from the altar is clear into the hardened and blackened hearts of sinners — as well as into the hearts of lost sheep.)

Thus Nyergesujfalusi, whose appearance, behaviour and beatific prayers had convinced the womenfolk in the building that his presence would doubtless prove providential, since he knew herbs and cures for children’s illnesses, and the right spells to keep trouble and strife away, as well as spiders, mice and the sneak-in thief, had at last made himself quite at home. (Strange, how we lived back in those days: we gladly welcomed the unexpected guest.)

‘So, my good sir, you asked to hear what brought me here?’ began Nyergesujfalusi one fine day, noticing that boredom had begun to spin a cobweb around my mood, making the occasion ripe for speaking up. ‘Well, if I didn’t know I was dealing with a man of learning, I could say that I’d read in some ancient tome about a ramshackle house hereabouts, inhabited by kind folks — the sort of thing tramps used as their excuse upon arriving at a strange town they’d never been in before. No, I won’t even claim I had been here before, three or four hundred years ago when other tenants lived here: hermits, holy friars, lizards and trees with medicinal properties. It could be that I too lived here once upon a time, wearing the crimson cloak, but no one would believe that. Therefore let us stick to the truth. I have reached this place because I happen to have a most talented nose.’

I took a closer look at the apostle’s nozzle, which resembled a pig’s snout: surely it must have luxuriated in all sorts of putrid, titillating or voluptuous smells, ranging from the ever-intriguing aroma of garlic all the way to that of cesspools, which some noses find delectable.

But the apostle went on: ‘I repeat: thanks to this most talented nose of mine, even in my dotage I still know something of life. My eyes have betrayed me — nowadays I couldn’t find those lines of the holy Scriptures that atheists and heretics professed as their truths, nor could I tell the work of counterfeiters, fairground magicians or pickpockets. The fog of old age covers my eyes; I sense the movement of that tree’s leaves but I barely see the leaves. But that hardly matters, for even the completely blind — musicians for instance — are still able to enjoy life. As a matter of fact, certain shy women prefer a blind man to one who can see. My hearing, too, is not what it used to be: I can no longer hear what robbers in the woods say behind my back, and I must guess what whisperers whisper into each other’s ears. In the old days I could have told you what two women spoke about lying in bed side by side. Don’t think their talk is always godly. As for my sense of touch, it’s gone! Maybe I could still tell if I touched a leg in a plaster cast, that happens more frequently to women, for who knows what reason. But I can no longer find at a single touch the slit in a skirt — sometimes it’s on the side; nor can I tell by touch the vest pocket that hides the fat wallet of the vendor or horse dealer at a fair. And I cannot tell by palpation any more whether the baby is going to be a boy or a girl. My sense of touch is worthless, while formerly even my big toe knew more about journeys prosperous and evil, fortunate wanderings, auspicious encounters, promising thresholds and stairways than your door-to-door pedlars who spend their lives on the road.

‘And the same goes for my sense of taste … The tip of my tongue can no longer tell sweet water, fine wine, good bread. In my heyday one mouthful was enough for me to describe with my eyes closed the woman who prepared the dish, the yard where the rooster strutted or the hen scrabbled for worms, or the hunter who shot the game in the woods, or the bird-catcher who brought the squab. These days everything I eat makes me imagine some old hag roosting over the pot, drying the juice of the meat, parching the marrow in the bone, and withering the tender garden sorrel, while a single pea rolls away from her cursed hand, for peas are autumnal … All I have left in life is this most talented nose of mine.’

Here I took another good look at our visiting apostle’s organ of smell, which, while under discussion, seemed to be so powerfully aware that it kept changing its appearance, just like a person at various stages of life. Right now, Nyergesujfalusi’s nose looked like a foppish bridegroom facing a variety of joyous tasks in the offing, setting out with high hopes, attracted by pleasurable scents …