Gyula Krúdy - Life Is A Dream

Among the takers of the pledge was Arkus, the borough council clerk, whose constant inebriation at last forced him to decide between office or tavern, and he opted to become one of Countess Brunszvik’s little lambs — although no one would have believed this possible for a man with such a tremor, wine-reddened nose, face and neck, and teeth that were starting to fall out.

The situation was quite different in the case of Captain Poturicsics, who had tried just about everything in his long career as a ship’s captain along the Danube, both up and downstream from the Iron Gate. An ocean-going ship’s captain who is away from his family for months at a time will easily join any kind of ‘crew’ with whom he can while the time away. So now he joined a ‘crew’ where the chief entertainment was reviling wine-drinkers left and right, day and night. The captain thought he might as well join this ‘crew’ as any other.

As for Weinsong, the Tabán landlord, he was only a titular landlord, so for him it was all the same what office he accepted, since there weren’t that many to choose from.

Among those present we should single out Lenke Mariancsics, who probably had weighty reasons to wear ‘half-mourning’ in order to forget her past. This blonde young lady, commonly known under the monicker ‘the angel of Tabán’, could be seen until recently in just about every local tavern where wine was drunk, prank followed upon prank, life was always seen in its friendly aspects and the only thing patrons dreaded was loneliness. Nor did Lenke like to be left alone with her grim and emaciated mother, whose stories she had heard hundreds of times; she longed for the company of males who always had something new and entertaining to say (even if they lied) — that is why, after all, they were men.

Now men were to be found mostly in two places: in barracks and in taverns (for those praying in monasteries do not count, for the most part). Lenke preferred the taverns, where she always ran into some acquaintance who fully empathized with the difficult situation of a ‘lonely gal’. A poor, solitary girl abandoned by all to wilt away here in the Tabán, awaiting her twentieth birthday when her shoes will have worn away, all her clothes will have gone out of fashion, and she will have forgotten what it was to be young and to give men a taste of her nails, scratch-marks that seemed to please them to no end …

The taverns of Tabán never lacked for understanding souls who were truly gladdened when a young lady at their table announced that she liked her wine as much as any man but for the sake of decency could not slake her thirst except in small glassfuls, for which she apologized. ‘The angel of Tabán’ always had a mellowing influence on men huddled at a corner table with one hand over the heart to keep it from bursting out of the vest and the other hand clutching the glass to gulp down the medicine with due urgency whenever the pain became unbearable. These men had acquired their injuries here and there in the course of their lives, mostly in those feminine places where males acquire their incurable wounds. Nor could it be said that Lenke Mariancsics had ever sent a man with a ‘hollow leg’ packing; anyhow, such men are usually reluctant to rise from the table for fear of breaking a leg after taking a step or two. Thus Lenke was no miracle-worker — but could a girl from the Tabán be blamed for that?

So here was Lenke Mariancsics greeting Mr Rimaszombati with a nod from far off (she believed in greeting men first), at the same time also acknowledging her friend, the tavern-keeper’s daughter. She would have liked her acquaintances by her side, but this was not possible, especially since she stood in a window bay all by herself like a weeping willow, exposed to glances from the audience that seemed to blame her for all the wine-guzzling in the Tabán — whereas she, poor thing, as we have pointed out, had acted only out of charitable intentions towards men.

Mr Rimaszombati and Jolan found shelter by Mr Sasadi’s side, in the ‘Sasadi corner’, as the nook occupied by Sasadi in any Tabán tavern was generally called. He had a handsome Hungarian face, red-brown and hawk-nosed, with a large moustache and melancholy eyes, a real Hungarian hunk of a man in spite of his Schwabian German heritage. For it is well known that the Hungarian braves in former days had always visited these German villages around the Buda hills for the sole purpose of harvesting wine and women. By this time Sasadi lived the life of a ghost, dwelling in the old Tabán graveyard, a chieftain, as it were, of those homeless men who had for years persisted in the district. (There was a number of such men in the Tabán, who took their naps in taverns, disappearing for a while when the place was cleaned, for they had no other home.) Sasadi did have a home but preferred to be near his little daughter’s grave whenever a longing for the nether world seized him. It was this journey that Countess Helen Brunszvik intended to prevent.

‘No wonder the Countess objects to drinking wine,’ said Rimaszombati, after a single glance at Countess Helen’s rosy nose. ‘The Countess has a kidney condition that makes her abstain from alcohol.’

At times Rimaszombati emitted surprising comments like that, as evidence of his worldly experience. But now the music ceased and the Countess stepped up on the podium. Such platforms, usually seen in schoolrooms, may be found in certain private homes where matters of consequence are solemnly discussed.

‘The other day I happened to notice that somebody at the Black Dog had a little boy bring him a penny’s worth of writing ink,’ the Countess began, as if about to tell a tale. ‘But never in the course of my sojourn here have I seen anyone ordering a penny’s worth of wine from Poldi’s, or from the Green Ace. And yet writing ink is at least as precious as wine — for one thing, it will never drive you as crazy as wine does.’

Having begun her daily sermon in this manner, Countess Brunszvik continued with a witty and fluent diatribe against the drinking of wine.

As she stood there on the podium, short of stature but long on courage, glancing without any embarrassment at the masculine audience, all eyes staring at her, at first she gave no sign of the hidden talents inside her. She held forth, but then most womenfolk who are not easily intimidated are good at that. But as she warmed to her topic she became ever more fascinating because of what she had to say. If nothing else, it became apparent that here was a young lady of refinement opening her heart and soul to the affairs and troubles besetting the petty lives of her audience. She came at last to the case of Bitchkey and Botchkay, the two suicides by hanging.

‘Surely they could have become useful members of society had they been able to give up some of their inveterate habits. For example, by apportioning their addiction to wine into smaller instalments, say by expending one portion of their passion by indulging in an afternoon hike in the hills of Buda, devoting another portion to the reading of books, and a final third, possibly, to love — of which they could have had their share since they were still quite young. This way they could have divided up their lives into portions, instead of escaping into suicide in the manner of those who had grown tired of it all. What good is it to die without having first lived? What good is it to go underground before one has had a chance to look around at this beauteous world stretching into endless distances, unimaginable for those who sit by a bottle in a tavern and trouble themselves only to count the number of glasses consumed?’

‘They started the same way as everyone else, by drinking toasts to the fatherland and the king!’ Mr Rimaszombati interjected in his creaky voice, concerned that Miss Brunszvik may not have noted his presence since she had not bothered to chide him.