Gyula Krúdy - Life Is A Dream

The clock struck ten at Franciscans Place when an irresistible impulse made Finedwell direct his steps toward the National Casino, whose court of honour had sentenced him to die.

At first he only dared to sneak a peek from the opposite side of Hatvani Street at the baronial castle-like two-storey building, through the wide open gates of which carriages drove in to pull up thunderously in front of the red velvet carpeted stairs leading to the entrance. After the gentlemen got out, and the doorman in cherry-red uniform slammed the carriage door to set the large lantern overhead in the archway swaying, the carriages drove through the courtyard, around the fountain, and exited through the side gate to Szep Street. The Casino’s windows were dim and shut tight, as if no one needed any air inside — although it was a balmy night in early autumn with the sky full of stardust.

Lurking in a doorway, Titusz surveyed with rapt attention the solemn structure where life and death were of no importance, as if the gentlemen frequenting this exclusive building had notions of living and dying that were different from those of ordinary mortals! For instance, what would happen if Finedwell were to cross the street and inquire from the cherry-red uniformed doorman after P. E. G., retired colonel of the Hussars, so that he might at least have a word with the gentleman who was going to shoot him dead the next day? Most likely the doorman would refuse to have anything to do with him, or chase him away in case he recognized the journalist, for an old employee of the Casino would be familiar with the duelling code. The rules stipulated that opponents may not be in contact with each other prior to a duel, and Finedwell would only expose himself to a nasty humiliation. Before, when he still wore the decrepit old hat, he probably would have done it; but now his ‘swine-gelder’s hat’, as he started to call it, imbued him with a certain amount of pride. Therefore he abandoned his hiding place, walked up to Kerepesi Road and crossed over to the Casino side of Hatvani Street.

Presently he returned as a nonchalant stroller, without casting a glance at the baronial castle as he passed its open gate, swinging his umbrella-cane, for its crooked handle allowed it to dangle from his wrist. Yes, that umbrella-cane swung and tapped Finedwell’s knee from time to time, as if to goad him on. In the possession of such an umbrella-cane who could conceive sinking so low as to beg for mercy for one’s wretched little life. And so Titusz turned into Szep Street as if he really had some business there, other than maintaining his dignity in front of the Casino’s cherry-red doorman who, he suspected, was casting scornful, mocking glances from the entrance after the journalist, as if the insolent servant had guessed the reason for this promenade in the neighbourhood of the Casino … On Szep Street Titusz walked past those windows behind whose dim glow the gentlemen were probably seated at their dinner table, admiring the colonel as if he were some rare exotic lobster.

Meandering through the dark little byways of the Inner City, Finedwell once more found himself on Franciscans Place, led there by years of habit. He had mulled it over, and concluded he would be an utter fool if, his upcoming deadly duel being the ‘talk of the town’, he did not now proceed to some fancy restaurant to parade in front of the world, as long as ‘everyone’ was discussing his case. If only to exhibit his dash, verve and sangfroid, which would be all the easier now that he had the proper hat and umbrella-cane for the occasion. Simply to enjoy to the very last drop the delights of being in the limelight, which must be considerable since multitudes struggled ceaselessly to attain such delights. When would the obscure journalist T. F. ever again attain the position of being pointed out in public as the reporter who, in the line of professional duty, dared to face death? … When would he ever again command the attention of those circles that believed duels were impressive? When would those mocking, scornful, quarrelsome, nasty glances turn respectful around him if not tonight, his last night, when that advance in his pocket allowed him to have a carefree, hilarious time?

In his mind’s eye Finedwell saw himself in the middle of a very exclusive restaurant where the Gypsy violinist was playing only for him, and the women, dressed for the theatre, all kept turning their heads in his direction, their hearts a-flutter, for he was the most fascinating man about town, getting ready to face the lion — and certain death. And all for what? For the sake of honour.

Treat yourself to a decent supper, advised the spendthrift Tyrolean hat. Why not have a beefsteak at a first-rate restaurant where they not only print the correct English spelling on the menu, but also know the proper way to grill a steak.

Served with a fried egg, sunny side up, added the umbrella-cane, tapping along by Finedwell’s side.

You’ve got the money and you still don’t know how to be a gentleman, the hat accused, as Finedwell persisted in directing his steps towards a small tavern located in the building of the Athenaeum Press. You’ll never be a gentleman if you pass up this opportunity. You must go to the Bristol or the Hotel Hungaria if you want people to notice that you are still in this world, and preparing to die on the field of honour. If you don’t like beefsteak, there are plenty of other comestibles on the menu the waiter hands you, with a bow. Maybe a bird of some sort … or perhaps a hare, it’s been in season since the middle of August. A saddle of hare, with a piquant sauce full of bay leaves, and if you find buckshot in the meat that means you’ll be lucky in your duel. You should avoid crayfish, which is cheap in the market this time of the year; and anyway your fingers lack the skills to eat crayfish in a stylish manner. But you could have a fresh roast, and enjoy the humble, apologetic glances the waiter sends towards you while it is being prepared. Just think, what if your editor faced a duel that’s been spread all over the newspapers for days! Why, he’d be cashing in on it for sure! And you don’t even have the wits to get acquainted with some nosey society lady.

Finedwell was about to yield to the incessant goading sounded by the tap-tap of the umbrella-cane and the rustle of the goat hair in his hat: be a social lion, at least for a day, before you die!

His way led him past the stand of a nocturnal vendor selling all sorts of fruit from a small cart. Since it was still early in the season, grapes and walnuts were too expensive for the daytime folk but the spendthrift nightbirds were only too happy to buy them. Finedwell, just to indulge in some extravagance on this extraordinary day, bought a paper bag full of grapes and walnuts, and paid without even trying to bargain.

I wasn’t born a gentleman, but tomorrow I’ll have to die like one, reflected Finedwell glumly, as he entered the small all-night tavern, with the paper bag tucked under his arm. The place stayed open mostly for typesetters working the night shift and other characters of nocturnal but presumably sober habits, who came here to eat, not to carouse. Kerschantz was the name of the tavern-keeper, and he rarely saw journalists who lived the café life, for passing the night away eating and drinking at Kerschantz’s was a more expensive proposition than surviving on mocha and cappuccinos at a coffee house. At Kerschantz’s you had to spend some money, and credit was extended only to printers, who settled their bills regularly every Saturday. No, not even an editor-in-chief would have received credit here — so we cannot say that Finedwell was not gratified to be spending his last evening at this night tavern with its solid middle-class reputation.

He sat down at a commodious corner table, as one who is absolutely sure of himself.