by Gyula Krudy
Sindbad, who spent part of his early life at the feet of the said lady listening with amazement to her lies, wondered at men’s credulity, nobility and good nature when, without a moment’s thought, they drained the brew that Mrs Boldogfalvi had carefully prepared for them. After his death Sindbad would visit the place where once — near the walls of an old church during Eastertide services, when the pious tillers of the soil waited with bowed heads for the priest to bless their fodder — he leaned against the wall, reading poems from a little book, half listening to the boom of the organ and the reedy voice of the rector at his psalms. Sindbad never even noticed the woman riding in his direction, until her horse reared above him like a performing pony before a circus ringmaster. It took some effort on the woman’s part to bring the horse under control. And as she patted its neck with her gloved hands her lively long-lashed eyes looked deep into his: it was as if she had sprung straight from a novel by Miklós Jósika.
(`You had a remarkably interesting face,’ Mrs Boldogfalvi told him later, once Sindbad had settled on his cushion to hear the nonsense calculated to drive good sense out of him. ‘I was curious about you, about your green cloak and about the book of poetry, and there was a strange point of light swimming in your eyes, like a lamp seen through net curtains, something that always attracted me to a man.’)
At that time Mrs Boldogfalvi was being pursued by a particularly jealous lover and used to be escorted around the country by officers of the hussars. (Her husband was not much interested in her travels, preferring the husbandry of bees. He read newspapers a year after they appeared once they had worked their way through to the top of the beehive and had turned a deep yellow.) The jealous young man had made a few foolish threats and would sit in the corner nursing the darkest of thoughts without ever once taking his menacing eyes off her. So she was on the run, not by coach, since the carriage wheels would leave deep marks on the ground, but on horseback, a horse’s hooves being harder to trace. The young man needed time to forget, to find peace or, failing that, to commit suicide. This was how Mrs Boldogfalvi happened to find herself in the uplands, by the wall of that particular church at that particular Eastertide, just when Sindbad happened to be leaning against it.
They ordered dinner at the sign of The Bear where Sindbad had his lodgings. Sunset found him sitting by the window, dreaming of distant landscapes when there was a soft knock at the door, and before he could answer, in stepped Mrs Boldogfalvi.
‘Pardon me, sir. I am a stranger in the town and you seem like a gentleman.’
Sindbad stared in surprise at the lady before him in her little black riding costume and her Queen Elizabeth hat as she settled unconcernedly onto the arm of the worn old settee and tapped the ground with her little spurs as she spoke.
‘I will be travelling on with my escort, some cheerful young officers who provide me with good company. They’re not likely to start duelling with each other. Not one of them regards the other as dispensable. I can’t stand jealous men.’
Sindbad smiled. He felt he had known this woman a long long time ago. Her voice went straight to his heart. It was as if they had been engaged in conversation for years before this meeting.
‘Mind you, you look like a man who could be jealous,’ said Mrs Boldogfalvi, tapping her riding boots with her jasper-studded crop.
‘I admit it,’ Sindbad muttered. ‘I have expected the women I loved to be faithful. I cannot share with others. All their thoughts, their every word, had to be mine alone. Even their dreams.’
‘How sweet,’ laughed the woman. ‘All this is very appealing, of course, but only as long as love lasts. Looking at you I imagine you are the sort of man who quietly takes his hat, gloves and walking stick as soon as he notices he is surplus to requirements. What stupidity it is to burden a woman with your presence. How devastatingly boring it is, worse than being ill on a dull autumn afternoon, to have a man go on about his love when nobody is interested any more. I am sure you have kissed hands and bowed farewell more than once in your life, and then remembered the time spent together with gratitude. You might even have gone to say Mass at the local church and prayed for the salvation of the lady’s soul. Perhaps — if you are as generous as I like to think you might be — you might even have been careful to ensure that your faithless lover should not fall into hands less worthy than yours, that your successor should at least deserve the tender mercies now accorded to him. Yes. I am sure you went when it was time to go, just went and no longer made a nuisance of yourself.’
Sindbad contemplated this a while. ‘I think I have always departed in good time. I have never pressed my company on a woman who was clearly trying to stifle her yawns.’
‘You see, I have not been disappointed in you. This evening, once I have gone,’ Mrs Boldogfalvi went on in a meditative, sing-song voice, ‘a blue-eyed, restless-looking young man will come galloping into the courtyard of this inn. He will enquire about me. And if his horse can stand the pace he will continue his pursuit of me. I want to ask you a favour. I would like you to keep this unhappy young man company, be kind and friendly to him, don’t let him alone. Sit with him at supper and talk to him gently about the beauty of the end of love, and about life, which we must strive to live through with extraordinary grace so that we may deserve a graceful death. You will be sure to tell the suffering blue-eyed boy that true love can never end in scandal or in tragedy. As the poor woman has already given him everything let her at least keep her honour. Courtly love passes as quietly as the distant sobbing you hear at the far end of the wood … And the past is not worth regretting, since happy precious memories remain. No one can steal those, either from him or from me. I trust, my dear unknown friend, that you will go a little out of your way to take care of the stranger, and if he hangs his head you might stroke his hair, should the mood take you. Tell him that the most beautiful love affairs are those which entertain the imagination once the affair is over. The traveller is called Albert, and when he mentions a woman called Polly, be so good as to remember me, dear sir.’
Sindbad did not hesitate to agree to undertake this peculiar task.
By way of goodbye the woman took Sindbad’s hand and gazed deep into his eyes. ‘I want you to be a good friend to my poor, suffering boy. If ever you find yourself in Pest you are welcome to seek me out.’
She took from her glove the calling card she had prepared for him. Pauline von Boldogfalva, it said. The little spurs were already jangling down the stone steps of The Bear by the time Sindbad raised his eyes. The hussars were leaping into their saddles and galloped off after Mrs Boldogfalvi. At the church Polly turned round and looked back at the old inn, certain that Sindbad would be at the window. Then the mounted company vanished.
Sindbad stored the calling card in his wallet and walked up and down in front of The Bear. The ancient church was casting long shadows across the market-place and the bell-ringer was entering the belfry with a lit lantern in his hand.
There was a sound of galloping hooves from the south. A young man in tall riding boots, a romantic cloak and plumed hat pulled his pale horse up in front of the inn.
‘The fool has arrived,’ thought Sindbad. ‘How strange, how amusing people are.’
The young man’s face was covered in dust from his long ride, but his blue eyes shone like china. He leapt off his horse and asked after the lady rider, as she said he would. When the innkeeper told him that she had gone he cried, ‘Devil take her! What am I doing wearing this fancy dress?’ He glared contemptuously at his outfit and threw his plumed hat on the dining room floor. He ate voraciously, forgetting to admire the deep red of the wine set before him. He darted an impatient glance at Sindbad.
He was about thirty years of age, blond, with a milky complexion, a man brought up by women. His mother would have done his washing for him. On Sundays he would go to church just as he did when he was a little boy and sit patiently at his mother’s side while the sermon droned on. He was the sort of man who would be astonished to find that
not every woman had such delicate feelings as his mother, or that they had any thought but to sew on his buttons when the thread broke.
Sindbad stepped over to him and introduced himself as though they were a pair of knights errant in ancient Castile meeting at a wayside inn. In a few words he let him know that he was aware of the sorrow which drove him, Albert of the blue eyes, across the hills. Indeed, it was his good fortune to have met the deity in question.
‘So you know her,’ cried Albert. ‘All the better that you should know the woman who insisted I dress in this courtly garb, that I wear a beret because that’s the only thing she liked me in. It is for her sake I am galloping up and down the highway in this ridiculous cloak. What will a man not do for love! We all cut such pathetic figures. If Polly had demanded that I should walk the streets tarred and feathered, I would have done it for her sake!’
Sindbad gripped his new friend’s hand in solidarity.
‘I swear to God,’ cried Albert, ‘the only reason I want to see her again is to cast a contemptuous glance at her, to turn my back and … to reject her! Yes, to reject her!’
Sindbad nodded quietly. ‘We will talk about that.’
Albert Finds New Employment
That evening at The Bear, as dusk drew on and the light slowly faded in the vaulted dining room, the young knight errant was to be found with his head leaning on Sindbad’s shoulder, articulately if a little shamefacedly — and not before swearing Sindbad to secrecy — telling his new friend all he knew of Mrs Boldogfalvi. It is a rare woman that all her male acquaintance describe in similar terms. Different men see the same woman in a variety of ways. One may only remember the birthmark on one side of her body, another might be able to guess what the object of desire is thinking in the evening as she goes to bed. If these various men were once to sit down together — in great old age, of course, with a few glasses to loosen their tongues — these men who had loved the same woman, granted this were possible, and they were honestly to tell each other everything they knew for certain about her, it would soon be evident that they were all speaking of a different woman. Mrs Boldogfalvi lived in at least fifty forms in men’s imaginations since that was the number of men who had loved her, until, that is, they grew acquainted with death and solemnly closed their eyes for the last time. If this gathering of greybeards were to sit round a stone table, much like Heine’s gathering of retired hangmen, and hold council one mysterious night, they could at best only establish certain words, certain well-defined movements where the experiences of lovers X and Y seemed to correspond. For example, when Mrs Boldogfalvi was really passionately in love she would address her lover as Milord at the most intimate moments. Milord was sometimes blond and sometimes dark. But no matter how ancient the men were they never betrayed to one another Mrs Boldogfalvi’s characteristic habits. And so the majority of them, poor trusting males, believed that it was they the woman had first favoured with this loving epithet. The truth was that there were a great many Milords walking the streets of Hungary.
Albert related the story of his life to Sindbad at great length, a life which consisted chiefly of his love for Mrs Boldogfalvi. He could remember by heart the letters they had written to each other and, as you’d expect, recollect all the significant dates and days. He imputed extraordinary importance to the fact that come the evening Mrs Boldogfalvi would wait at the window of some regional manor house for him and would extend her hand for a kiss — as if she had never stood at a window before! They were very frightened of Mr Boldogfalvi and Polly often warned Albert that her husband would not hesitate to use his revolver if he ever suspected something.
Sindbad clapped his new friend on the shoulder. ‘My dear friend, I myself have often heard such stories from women’s lips. Indeed, they must love you a great deal if the various Messrs Boldogfalvi are prepared to shoot you. But this is only an example of false desire. Something that happens in novels.’
‘Ah, dear sir, I’m only young and have little experience of life,’ sighed Albert. ‘To tell you the truth, this was the first lady I had ever fallen mortally in love with. She said the same about me, what is more she swore I was the first …’
‘They sincerely believe it every time they say it,’ Sindbad murmured.
‘And it is your opinion that Polly has addressed other men as Milord since then?’
‘It is quite certain,’ answered Sindbad. ‘The magical power of women in Pest, and in Hungary at large, could only be broken if the oldest of men, those whom the medical profession had finally abandoned, formed a supreme tribunal to which every man worth his salt had to make a precise and honest statement about all his love affairs and every specific circumstance associated with them. Here they would recount the tricks and devices employed by certain women to draw them into their nets. They would report the words used when the women lied or told the truth on the first, second and subsequent meetings. So men would expose women before this supreme tribunal: their natural history would slowly become known and the town would no longer be haunted by mysterious, secretive demons who torture stupid and inexperienced men to distraction. Should a man observe in himself a certain interest in a lady or discover that night after night, in the street or in his dreams, he can think of nothing but that woman’s name, he would apply to the tribunal and confess his desire. Then the old jurors would put their heads together and consult their records of other men’s confessions and advise the troubled youth appropriately. Those old confessions would serve as useful reference points. In any case, it would help to uncover the secret of women’s success more thoroughly than is usually done nowadays when every man is a potential victim. Until men are honest with each other they will never succeed in breaking the power of women.’
Albert listened carefully to what his friend told him then sighed deeply. ‘So, Mr Sindbad, you really think that in the heat of passion, Polly might have addressed other men as Milord?’
‘Why the devil not? A village girl turned grande dame would have learned such words somewhere along the line. For example, yesterday afternoon she addressed me as “dear sir“,’ smiled the great voyager.
‘You swine!’ cried Albert and leapt to his feet ready to assault Sindbad.
The voyager tenderly gestured for him to calm down.
‘It’s not worth it, my boy. On my word of honour, it is not worth it.’
The provincial young man sat for a long time after this, his lips twisted with pain and his eyes so full of fury that Sindbad decided there and then that should he ever find himself on a mountain top or at the edge of a cliff with only Albert as his companion, he would take great care not to be on the wrong side.
Later fury turned to tears. Albert rested his head on the table and sobbed like a child. ‘All those afternoons when she knelt before me, the miserable creature, and told me the most wonderful stories! She told me her whole life story — omitting only the fact that she had cheated me in the past and was cheating me in the present. Didn’t I ask her a hundred times to tell me who she had loved before she met me? Confess, my angel, after all it’s over and done with. Whose head did you cradle in your arms, in whose ears did you whisper these same beautiful words? What other lovers have you regaled with stories of your childhood, your girlfriends and your acquaintances in these hours of pleasure? Who did you talk politics with? To whom did you confess your dreams or unburden your heart when you were depressed? With whom did you discuss your plans for a wonderful future, a quiet life, a little house on the riverbank or in a distant village or a city square with lots of good books, handsome powerful dogs, a pony for riding and an old friend to come visiting on spring evenings? Every time she answered that I was the first. She told me she had never said “I love you“ to anyone else …’
Sindbad stroked the unhappy young man’s hair. ‘Come along, Milord. It’s night. I know a friendly house nearby where the lady of the house is a wise old woman, an old sweetheart of mine, and so respectable you can tell her all your cares and woes. She has three young da
ughters of marriageable age. They usually make music in the evening and they sing and talk politics. Here you can forget your troubles a while, Milord. One of the daughters looks precisely as Mrs Boldogfalvi did in her youth.’
‘But what about her soul?’ sighed Albert.
‘As pure as a child’s!’
‘Mrs Boldogfalvi’s was far from pure, and it was just that I liked in her,’ Albert replied and pulled his wide-brimmed hat down over his tear-filled eyes. Then clutching Sindbad’s arm he left the dining room.
It was night: an owl sat on the dead sumach tree and the music had died away by the time a lone Sindbad ambled home down roads near the old church and in the light of the moon hiding behind the clouds The Bear resembled nothing so much as a chalet on a Swiss postcard.
‘Lord,’ thought Sindbad, ‘give me untroubled dreams and a quiet night. Stop my ears against words poured into it by women. Help me forget the scent of their hair, the strange lightning of their eyes, the taste of their hands and the moist kisses of their mouths. Lord, you who are wise, advise me when they are lying, which is always. Remind me that the truth is something they never tell. That they never do love. Lord, up there, far beyond the tower, think occasionally of me, a poor, foolish man, an admirer of women, who believes in their smiles, their kisses, their tickling and their blessed lies. Lord, let me be a flower in that garden where lonely women retreat in the knowledge that no one’s by. Let me be a lantern in the house of love where women mutter and babble and sigh the same old words. Let me be the handkerchief into which they weep their false tears. Lord, let me be just a gatepost ladies pass light-heartedly while clinging to the arms of their suitors. Lord protect me, never let me fall into the hands of women.’
Having said this, his hand firmly and sincerely clasped to his heart, he entered The Bear with quiet, thoughtful steps and went to bed.
Shortly after this, Sindbad travelled up to Pest and sought out Mrs Boldogfalvi.