UNDERGRADUATE PAGE
The Hungarian Ticket- Collector
By 1'. L. DORMANDY (Royal Free Hospital, London)
IHAVE once, only once, solved the life-problem of one of my fellow-men. I say life-problem, for I mean that fundamental dilemma of which there is but one in each of our lives. 1 was then travelling home from the Balkans ; the war had just ended, and trains were unheated and packed with a crowd that was
picturesque only in retrospect. At about 1 a.m. the cold and the smell of garlic and perspiration drew me into the train's corridor. And there I met the Hungarian ticket-collector.
Hungarian is a language I had never contemplated learning. But that morning, -chasing some sort of a travel-permit in Budapest offices, I had made a discovery. It is, I suppose, one of the most popular beliefs in the West that in order to acquaint oneself with a foreign country the first essential is to have a working knowledge of that country's native tongue. What reckless disregard of facts!
Not only is the lamentable gibbering we label " talking a foreign language " offensive to the human ear, not only does it require a spirit of aggressiveness that makes any conversation pointless if not impossible, but foreign people do not talk their native tongues at all. They utter, I admit, such simple phrases as " yes " and " no " and " more bread and circuses," but beyond such fundamentals their conversation consists of a peculiar concerto of inarticulate noises, shrugging of the shoulders, knitting of the eyebrows, sighs, murmurs and an elaborate system of gymnastics with their fingers, hands and faces. To test my discovery on an - experimental level, I had abandoned that morning my serviceable French, German and Russian, and had concentrated on vague mumblings, vague gestures and the variation of " yes " and " no " according to a purely empirical but highly successful formula of my own. Remembering the society hostess who used to boast that she could look corn- prehendingly in eight different languages, I had looked at the Minister's fourth secretary with intense comprehension. And this is how I met the Hungarian ticket-collector.
Unlike myself, who, having made up my mind that I couldn't breathe the stuffy air of my compartment any longer, had hypo- critically offered my seat to a female partisan with two whimpering babies in her arms, the Hungarian ticket-collector with greater and .uncorrupted honesty had sold his cabin to a rosy-complexioned Swiss Red Cross delegate for a fabulous sum of inflated Hungarian pengiis. And he came and joined me at the corridor-window, and for some time we stared at the gloomy grey mass of the Karsts together. Then, overcome by a yearning for human companionship, I offered him my last American cigarette. " Smoker ? " I asked in Hungarian, remembering the torn and blissfully ignored notice stuck on the door of my compartment. Overwhelmed by such generosity, he accepted my offer, carefully placed the cigarette behind his ear and said a few words. 1 nodded sympathetically and, lighting my pipe, muttered a couple of sentences in kitchen-Latin. He found my remarks witty in the extreme, laughed long and loud and riposted with a sentence that struck me as being much to the point. He then proceeded to tell me a funny story about the Swiss Red Cross delegate with much verve and gusto. (He was that archetype of the natural talker one rarely meets among the well-to-do, the supreme artist of the spoken word who infuses life even into the commonplaces of reality.) His words, had they been presented to me on paper, would have certainly passed my comprehension. But I could understand his talk as easily as I can understand a hit-tune by Mr. Berlin.
We discussed the moral aspects of the Second World Peace that we were about to enter, the inconveniences of travelling by train in the winter, the sex-appeal of Hungarian women, and that of Miss K. M. in particular, at some length. We agreed upon most of these topics. And slowly, as the moisture crept up through our muscles and made us shiver, warm friendship grew up in our hearts.
At about 3 a.m. he embarked upon the story of his life. I said "yes, yes " once or twice, and he started to disclose great secrets to me. The yellow artificial light transformed into a Rembrandtian glow on his face ; he spoke softly, and I listened to him with awe.
Pathetically full of emotion, the word " life " cropped up in bis sentences like an operatic leit-motif. (I knew it from the title of the Communist daily.) That life revolved around- a problem, conventional, no doubt, but grave and fateful to bim and strange and mysterious to me. Like people who venture back into the past, he was not looking at any particular object any more. And, like that of people who glance into the future, his voice was flowing in tuneless melodies. I prayed to God that I might understand him. But I was never quite certain whether he meant to start a revolution or write an opera, whether he pondered over poisoning his wife or the definite cure of consumption. Or maybe St. Peter had appeared to him in an ecstatic dream and had entrusted him with a heavenly message that he was now .passing on to me. Intricate and momentous, the life-problem of the Hungarian ticket-collectot quickened the pulse of time.
Long, shrill whistles came from the engine. The ticket-collector stopped talking, collected his little books and his brown bag. And unexpectedly, while I was preparing to return to my compartment, he shot a few words at me. I turned round perplexed, and he repeated his words with more deliberation. I knew then that he was putting his life's great problem to me ; that I of all men was called upon to judge and to decide for him For a spasm of breath- lessness I made frantic efforts at bribing God and His more merciful saints ; that man's hopes, his doubts, his entire existence depended on my answer. But how could 1 answer ? In a voice that trembled with the misery of ignorance I uttered one of the two words I knew in his language. ." No," I said.
It took me several minutes to realise that I had given the-wrong answer. The train had stopped and the corridor filled with people. I shivered. I looked about, searching for the face, drawn in Biblical sorrow, that would haunt me forever, searching for the man whose hopes I had shattered to glittering dust. Holding fast to their pitiful bundles, a noisy group of soldiers were climbing the stairs of the carriage. Wildly I pushed my way through them and got off the train with a jump. An icy wind was blowing from the mountains ; a crying, kissing, cursing crowd stampeded the bombed platform. My cheeks burning, driven by a fervour of remorst, urged by an irresistible desire to explain and beg for mercy, I started to race up and down the platforms. I grabbed at the arms of strangers, gazed into their faces and left them staring after me without explanation ; I followed uniformed shadows into the staff canteen where peacefully they settled down to drink beer.
On the iron bridge over the tracks I collided with a young English- man whom I had met at the station in Belgrade two days before. He said something about our train leaving in a mo' or something equally irrelevant. Over the railway-bridge lay the country, bleak and monotonous. Two trains were standing along the fields, both apparently deserted. Then a cloud of smoke came up from one of the obsolete engines, and with grotesque jerkiness the train began to move. And suddenly I noticed the Hungarian ticket-collector leaning out through one of its windows. There was obviously no time for explanations, -for graceful apologies. Panting and breath- less, I started to run after the train. I stumbled over frozen clod, of Hungarian earth, and with a last heroic effort of my lungs shouted, " Yes, yes, yes, yes, e-yes! " He turned his head in m' direction. Did he say anything ? " Yes! " I screamed back," yes!-- And as the train turned and the ghostly green light of the indicator fell upon him I could see the Biblical sorrow slowly lifting, the flames of new hope kindled in his eyes. I saw the smile of thc blessed whose life-problem has been -miraculously solved on earth. I had solved it.
I knew that I had missed my train and that I had irretrievably lost my overcoat, my - luggage and my travel-permit. But what could that matter ? I halted and closed my eyes and mumbled and mumbled that wonderful word, " Yes, yes, yes." My heart filled with joy, and for endless glorious minutes I could hear through the opened gates of heaven the angels' triumphant halleluiah.
Previous page
