total darkness, so at first they could see nothing. Two flambeaus blazed on the walls. A hump-backed figure with a soot-lined face led the way up the spiral stairs: “Sorr’s steward. Sorr will be with yer honners presently.”
To the maestro it was like climbing inside a beehive. They reached a level where there was some planking, a bare, unadorned dining area, with two long benches lining one corner and a dining table between them, the table supported on four thick pillars of the hardest oak, with wide footrests which in that region they called “swelpmegods.” At the head of the table was placed a large armchair similarly furnished with a footrest; it was practically a throne, with the family coat-of-arms carved in the wood of the back: a precious horn-shaped stone splitting a rock in twain.
The steward offered them seats and then disappeared. They remained standing. The three sooty oil-lamps barely made an impression on the semidarkness. On the far side of the dining room there was a large fireplace, burning asizable fire. Two foxhounds lounged before it, their tongues lolling; one of them gave a bark as the strangers entered.
When Bálint Sternovszky entered, the floorboards creaked under his feet. He was a well-built man, with pale skin and luxuriant chestnut-colored hair brushing his shoulders; a thick but untrimmed beard covered much of his face. He wore ceremonial garb, with lavishly embroidered hose.
“God grant you a good day.”
“And you also,” they responded politely.
After introductions they settled down, Bálint Sternovszky taking the armchair. Though he sat very much at his ease in the chair, he still towered above those sitting on the benches below. The dean sang the praises of the maestro, who in his turn elaborated the nature of the performance that he had the honor of inviting his honor Sternovszky to participate in, should he be willing.
“What makes you so convinced of my skills as a singer?”
“It’s the talk of the county,” said the dean. “We thought you would very kindly give us a demonstration.”
Bálint Sternovszky gave a mellifluous laugh. “I might and I might not.”
“What can your honor sing and in what part?”
A watch-chain dangled from Bálint Sternovszky’s trouser pocket, which he proceeded to withdraw; at the end of it was a deerskin-covered timepiece in the shape of an egg, the top of which he flicked open and then said: “Night is drawing on. You gentlemen will be my guests for dinner. We shall resume this conversation thereafter,” and he clapped. Two servant girls entered and quickly laid the table for four. The dean did not forget his coachman, whom Sternovszky gave orders to be provided for in the lower kitchen.
Soon there appeared the lady of the house, Borbála, who at the sight of the visitors showed neither pleasure nor displeasure on her face, which reminded the maestro of a knotted breadroll. The dinner was superb. The two servantgirls piled everything high on the table in the Transylvanian manner. There were loaves made with hops, beef with horseradish, fowl au poivre, and pasta with lashings of butter. The red wine, from the vintage three years back, went very well with the meal and was much praised by all.
“Your honor,” began the dean, “how is it that you built your lodge so much out of the way and not in some secure town?”
“I don’t trust people. They are capable of the utmost evil. It is better to withdraw. If you are not in the public eye, you will not attract trouble.”
“I see what you mean,” said the dean, though his eyes showed otherwise.
“And where did you learn to sing?” asked the maestro.
“From my grandfather.”
On hearing this reply Mrs. Sternovszky rolled her eyes towards the rafters, as if her husband were claiming something nonsensical. The pewter plates had been removed by the servant girls and they brought coffee in the Turkish coffee pot.
“Where do you perform?” asked the dean.
“Rarely
To the maestro it was like climbing inside a beehive. They reached a level where there was some planking, a bare, unadorned dining area, with two long benches lining one corner and a dining table between them, the table supported on four thick pillars of the hardest oak, with wide footrests which in that region they called “swelpmegods.” At the head of the table was placed a large armchair similarly furnished with a footrest; it was practically a throne, with the family coat-of-arms carved in the wood of the back: a precious horn-shaped stone splitting a rock in twain.
The steward offered them seats and then disappeared. They remained standing. The three sooty oil-lamps barely made an impression on the semidarkness. On the far side of the dining room there was a large fireplace, burning asizable fire. Two foxhounds lounged before it, their tongues lolling; one of them gave a bark as the strangers entered.
When Bálint Sternovszky entered, the floorboards creaked under his feet. He was a well-built man, with pale skin and luxuriant chestnut-colored hair brushing his shoulders; a thick but untrimmed beard covered much of his face. He wore ceremonial garb, with lavishly embroidered hose.
“God grant you a good day.”
“And you also,” they responded politely.
After introductions they settled down, Bálint Sternovszky taking the armchair. Though he sat very much at his ease in the chair, he still towered above those sitting on the benches below. The dean sang the praises of the maestro, who in his turn elaborated the nature of the performance that he had the honor of inviting his honor Sternovszky to participate in, should he be willing.
“What makes you so convinced of my skills as a singer?”
“It’s the talk of the county,” said the dean. “We thought you would very kindly give us a demonstration.”
Bálint Sternovszky gave a mellifluous laugh. “I might and I might not.”
“What can your honor sing and in what part?”
A watch-chain dangled from Bálint Sternovszky’s trouser pocket, which he proceeded to withdraw; at the end of it was a deerskin-covered timepiece in the shape of an egg, the top of which he flicked open and then said: “Night is drawing on. You gentlemen will be my guests for dinner. We shall resume this conversation thereafter,” and he clapped. Two servant girls entered and quickly laid the table for four. The dean did not forget his coachman, whom Sternovszky gave orders to be provided for in the lower kitchen.
Soon there appeared the lady of the house, Borbála, who at the sight of the visitors showed neither pleasure nor displeasure on her face, which reminded the maestro of a knotted breadroll. The dinner was superb. The two servantgirls piled everything high on the table in the Transylvanian manner. There were loaves made with hops, beef with horseradish, fowl au poivre, and pasta with lashings of butter. The red wine, from the vintage three years back, went very well with the meal and was much praised by all.
“Your honor,” began the dean, “how is it that you built your lodge so much out of the way and not in some secure town?”
“I don’t trust people. They are capable of the utmost evil. It is better to withdraw. If you are not in the public eye, you will not attract trouble.”
“I see what you mean,” said the dean, though his eyes showed otherwise.
“And where did you learn to sing?” asked the maestro.
“From my grandfather.”
On hearing this reply Mrs. Sternovszky rolled her eyes towards the rafters, as if her husband were claiming something nonsensical. The pewter plates had been removed by the servant girls and they brought coffee in the Turkish coffee pot.
“Where do you perform?” asked the dean.
“Rarely
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