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Authors: Miklós Vámos
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… sometimes on family occasions.”
“Your repertoire?”
“Seven hundred and fourteen songs and arias.” Bálint Sternovszky left the room, returning with a thick, much-thumbed tome which he opened towards its end and pointed: “This is the folio in which I have written all their titles. The ones with a cross I can also play on the virginal.”
“No small achievement. Your grandfather must have been a well-trained musician.”
Bálint Sternovszky nodded sagely. A tremor passed across Borbála’s face, which it was impossible not to notice. The two visitors caught each other’s eye.
Bálint Sternovszky elaborated: “My paternal grandfather, Péter Csillag, was a tanner who also played the pianoforte inthe town orchestra of Thüningen. He also wrote songs to the words of Otto von Niebelmayer, the orchestra’s first violin.”
The lady of the house guffawed, and planted a fist in her mouth.
The dean cleared his throat: “Might I be so bold as to ask why … Did you deem my query impertinent?”
“It is my answer she deems impertinent,” replied Bálint Sternovszky, “for my grandfather Péter Csillag departed this life in the year of our Lord 1702. My good lady is doubtful that I could have learned my musical skills from my grandfather if I was born 24 years after his death.”
The two visitors again exchanged glances. Sternovszky continued: “I see that you gentlemen also doubt my words. Yet I must tell you that my German speech, for example, which is quite fluent even though I have never studied the language, is also wholly inherited from my grandfather.”
Borbála tried to control her laughter, and stared intently at the floor. “That could as well have come from your father.”
“True. Only my dear father kept a lifelong silence about his knowledge of the German language. Furthermore, my younger brothers speak no German: how am I to explain that? And I also speak Turkish, of which my father knew not a word, whereas my grandfather was brought up with two Turkish playmates. Per amore Dei , my father was wholly ignorant of music.”
The maestro looked round carefully: “So … how was it possible to learn from someone who would …”
“Indeed, I do not understand that myself. From time to time I have the ability to go back into the past and at such times I feel quite clearly what my forefathers felt and know what my forefathers knew. Never have I had any musical training, yet the music that my grandfather Péter Csillag knew, I am able to play and sing myself. I could, if the opportunity presented itself, conduct an orchestra the wayhe did. I can feel exactly, with eyes closed, the tune, the phrasing, and … Do not imagine that I have taken leave of my senses!” He stood up and almost ran to the corner of the stone steps and, whipping off the brocade covering the virginals, began to play. The melancholy chords echoed around the bleak stone walls, which amplified their volume.
The dean closed his eyes and the maestro’s feet began to tap in time to the beat. Bálint Sternovszky’s performance of the piece was flawless.
“What is the name of this piece?” the visitors asked.
“It was composed by a young organist who went to school with Péter Csillag in Luneburg. Bach is the name.”
“Bach? Johann Sebastian?” asked the dean.
“His Christian name I have not been vouchsafed.”
“He has distinguished himself considerably. I had news only the other day that he was on his deathbed. I have a good friend who is a choirmaster in Leipzig; he mentioned it in a letter.”
There was a moment’s silence.
“Does your honor read music?”
“To some extent. What I sing or play on the virginal I can certainly follow in written form. But I have little practice, rarely do I have music to read.”
“So,” said the maestro, going over to the instrument, “your honor did not learn to play this, you know it only through the memory of your grandfather?”
“Something of that
“Your repertoire?”
“Seven hundred and fourteen songs and arias.” Bálint Sternovszky left the room, returning with a thick, much-thumbed tome which he opened towards its end and pointed: “This is the folio in which I have written all their titles. The ones with a cross I can also play on the virginal.”
“No small achievement. Your grandfather must have been a well-trained musician.”
Bálint Sternovszky nodded sagely. A tremor passed across Borbála’s face, which it was impossible not to notice. The two visitors caught each other’s eye.
Bálint Sternovszky elaborated: “My paternal grandfather, Péter Csillag, was a tanner who also played the pianoforte inthe town orchestra of Thüningen. He also wrote songs to the words of Otto von Niebelmayer, the orchestra’s first violin.”
The lady of the house guffawed, and planted a fist in her mouth.
The dean cleared his throat: “Might I be so bold as to ask why … Did you deem my query impertinent?”
“It is my answer she deems impertinent,” replied Bálint Sternovszky, “for my grandfather Péter Csillag departed this life in the year of our Lord 1702. My good lady is doubtful that I could have learned my musical skills from my grandfather if I was born 24 years after his death.”
The two visitors again exchanged glances. Sternovszky continued: “I see that you gentlemen also doubt my words. Yet I must tell you that my German speech, for example, which is quite fluent even though I have never studied the language, is also wholly inherited from my grandfather.”
Borbála tried to control her laughter, and stared intently at the floor. “That could as well have come from your father.”
“True. Only my dear father kept a lifelong silence about his knowledge of the German language. Furthermore, my younger brothers speak no German: how am I to explain that? And I also speak Turkish, of which my father knew not a word, whereas my grandfather was brought up with two Turkish playmates. Per amore Dei , my father was wholly ignorant of music.”
The maestro looked round carefully: “So … how was it possible to learn from someone who would …”
“Indeed, I do not understand that myself. From time to time I have the ability to go back into the past and at such times I feel quite clearly what my forefathers felt and know what my forefathers knew. Never have I had any musical training, yet the music that my grandfather Péter Csillag knew, I am able to play and sing myself. I could, if the opportunity presented itself, conduct an orchestra the wayhe did. I can feel exactly, with eyes closed, the tune, the phrasing, and … Do not imagine that I have taken leave of my senses!” He stood up and almost ran to the corner of the stone steps and, whipping off the brocade covering the virginals, began to play. The melancholy chords echoed around the bleak stone walls, which amplified their volume.
The dean closed his eyes and the maestro’s feet began to tap in time to the beat. Bálint Sternovszky’s performance of the piece was flawless.
“What is the name of this piece?” the visitors asked.
“It was composed by a young organist who went to school with Péter Csillag in Luneburg. Bach is the name.”
“Bach? Johann Sebastian?” asked the dean.
“His Christian name I have not been vouchsafed.”
“He has distinguished himself considerably. I had news only the other day that he was on his deathbed. I have a good friend who is a choirmaster in Leipzig; he mentioned it in a letter.”
There was a moment’s silence.
“Does your honor read music?”
“To some extent. What I sing or play on the virginal I can certainly follow in written form. But I have little practice, rarely do I have music to read.”
“So,” said the maestro, going over to the instrument, “your honor did not learn to play this, you know it only through the memory of your grandfather?”
“Something of that
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