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Authors: Miklós Vámos
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sort.”
“It’s quite unbelievable!”
“Yes. Yet that is how it is.”
“And your honor also learned the arias in the same …?”
Sternovszky nodded.
“Terrifying,” said the maestro.
“Were others able to avail themselves of this … technique, our craft would become quite pointless,” mused the dean.
Sternovszky’s face broke into a smile. He suddenly launched into a song. His voice was mellow and powerful, though able to reach a higher register than could most men. The words of the Italian lyrics seemed unclear in places and some he certainly elided, but neither the dean nor the maestro noticed, so powerfully did they fall under the music’s spell. As he came to the end they both burst into spontaneous applause.
“Whence comes this aria?” asked the maestro.
“Also from my grandfather Péter Csillag.”
“Yes, but who is the composer? Monteverdi?”
“I do not know. My dear grandfather was unsure.”
“Let us have a look at the music.”
“I have told you: there is no music.”
“But then where are the words from?”
“Have you not been listening? I just remember what my grandfather knew; that is how it is with me!” he said, impatiently slamming down the lid of the virginals.
The two musicians voiced no further doubts. The maestro asked if his honor would be willing to perform at the ball to be held in Count Forgách’s castle, and what he would like to perform to the accompaniment of the orchestra. Bálint Sternovszky accepted the invitation. Though showing no interest in the fee, he remarked that he had never in his life performed with an orchestra. The maestro deemed nonetheless that two days’ rehearsal would suffice.
They thought Sternovszky would try to prevail upon them to stay the night, but as he made no remark to this effect, they packed their things. As they were saying their farewells, the dean asked Sternovszky: “With such a voice you could have gone to the top of the profession. Why have you not tried?”
“I am not even sure that it is right for me to sing before an audience, especially for money … My kinsmen willcurse me left, right, and center. My father, God rest his soul, might have disowned me.”
“Then it is fortunate indeed that he …” The maestro fortunately bit his tongue before reaching the end of his wayward train of thought.
“Our grateful thanks for your hospitality,” said the dean. “God bless you.”
As darkness fell Bálint Sternovszky watched through the window slits while the two men set off uncertainly along the forest track. They are afraid, he thought. Even in daylight this part of the world is none too friendly, never mind at night. Wolves howl by the reed beds; but as long as there is such a rich supply of pheasant, quail, and hare, they will not hunger for man flesh. Even the hen coops in the servants’ houses behind the turret were in no danger.
When Bálint Sternovszky had first come to these parts not every trace of the old village had been carried away by winds and thieves. The ruins of the houses had sometimes been covered by mounds of blackish dust. The area was largely in thrall to the young trees that had sprung up, forming a new forest. Where once the church had stood there were now reed beds, as if it were the shore of a lake. High above the rock face the peak loomed lonely, the color of rust, and rivulets of rainwater by the hundred bubbled down through the rocks, sweeping everything into the valley. The tiny traces of the life lived here by the people of old had crumbled away; there was, in any case, no one here to pick them up as souvenirs.
In the clearing alongside the rocky cliffs where he wanted to build his home, the brushwood and the undergrowth had first to be cleared away. Somewhere in the middle, mouth downwards, embedded in the soil, lay a copper mortar with a hole in it. Bálint Sternovszky had it cleaned and polished, and had treasured it ever since.
It took two years to build the turret, to his
“It’s quite unbelievable!”
“Yes. Yet that is how it is.”
“And your honor also learned the arias in the same …?”
Sternovszky nodded.
“Terrifying,” said the maestro.
“Were others able to avail themselves of this … technique, our craft would become quite pointless,” mused the dean.
Sternovszky’s face broke into a smile. He suddenly launched into a song. His voice was mellow and powerful, though able to reach a higher register than could most men. The words of the Italian lyrics seemed unclear in places and some he certainly elided, but neither the dean nor the maestro noticed, so powerfully did they fall under the music’s spell. As he came to the end they both burst into spontaneous applause.
“Whence comes this aria?” asked the maestro.
“Also from my grandfather Péter Csillag.”
“Yes, but who is the composer? Monteverdi?”
“I do not know. My dear grandfather was unsure.”
“Let us have a look at the music.”
“I have told you: there is no music.”
“But then where are the words from?”
“Have you not been listening? I just remember what my grandfather knew; that is how it is with me!” he said, impatiently slamming down the lid of the virginals.
The two musicians voiced no further doubts. The maestro asked if his honor would be willing to perform at the ball to be held in Count Forgách’s castle, and what he would like to perform to the accompaniment of the orchestra. Bálint Sternovszky accepted the invitation. Though showing no interest in the fee, he remarked that he had never in his life performed with an orchestra. The maestro deemed nonetheless that two days’ rehearsal would suffice.
They thought Sternovszky would try to prevail upon them to stay the night, but as he made no remark to this effect, they packed their things. As they were saying their farewells, the dean asked Sternovszky: “With such a voice you could have gone to the top of the profession. Why have you not tried?”
“I am not even sure that it is right for me to sing before an audience, especially for money … My kinsmen willcurse me left, right, and center. My father, God rest his soul, might have disowned me.”
“Then it is fortunate indeed that he …” The maestro fortunately bit his tongue before reaching the end of his wayward train of thought.
“Our grateful thanks for your hospitality,” said the dean. “God bless you.”
As darkness fell Bálint Sternovszky watched through the window slits while the two men set off uncertainly along the forest track. They are afraid, he thought. Even in daylight this part of the world is none too friendly, never mind at night. Wolves howl by the reed beds; but as long as there is such a rich supply of pheasant, quail, and hare, they will not hunger for man flesh. Even the hen coops in the servants’ houses behind the turret were in no danger.
When Bálint Sternovszky had first come to these parts not every trace of the old village had been carried away by winds and thieves. The ruins of the houses had sometimes been covered by mounds of blackish dust. The area was largely in thrall to the young trees that had sprung up, forming a new forest. Where once the church had stood there were now reed beds, as if it were the shore of a lake. High above the rock face the peak loomed lonely, the color of rust, and rivulets of rainwater by the hundred bubbled down through the rocks, sweeping everything into the valley. The tiny traces of the life lived here by the people of old had crumbled away; there was, in any case, no one here to pick them up as souvenirs.
In the clearing alongside the rocky cliffs where he wanted to build his home, the brushwood and the undergrowth had first to be cleared away. Somewhere in the middle, mouth downwards, embedded in the soil, lay a copper mortar with a hole in it. Bálint Sternovszky had it cleaned and polished, and had treasured it ever since.
It took two years to build the turret, to his
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