The Book of Fathers (6 page)

Later, a young man and skillful, as he rode with his flintlock for the first time into the depths of the forest he had just inherited, he was equally unsure what made him announce in the middle of a clearing, with great solemnity: “In this sacred place we shall set up a manufactory for glass.” He repeated these words, changing only “this” to “that,” when he reached home.

“Why?” asked Janka.

“So that we can trade in light,” he replied, his face transfigured.

Neither his wife’s sensible arguments nor his estate manager’s facts and figures could dent his resolve, still less the fact that even tinted spectacles could not protect his weak eyes from the glassworks’ incandescent furnace. He imported two master glassmakers from Saxony and within a year the first glass panes for wooden window frames were in production. After these came glass bottles, containers for shipping wine, wine decanters, and countless other glass products. The goods sold well, orders came in from all over the country. Janka asked him a hundred times: “How on earth did you know?”

He dared not admit that his knowledge was unearthly. Now, on his deathbed, when he could no longer communicate what he could see to his wife and three sons, the flow of images unexpectedly began anew. Finally he understood what it was that, at the age of thirty, and as a successful stud-farmer, had made him build a glassworks in the middle of the forest inherited from his wife’s kinsmen. There unrolled before him in a series of drab tableaux the history of the clan of the Csillags. He could see his father, Péter Csillag, and his father’s father, Pál Csillag, who had ended up in Bavaria and made his living as a shoemaker, but had previously owned a
prosperous glassworks in the Slovak Highlands destroyed by the Ottoman Turk. He saw his paternal great-grandfather János fleeing his home as a youth and then being killed in one of the Turkish campaigns of the legendary Miklós Zrínyi: a cannonball tore him apart as he was scraping the mud off his boots.

He could see himself, as a boy, clinging onto a starved dog with matted fur. Yes … then, a long time ago, there in the clearing he had had a vision, until he lost consciousness, but he had not realized that he should have preserved on paper these seemingly chaotic images. And now he saw Grandpa Czuczor, burying some kind of casket at the bottom of the garden, under the rose bushes.

“The treasure! Grandpa’s treasure! The roses …” he wanted to cry out. No words issued from his lips.

His grieving relatives heard a rattle from his throat and thought Kornél Sternovszky was no longer for this world. Someone placed a damp dressing on his brow; the cool droplets ran down his temples. Exhausted, he closed his eyes. He could hear his loved ones whispering, the swish of skirts and coats on the wooden floor; this troubled him. He thought again what a blessing it would be if they just let him alone. He saw the dog Málé, then his sole companion, dying in his arms. Perhaps Málé, too, would have preferred to take leave of the world by himself.

He had been scared to death when the sky had darkened in the middle of the day, when the sun was swallowed up by blackness. Later he was told that there had been an eclipse. His eyes never recovered from that burning; thereafter they watered frequently and were always weak.

The final tally, then: in the course of my life I received from God the wondrous gift of the Vision no fewer than three times. It is no use sorrowing that the third came so late. Boundless is His power, inscrutable are His ways. Might I hope that His kindness will extend to my children also?

He felt a leaden tiredness in his limbs. He arranged his arms across his chest as he had seen on sarcophagi. My time is done. I give myself into His hands.
Fiat voluntas tua Domine
.

Why did he go and throw that boiling tea in the master glassmaker’s face? And why, to cap that, did he go and draw his sword on him? After all he, Kornél Sternovszky, was hardly a distinguished swordsman, whereas the brute of a master glassmaker was said to be a veteran of a dozen duels. At the first clash of blades, the glassmaker had wrenched the weapon from his hand, with the same downward movement stabbing him deep in the chest. He could feel distinctly the foam of blood spatter across his chest.

When he was four, he had been found by good people—traveling Gypsies—with barely a sign of life in his body. As he recovered, there were days when he could only howl and scowl, and it was weeks before he was speaking again. Now, as he is laid out, he can no longer make the smallest sound. Now there comes to cover him again the odious dankness of the dark.

II

THE BURNING ORB OF THE SUN BLAZES A PATH ACROSS THE
heavens, like some truculent sovereign sultry on high. The crops are chiffon scarves waving in the wind. The air is pale blue and restless with flurrying things: a broken twig, a fluttering feather, small scraps of cloth, grains of sand, fallen rose blossoms, as if Mother Earth sought to shake off whatever she deemed superfluous. As the air warms up, so the countryside fills with the joyous sounds of nature. From the stalls and stables sounds of braying and grunting and neighing fill the air at all hours of the day. Birds burst into song, as do the children in many a house.

That year estate manager Károly Bodó was determined that the maypole would be of quite outstanding height. He took the trouble personally to select from the thick of the forests of the estate the tallest of their magnificent maples, which took the foresters hours to fell. Four of his men had endless trouble hauling it out onto the track, where they could at last maneuver it onto a cart. For displaying the maypole, manager Bodó had picked a spot on the gentle slope in front of the tiny artificial lake in the park of Castle Forgách. There were groans aplenty from the men: there was no
stonier ground in the entire estate and they would have to dig extra deep if the winds were not to bring it down on the gardener’s lodge or, on the other side, the delicate tracery of the wooden bridge’s balustrade. All in vain. Manager Bodó brooked no opposition: his word was law.

Manager Bodó knew what he was doing in insisting on this site. Planted here, the maypole could be seen with equal ease from the road, from the garden, and from the spacious first-floor terrace, the venue for most of the festivities.

The delicate curly leaves of the estate’s renowned two-hundred-year-old walnut trees had turned a deep green and, as every autumn, manager Bodó had had the crop carted down to the plain where they fetched a very acceptable price. The trees yielded walnuts the size of smallish hen’s eggs. Their shells were so thin they were almost transparent, and it was the work of a moment even for a small child to crack them open. Manager Bodó himself was particularly fond of walnuts and could hardly wait for them to ripen, sometimes having them shaken down as early as July and delightedly consuming his share of the crop dipped in honey or crumbled onto strips of pasta, or even raw, keeping a handful stuffed in his pocket. He liked to have something to chew on: pumpkin seeds, a sweetmeat of some kind, or even the stem of a pipe.

Manager Bodó had served the Count’s estates for many a year. A distant relative of the Countess’s mother, he had been taken on after her premature death, more or less out of kindness, but with his industrious nature and sharp mind for business, he had quickly proved he needed no favors. He presented just one enduring problem: he could not stand music. He had been born cloth-eared—in both ears. Count Forgách and his wife, however, could not live without the sound of music, and their many visitors and guests were entertained by concerts, amateur operas, and choral singing
every weekend, especially around Whitsuntide and in the Christmas season.

On Tuesday mornings manager Bodó would meet with the master of the Count’s music, whose proper title was “maestro,” to learn of the program planned for the weekend, and invariably argued against performances by visiting musicians, as he hated to spend money needlessly—even other people’s money. The Count had in his permanent employ no fewer than seventeen musicians, including two singers; why could the caterwauling not be done by them, for the not inconsiderable annual sum they were paid? However, it was the maestro who tended to win the argument, as the Count was invariably on his side.

“I am all ears,” began manager Bodó.

“The pianoforte needs attention. I’ve already sent word to master Schattel. It will be 80 dinars plus the cost of transport,” said the master of music.

“So be it. Anything else?”

“Accommodation to be arranged for the scholars from Rimaszombat, coming for the choral singing.”

“Number of persons?”

“I have not yet had word.”

“Round figures: Five? Ten? A hundred?”

“Perhaps fifteen. Expected Friday night.”

Manager Bodó nodded grudgingly. “And what can that lot do that the village lads’ choir cannot?”

“Polyphony. Madrigals, on sight.” As the light of understanding failed to dawn on manager Bodó’s face, the master of music began to explain: “They will perform from György Maróthy’s psalter, we shall accompany them. They know the music by heart, the bass will accommodate to the tenor, the alto, and the treble … you will hear, master Bodó, what a glorious sound they make!”

Manager Bodó was sure only of one thing: that he would not hear. As soon as the concert began he would slip out
into the kitchen, saying that he had to oversee the preparations for supper.

By the time the master of music left, the lads had raised the maypole. It lifted up manager Bodó’s heart to see the colorful ribbons on the branches dancing and shimmering in the dew-laden breeze. The master of the Count’s music was also watching the scene from the garden. The air is too damp, he thought, the instruments might be damaged if the air’s not dry. But why should it not be dry? We have a whole week to go.

“Maestro!” Count Forgách was gesturing from the terrace.

The master of music bowed low towards him.

“A word, if you would be so kind. Broken your fast yet?”

Sweeping up his papers in his arms, the master of music loped over to the Count. “Indeed I have, your grace,” he panted. He could see that the Count had just risen from the breakfast table: at the end of his moustache there hung a small piece of egg-yolk.

“What will be the leading attraction at the ball?”

“May it please your grace to recall that we have invited the choir of the Rimaszombat Collegium.”

“Ah, yes. What is it that they will be singing?”

“Psalms, most splendid psalms, with orchestral accompaniment.”

“Psalms, yes …” the Count nodded, a little unhappily. “Any soloists?” He was remembering the pleasure he had taken last time in the performance of that Polish soprano.

“Not on this occasion … Manager Bodó is none too pleased with this visit as it is.”

“What does that matter? It is I who pay, not manager Bodó! See to it at once.”

“Your grace’s wish is my command.”

The master of the Count’s music hurried back to the manager to report the good news. Though he took some pleasure in getting his own back on the manager, he truly
had no idea where to turn for a decent singer at such short notice. He asked the manager for a conveyance, and was offered, with some diffidence, his carriage and pair. By the time the maestro reached Várad, it was late evening. He roused the conservatory’s gatekeeper, who recognized him and opened up the visitor’s lodge and even sent up a cold supper. The maestro had spent eight years at the conservatory of music. Early the next day he presented himself at the dean’s office. The bespectacled clerk failed to recognize him and made him wait a good quarter of an hour, which earned him a royal dressing-down from his employer:

“Making master Titusz Angelli kick his heels, eh? Our most distinguished scholar and musician? The deputy head of our old boys’ association?”

“Begging your gracious pardons, your honors,” he said, bowing and scraping in fear to all points of the compass.

The maestro and the dean embraced, each patting the other gently on the back.

“Well, my dear Titusz, how goes it? What brings you to these parts?”

“I have come to find a soloist, a solo singer.”

The dean ushered him into his office where, as for the last twenty-six years, the scent from a pot of basil filled the air. The dean had a weakness for delicate fragrances. The maestro settled himself on a stool and recounted the Count’s wishes, which he had somewhat misunderstood, for the Count certainly had in mind a female singer. The dean shook his head: trained singers do not grow on trees, and there was no one currently studying at the conservatory whom he would dare recommend as worthy of the distinguished guests at the Count’s ball.

But he did have an idea. The wandering minstrels of Árpád Jávorffy had recently come to town; perhaps in their ranks there was someone suitable. The bespectacled clerk was at once dispatched to make inquiries. The company
had already set up their tents in the market place the previous evening.

It was around noon by the time Árpád Jávorffy presented himself at the dean’s office. Despite a great deal of bowing and much sweeping of his headgear across the floor he was unable to help, as his company offered only circus-style entertainments. He was about to propose his equestrienne Lola, who sang earthy Italian songs while playing the mandolin and riding a dapple-gray, but the dean would not even let him finish the list of her accomplishments: “Out of the question.”

As the disappointed Jávorffy departed—he had been hoping to get at least a luncheon out of the invitation—the secretary suggested they ought perhaps to consider Bálint Sternovszky.

“Goodness me. No,” said the dean immediately.

“Who is this Bálint Sternovszky?” inquired the maestro.

“He’s a landowner in this area. A curious figure. Even his house is not exactly run of the mill … It were best to show it you. You will not have seen its like.”

They climbed into the conservatory’s brake. Two and a half hours’ riding in the
puszta
brought them to the narrow path where a carved sign informed them:

CASTLE STERNOVSZKY—KEEP OUT