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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 di
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 di
“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… 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 ta
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 way he 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? Joha
“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 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 will curse 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.