shut with a quiet, golden click. He looked Szunyogh in the eye. As always he appealed to the teacher's better self. One by one he extolled the beauties of life, reminding Szunyogh of his wife and charming daughter. He spoke of the teacher's former ambition, of the articles he had once published in the
Philological Review
. And he did nothing to disguise the horrid fate that would soon await his friend if he failed to change his ways. Szunyogh listened attentively, his blond eyelashes blinking, his torso swaying to and fro, and his emaciated legs shivering beneath the table. Accepting the physician's sound advice, he ordered himself a modest glass of table wine.
The Vajkays were just about to leave when Bálint Környey strode in, accompanied by two other gentlemen.
One was Szolyvay, the popular comedian. The other was a tall and smartly dressed actor in an elegant top hat. He was Imre Zányi, the celebrated leading man, the idol of every woman and girl in Sárszeg.
Until then the gathering had been growing increasingly spirited; but now the general din soared to new heights. Környey was greeted with a thundering roar of laughter, properly befitting the arrival of the Table's honoured president. For his part, Környey stood before his companions, hands behind his back, as if inspecting his Panther troops.
“Greetings, gentlemen.”
The Panthers’ Table had been formed some twenty years before, with the not unworthy aim of popularising the consumption of alcohol and promoting gentlemanly friendship.
The Panthers were expected to drink daily and diligently, whether they could hold their drink or not. Ákos had been a member once himself, at the very beginning, when the Table was first founded. But he had suddenly grown old, “soured,” as the others complained, and no longer paid them any attention. Many more had fallen by the wayside, collapsing from chronic alcohol poisoning and cirrhosis of the liver, which was how most men in Sárszeg met their end. Every year the Table laid wreaths at their graves. During Környey's touching speeches the younger Panther cubs would come close to tears, as did those veterans who, in spite of their snowy hair, still stood their ground and were Panthers to the last.
Bálint Környey sat down among them. He had a friendly word for everyone. Then suddenly, as he was about to raise his tankard to his lips, he spotted Ákos, the dear old friend and companion of his youth. He broke into a smile, then fell back into his seat. Of all the...He gave Ákos a hearty wave and then, in good country fashion, bellowed over to his table:
“Greetings! Greetings, old chap!'
They no longer had much to do with each other these days. At most, Környey would send Ákos a brace of pheasant or partridge when he had been out hunting on his estate.
But they were both clearly pleased to see each other now.
At Környey's greeting the Panthers quietened down a little. They leaned towards their beloved president, who was explaining something to his neighbours, clearly about the character he had just greeted. The Panthers glanced respectfully, if perhaps a little sadly, at the Vajkays’ lonely table. Then Bálint Környey rose to his feet.
“My dear old Ákos! Welcome!” he called out before reaching the table and bending down to kiss the hand of his friend's good lady. Then he shook hands with Ákos himself. “This is a turn-up for the books,” he said with a chuckle. “What brings you here?'
“Lunch,” Ákos stuttered. “We came for lunch.” After this he began to hum and haw.
“You wicked old Panther,” Környey interrupted, shaking a huge finger at Ákos, “you've been unfaithful to us. Why don't you look in at the Club some time?'
“Forgive me, my friend, but I no longer drink, nor smoke, nor play cards. And what is more–” here Ákos paused momentarily for thought–“I've grown old.”
The two friends nodded in silence, showing each other the monkish tonsures that parted their
Philological Review
. And he did nothing to disguise the horrid fate that would soon await his friend if he failed to change his ways. Szunyogh listened attentively, his blond eyelashes blinking, his torso swaying to and fro, and his emaciated legs shivering beneath the table. Accepting the physician's sound advice, he ordered himself a modest glass of table wine.
The Vajkays were just about to leave when Bálint Környey strode in, accompanied by two other gentlemen.
One was Szolyvay, the popular comedian. The other was a tall and smartly dressed actor in an elegant top hat. He was Imre Zányi, the celebrated leading man, the idol of every woman and girl in Sárszeg.
Until then the gathering had been growing increasingly spirited; but now the general din soared to new heights. Környey was greeted with a thundering roar of laughter, properly befitting the arrival of the Table's honoured president. For his part, Környey stood before his companions, hands behind his back, as if inspecting his Panther troops.
“Greetings, gentlemen.”
The Panthers’ Table had been formed some twenty years before, with the not unworthy aim of popularising the consumption of alcohol and promoting gentlemanly friendship.
The Panthers were expected to drink daily and diligently, whether they could hold their drink or not. Ákos had been a member once himself, at the very beginning, when the Table was first founded. But he had suddenly grown old, “soured,” as the others complained, and no longer paid them any attention. Many more had fallen by the wayside, collapsing from chronic alcohol poisoning and cirrhosis of the liver, which was how most men in Sárszeg met their end. Every year the Table laid wreaths at their graves. During Környey's touching speeches the younger Panther cubs would come close to tears, as did those veterans who, in spite of their snowy hair, still stood their ground and were Panthers to the last.
Bálint Környey sat down among them. He had a friendly word for everyone. Then suddenly, as he was about to raise his tankard to his lips, he spotted Ákos, the dear old friend and companion of his youth. He broke into a smile, then fell back into his seat. Of all the...He gave Ákos a hearty wave and then, in good country fashion, bellowed over to his table:
“Greetings! Greetings, old chap!'
They no longer had much to do with each other these days. At most, Környey would send Ákos a brace of pheasant or partridge when he had been out hunting on his estate.
But they were both clearly pleased to see each other now.
At Környey's greeting the Panthers quietened down a little. They leaned towards their beloved president, who was explaining something to his neighbours, clearly about the character he had just greeted. The Panthers glanced respectfully, if perhaps a little sadly, at the Vajkays’ lonely table. Then Bálint Környey rose to his feet.
“My dear old Ákos! Welcome!” he called out before reaching the table and bending down to kiss the hand of his friend's good lady. Then he shook hands with Ákos himself. “This is a turn-up for the books,” he said with a chuckle. “What brings you here?'
“Lunch,” Ákos stuttered. “We came for lunch.” After this he began to hum and haw.
“You wicked old Panther,” Környey interrupted, shaking a huge finger at Ákos, “you've been unfaithful to us. Why don't you look in at the Club some time?'
“Forgive me, my friend, but I no longer drink, nor smoke, nor play cards. And what is more–” here Ákos paused momentarily for thought–“I've grown old.”
The two friends nodded in silence, showing each other the monkish tonsures that parted their
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