and choral singingevery 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 outinto 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 trulyhad 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.
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 outinto 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 trulyhad 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.
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