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 companyhad 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
“He is not noted for his hospitality,” remarked the dean. He instructed the driver to wait for them and set off along the path, using both hands to raise his cape high, as in places the grass was spattered with mud. The maestro followed doubtfully. Soon the building came into sight. The maestro had to rub his eyes. An Italian turret in the shape of a five-pointed star stood in the thick of the forest, but without ramparts. It was as if storms had ripped it from a fortress elsewhere and dropped it in the middle of this wildterrain. Instead of windows the gray walls sported only embrasures, slits for shooting arrows. A long ladder as to a hen coop led up to the first-floor entrance, which was more like the narrow opening of a cave than a door. They climbed up. A copper bell dangled at the end of a cord; they gave it a pull. There was nothing to indicate that it had been heard within. The dean, a noted bass in his day, boomed out: “Anyone within?”
“Who may that be?” came the reply.
The dean gave both their names.
“What business have you in these parts?”
“We have come to see milord Sternovszky, our business being singing!”
A deal of shuffling could be heard behind the wooden structure barring the entrance, and soon this moved aside to let them enter the turret. There was
“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 companyhad 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
“He is not noted for his hospitality,” remarked the dean. He instructed the driver to wait for them and set off along the path, using both hands to raise his cape high, as in places the grass was spattered with mud. The maestro followed doubtfully. Soon the building came into sight. The maestro had to rub his eyes. An Italian turret in the shape of a five-pointed star stood in the thick of the forest, but without ramparts. It was as if storms had ripped it from a fortress elsewhere and dropped it in the middle of this wildterrain. Instead of windows the gray walls sported only embrasures, slits for shooting arrows. A long ladder as to a hen coop led up to the first-floor entrance, which was more like the narrow opening of a cave than a door. They climbed up. A copper bell dangled at the end of a cord; they gave it a pull. There was nothing to indicate that it had been heard within. The dean, a noted bass in his day, boomed out: “Anyone within?”
“Who may that be?” came the reply.
The dean gave both their names.
“What business have you in these parts?”
“We have come to see milord Sternovszky, our business being singing!”
A deal of shuffling could be heard behind the wooden structure barring the entrance, and soon this moved aside to let them enter the turret. There was
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