Love in a Bottle and Other Stories (Pushkin Collection) - Softcover

Szerb, Antal (Author)

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1908968427 ISBN 13: 9781908968425

Verlag: Pushkin Press, 2013

Inhaltsangabe

This selection of Antal Szerb's stories and novellas, set first in a quasi-mythical past and then in the London and Paris of the Thirties, provides an exhilarating guide to the writer's development, from precocious beginnings to a masterful maturity.
In these unforgettable tales—two of which are new to this edition—Szerb displays his irrepressible love of life and the gentle irony that became his hallmark.

"Here you have Szerb in miniature... revealing his multi-faceted genius." - Nicholas Lezard, Guardian

Pushkin Collection editions feature a spare, elegant series style and superior, durable components. The Collection is typeset in Monotype Baskerville, litho-printed on Munken Premium White Paper and notch-bound by the independently owned printer TJ International in Padstow. The covers, with French flaps, are printed on Colorplan Pristine White Paper. Both paper and cover board are acid-free and Forest Stewardship Council (FSC) certified.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorinnen und Autoren

Antal Szerb (1901-1945) was a writer, scholar, critic and translator born to Jewish parents but baptized Catholic. Multilingual, he lived in Hungary, France, Italy and England, and after graduating in German and English he rapidly established himself as a prolific scholar, publishing books on drama and poetry, studies of Ibsen and Blake, and histories of English and Hungarian literature.

At the age of 39, Szerb wrote an authoritative History of World Literature. He wrote his first novel, The Pendragon Legend, in 1934, followed by Journey by Moonlight in 1937, Oliver VII in 1942 and The Queen's Necklace in 1943. These, and a collection of his short stories, Love in a Bottle, are also published in English by Pushkin Press. Szerb was killed in a concentration camp in January 1945.

Antal Szerb was born in Budapest in 1901. Though of Jewish descent, he was baptised at an early age and remained a lifelong Catholic. He rapidly established himself as a formidable scholar, through studies of Ibsen and Blake and histories of English, Hungarian and world literature. He was a prolific essayist and reviewer, ranging across all the major European languages. Debarred by successive Jewish laws from working in a university, he was subjected to increasing persecution, and finally murdered in a forced labour camp in 1945. Pushkin Press publishes his novels The Pendragon Legend, Oliver VII and his masterpiece Journey by Moonlight, as well as the historical study The Queen's Necklace and Love in a Bottle and Other Stories.

Antal Szerb was born in 1901 into a cultivated Budapest family of Jewish descent. He was a prolific scholar, publishing books on drama and poetry, as well as influential histories of English, Hungarian and world literature. He died in the forced-labour camp at Balf in January 1945.

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Love in a Bottle and Other Stories

By Antal Szerb, Len Rix

Steerforth Press

Copyright © 2013 Estate of Antal Szerb
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-908968-42-5

Contents

Translator's Introduction, 9, 
Part One · 1922–23, 
Ajándok's Betrothal, 21, 
The White Magus, 49, 
The Tyrant, 65, 
Part Two · 1932–43, 
Cynthia, 105, 
A Garden Party in St Cloud, 115, 
Fin de Siècle, 143, 
A Dog Called Madelon, 169, 
Musings in the Library, 181, 
Love in a Bottle, 205, 
The Incurable, 223, 
The Duke, 231, 

CHAPTER 1

AJÁNDOK'S BETROTHAL

St John of the Flowers, how bright is your night as I stand here before you, in simple reverence — till your clear bright skies grow sombre with clouds.

It was St John's night, the night of St John of the Flowers, the shortest night of the year, when darkness crouches low on its ankles before rising slowly, slowly, to its full height once again.

The wagon of the Great Bear had already been wheeled out, freshly washed, into the sky, and the entire village, both young and old, in all their festive finery, flocked up the hill to where the statue of the Blessed Virgin stood wreathed in flowers. At its feet they made a pile of straw and brushwood and, at the appointed hour, set it alight in the time-honoured fashion. The straw flickered with a young, skittering flame, as did the glowing cheeks of young Lidi as she was led into the centre, and soon the brushwood followed, slow and hesitant, like the dancing of the older women, and the fire of flowery St John was fully ablaze.

The next instant, from every hilltop far and near, answering fires flashed out greetings to one another, like so many kings of the summer throned in radiance above the wide plains.

Along one side of the conflagration sat the worthy elders, among them the miller, as proud as if the whole summer were his own, for the entire harvest was piled high in his barn. On the other side the venerable older women, including the miller's mother — renowned for her wisdom in seven villages — sat looking across to where the comely younger women were seated. With these was her oldest granddaughter, the same Lidi, whose gaze was directed in turn to where the handsome young men of the village were seated. Among them was Bálint, the miller's foreman, her secret sweetheart.

The boys all carried long sticks with lengths of straw attached to the ends. These were now set alight and brandished overhead in waving, snake-like movements, leaping nightmarishly in all directions, while the girls threw their fresh flowers onto the fire. The young people shouted and danced, until the blaze finally settled down to burn with a gentle, steady flame (St John's bonfire never did last very long) and then the games began. A handful of the girls set the song in motion, and the rest quickly followed:

Tuz villog, nap ragyog hunyor a személye, rózsa nyílik elotte és utána liliom

Fire burns, sun shines incarnate in the hellebore, the rose opens before it and after it the lily

and Lidi said to Bálint, and Bálint said to Lidi: "You are my treasure," and all the young people shrieked with laughter, as if hearing this news for the first time. Bálint muttered something under his breath, then rose to his feet, as did the furiously blushing Lidi, and there they stood, side by side, an acknowledged couple. They waited while the girls sang the wooing song, then jumped, hand in hand, through the fire. The miller just smiled and smiled, thinking of his grandchildren as budding ears of corn in God's great field — there would be so many children, a happy family in the old windmill, and he would be prouder than the Emperor himself when the guard paraded before him.

The embers clung to their waning life, and the couples leapt through it one after another in response to the changing lines of the song. Then when everyone had taken St John's blessing, the lads came to a stop facing the girls. One of the younger girls would now have to run between the lines shouting, "Lidi Miller's house is burning, put it out, put it out". She would then be followed by all the publicly acknowledged couples, starting with the last in line, the girl running ahead of the boy. But when the boys got themselves in position to set off down the line, they realised that none of the younger girls were where they should have been. They had all been sent home to bed, in order not to lose face. The only ones left standing opposite their partners and waiting to run were those already betrothed. Just one unattached girl remained on the scene, a mere child, the miller's youngest daughter, aged fifteen. Her grandmother had sent her over with instructions to run down the line shouting the required words so that the couples would not be disappointed. She approached with a smile on her face that was a joy to see — but as she grew closer, and cast her eye over the many fine young men standing there with their partners, she burst into tears and ran away, sulking.

Few of the villagers, being all (the women especially) so busy with their plans and dreaming up little love nests for the couples, can have spared a thought for that one little girl among all the others, now wandering somewhere out of sight, alone. The song and the games continued, nor did the miller's old mother forget to bake the ceremonial herbs over the flames, and the revels went on until suddenly it was very late, and with the next day's labours in mind they all set off homewards.

Ajándok — for that was the little girl's name — was the late-born child of elderly parents. She wandered through the gardens, not bothering to dry her weeping eyes, her lips red from sulking and her mouth turned down, reluctant to venture as far as the main road. It was a wonderfully clear night, full of palpitating stars, with not a single cloud in all its pathless expanse. Peering through hedges, she could make out, here and there, broken-down old people sitting in the porches in front of their houses, their faces gazing up at the shining galaxies. Even the dogs were silent. Perhaps they had all gone off to celebrate in some other place, where their kind have a seat at their masters' bone-covered tables. At the far end stood the windmill, its huge four-armed sails motionless, as under a spell, with not a whisper of wind to drive them.

"Perhaps I should just throw myself in the river," the child thought sadly. "The fishermen would haul me up in their nets before dawn, with golden fishes in my hair, and lay my body out in the market square, and everyone would come and cry over me, and a rich and powerful man would take me back to the village in a golden coach, and my parents would wail and weep, and say: 'She was such a little thing when she was alive, and now she's dead, and she was the most beautiful of all of them.' And a hundred young men would come and stare at me, but it would be too late, my mouth would be cold and white, and I would be all cold and white, as white as a lily."

Ajándok was indeed beautiful, as beautiful as fairy gossamer, soft and supple, with long golden hair. But she was still very young, not yet marriageable, not at all ready to be led away as a bride. And she was as solitary as a river by night. She gazed long and thoughtfully at her barely rounded arms, thinking of the future bridegroom she would one day cradle in them — the young man who had only now set out across unimaginably distant seas, his road beset by every...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Pushkin Press
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2013
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 1908968427
• ISBN 13: 9781908968425
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 256
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar