A Quiver Full of Arrows

“I hope you didn’t mind my asking?” he added.

“Of course not,” I said.

“It’s just that I have so little opportunity to converse with an Englishman. So when I spot one I always grasp the nettle. Is that the right colloquial expression?”

“Yes,” I said, trying to think how many Hungarian words I knew. Yes, No, Good morning, Goodbye, I am lost, Help.

“You are in the student games?”

“Were, not are,” I said. “I departed somewhat rapidly on Monday.”

“Because you were not rapid enough, perhaps?”

I laughed, again admiring his command of my first language.

“Why is your English so excellent?” I inquired.

“I’m afraid it’s a little neglected,” the old man replied. “But they still allow me to teach the subject at the university. I must confess to you that I have absolutely no interest in sport, but these occasions always afford me the opportunity to capture someone like yourself and oil the rusty machine, even if only for a few minutes.” He gave me a tired smile but his eyes were now alight.

“What part of England do you hail from?” For the first time his pronunciation faltered as “hail” came out as “heel.”

“Somerset,” I told him.

“Ah,” he said, “perhaps the most beautiful county in England.” I smiled, as most foreigners never seem to travel much beyond Oxford or Stratford-on-Avon. “To drive across the Mendips,” he continued, “through perpetually green hilly countryside and to stop at Cheddar to see Gough’s caves, at Wells to be amused by the black swans ringing the bell on the Cathedral wall, or at Bath to admire the life-style of classical Rome, and then perhaps to go over the county border and on to Devon … Is Devon even more beautiful than Somerset, in your opinion?”

“Never,” said I.

“Perhaps you are a little prejudiced,” he laughed. “Now let me see if I can recall:

Of the western counties there are seven

But the most glorious is surely Devon.

Perhaps Hardy, like you, was prejudiced and could think only of his beloved Exmoor, the village of Tiverton and Drake’s Plymouth.”

“Which is your favorite county?” I asked.

“The North Riding of Yorkshire has always been underrated, in my opinion,” replied the old man. “When people talk of Yorkshire, I suspect Leeds, Sheffield and Barnsley spring to mind. Coal mining and heavy industry. Visitors should travel and see the dales there; they will find them as different as chalk from cheese. Lincolnshire is too flat and so much of the Midlands must now be spoiled by sprawling towns. The Birminghams of this world hold no appeal for me. But in the end I come down in favor of Worcestershire and Warwickshire, quaint old English villages nestling in the Cotswolds and crowned by Stratford-upon-Avon. How I wish I could have been in England in 1959 while my countrymen were recovering from the scars of revolution. Olivier performing Coriolanus, another man who did not want to show his scars.”

“I saw the performance,” I said. “I went with a school party.”

“Lucky boy. I translated the play into Hungarian at

the age of nineteen. Reading over my work again last year made me aware I must repeat the exercise before I die.”

“You have translated other Shakespeare plays?”

“All but three. I have been leaving Hamlet to last, and then I shall return to Coriolanus and start again. As you are a student, am I permitted to ask which university you attend?”

“Oxford.”

“And your college?”

“Brasenose.”

“Ah. B.N.C. How wonderful to be a few yards away from the Bodleian, the greatest library in the world. If I had been born in England I should have wanted to spend my days at All Souls, that is just opposite B.N.C., is it not?”

“That’s right.”