Free The Pendragon Legend by Antal Szerb Page B

with rapt attention. I don’t think she wasactually much interested in all the technical details I chattered on about, but she seemed to enjoy the performance.
    It probably wasn’t often that anyone talked to her about these profound, and rather dull, things, and she was immensely flattered .
    Cynthia was a fairy on a magical island, and our friendship was progressing with the sort of speed you’d expect at a well-attended party, after champagne, and after midnight.
    But what is champagne beside a really old tome? In one hand I held an original Caxton, in the other two Wynkyn de Wordes—not to mention the Continental incunabula , and two Aldines enthroned on a separate shelf.
    What a wonderful thing is a book! It simply sits there on the shelf, looking like nothing in any way special, and saying not a word. You open it, and you still know nothing about it, because incunabula have no title-pages. Then you glance at the back, at the colophon, and discover that you are holding a Caxton in your hands—an archduke, a Pope. Is there any human being who can carry self-effacement to that level of perfection?
    I spent the morning familiarising myself with the more noteworthy volumes. Then the gong summoned us to lunch. In my overflowing happiness I sang Cynthia a Hungarian folksong about ripening ears of corn.
    “You Continentals … you’re so … different,” she murmured dreamily.
    “I’ve known English people who loved books.”
    “That’s not what I mean. With you there’s still … passion.”
    And she blushed scarlet.
     
    Over lunch Maloney and Osborne talked golf, and we planned various excursions. The Earl did not appear.
    We were sitting over our coffee and brandy when the local vicar, the Rev Dafyd Jones, was announced. He was extremely frail, and very nervous, with a hunted look in his eye.
    “Excuse me for intruding. In point of fact I was hoping to speak with the Earl, but he won’t see anyone.”
    “Not even you?” Cynthia asked with surprise.
    “I don’t think he’s in,” said Osborne.
    “He was seen this morning, walking in the direction of Pendragon,” said the vicar. “I thought he might be back for lunch. I’m very, very sorry. I shall be off now.”
    And with a great sigh, he sat down.
    “Is there something amiss in the village?” asked Cynthia.
    “Amiss … well, no, strictly speaking, there isn’t. Only superstition , the ancient curse of our people. It seems nothing can drive it from these mountains,” he intoned.
    Osborne pricked up his ears.
    “Well, tell us about it! Do please join us in a drink, Vicar, and tell us the story. Is that table at your sister’s dancing about again?”
    “That’s not superstition; that’s a serious scientific experiment. You may come and observe it any evening you like. No, it’s something else. The whole village has gone mad.”
    “I’m delighted to hear it. Perhaps we might have some details?”
    “You know old Pierce Gwyn Mawr?”
    “The prophet Habakkuk? But of course I do. He belongs with my favourite childhood memories. I hadn’t heard of him lately: I assumed he was dead.”
    “He isn’t dead. On the contrary, if you please. This morning he began to prophesy again.”
    “Excellent. I’ll go and listen to him straight away. But what’s the problem?”
    “The problem is, that the entire village has assembled, and they are completely beside themselves. All work has come to a standstill .”
    “And what is Pierce telling them?”
    “Mainly, that the end of the world is at hand, and they should repent.”
    “And what is his source of information? Are there perhaps omens in the sun and the moon?”
    “He says there are none yet, but there soon will be. Only, in the mean time … ”
    “Well … ?”
    “The four horsemen of the Apocalypse have appeared. Hewatched them all night, circling around Llanvygan House, and then they rode off towards Pendragon.”
    “I saw them myself,” said Maloney. “But how do you know they’re