Not everyone thinks the same about István Fekete. I've read such and such opinions about it. Who ranks it here, who ranks it there. He was (also) a hunter, a man who walked the forest and the fields, and I classify him as one of the greatest writers. Not because of his literary tools, I don't know much about that, but because I see that few people can write about nature and paint moods the way he can.
ISTVÁN FEKETE: Christmas mood
Before Christmas, the abatement stopped, and new flakes began to fall on top of the old frozen snow. The wind turned to the north again, and between the frozen branches it played cold music to the winter, which everyone thought was going away.
On the eve of the evening, the chimneys and open fireplaces of the houses breathed festive smoke into the dusk, and the dogs sat in front of the kitchens with sparkling eyes.
Nativity scenes were in the village, and they merrily rattled their chained sticks on the freshly plastered floor of the small rooms. A white tablecloth was placed under the celebratory dinner, the smell of the cake wafted softly from the pantry, and when it got dark, pistols went off both at the bottom and at the top, as if they were responding to each other.
Doors slammed, sometimes twinkling lights teased out on the snow and somewhere a laugh was heard, slowly disappearing in the air, as if peace itself held it in the palm of its hand.
The forest rustled softly for a while in the evening, but then the wind died down, the fog lifted, and the light of the stars flickered in the crown of the trees.
The roar of the water was barely a whisper, the stars were watching over the profound silence of the forest and the silvery glow of the sky could tell that the moon would rise soon.
The moon was already high in the sky. There was hardly any shade in the forest and somewhere far away, the bells rang for night mass. It was not possible to know where the bell started. The tower where the bell rang was not visible, and the sky could not tell where it came from. Sometimes it seemed to descend from the east, sometimes from the south, but sometimes it sounded as if it descended from above and spread throughout the world. He didn't cry out sharply: he didn't die with a resounding clang, but he was everywhere and later no one would have been able to say when it started.
Maybe it was heard at the same time as Time was born, maybe it was always there and people only heard it now?
The sky was clear, like baptismal water dropped on a diamond, the forest was silent, like the waiting of a shadow with a prayerful dusk, only the bell rang with joyful warmth and held the whole world in its velvety, resounding arms.
On the edge of the pines, deer lowered their crowned heads, squirrels with sparkling eyes sat in dens of old trees and folded their tiny legs on their chests. The eyes of the crows sleeping in the big trees were gentle, wide open, the wild ducks stopped in the water and did not look to see where the danger might come from.
And the owl didn't shout anything bad that night either, it just soared over the forest, then swooped down on old Kőris, but was careful not to scratch the soft branch of the old tree.
"You don't sleep either, old Kőris?" I'll stay here if you allow me... - and Kőris just nodded, like when a person is asked for a seat in a church.
And the bell kept ringing.
The sprouts moved in the ground, dreaming buds sighed, dormant fires flared up, and a poor, old servant: Death, leaned his rusty scythe at the cemetery gate.
Then the bell stopped, the endless silence flashed, and in an immeasurable flare of great brightness, Someone quietly said:
"Peace!"
And the mountains, the forests, the temples and people, the wild animals and all life bowed their heads to the ground.
Then again only the bell could be heard, but it also seemed to be slowly receding.
