In now approaching the modern novel in Hungary we are at once met, touched, almost overwhelmed by the dazzling light and lustre of one commanding genius of the Magyar novel, Maurus Jókai. His name is at present well-known all over the world, and his novels are eagerly read by Hungarians and non-Hungarians alike. The number of his works is very great, and although over fifty years have elapsed since the appearance of his first novel (in 1846), he is still enriching Hungarian and European literature with ever new works. Nearly everything has changed in Hungary during the last forty years; but the love and admiration for the genius of Jókai has never suffered diminution. In his checkered life there is not a blot, and in his long career there is not a single dark spot. Pure, manly, upright as a patriot, faithful and loving as a husband, loyal as a subject, kind as a patron, an indefatigable worker, and, highest of all, a true friend both to men, fatherland, and literature, he has given his nation not only great literary works to gladden and enlighten them, but also a sterling example of Magyar virtue and Magyar honour. It is, especially in Hungary, no common thing to meet with men of Jókai’s immense power and love of work. His journalistic articles alone would fill many a folio volume. His political activity in the Hungarian Parliament, in the Lower House of which he was up to January, 1897, when the king called him to the House of Magnates, was likewise very extensive. And in addition to that, he was constantly writing novels, turning out volume after volume, until the total exceeded two hundred and fifty. In fact, as has been already hinted at, from an historic point of view he has, by his unparalleled productiveness, done some harm less to himself than to other Hungarian novelists. He himself, although not equally at his best in every one of his novels, has in the course of fifty-one years of creative authorship scarcely lost anything of the distinctly individual greatness of his genius; and even the later and sometimes hurried productions of his pen are, to say the least, most excellent, because intensely interesting reading. On the other hand, his very popularity rendered it almost impossible for any other Magyar novelist to publish novels other than small sketches or essays. The reading public in Hungary is not numerous enough to demand lengthy novels from more than one favourite author. Jókai almost supplanted Jósika ([see page 140]) and all other writers of lengthy novels.
His novels and sketches treat of nearly every aspect of Magyar life, in the past and in the present. The heroic deeds of the ancient or mediæval Magyars are subjects of his novels as well as the doings and thoughts of official and non-official Hungary of the present century. It would, however, be quite incorrect to ascribe to him any intention of writing the “Comédie humaine” of Hungary. No such vast system underlies his countless stories. He has no system; in reality, nothing is more removed from his mind than any such big structure of ideas and facts. He has frequently chosen non-Magyar subjects; and when treating of Magyar events or institutions, he has no philosophical aim to pursue, and no patriotic theory to uphold. He writes novels out of sheer love of telling tales. In the feeblest of his works the reader cannot but notice that singular alertness and freshness of an author hugely enamoured of his profession—and gaily at work. The narrating is of much the greater interest to him; the tale itself does not always claim his full attention. Whether or no, the plot is consistently thought out to the end; or, whether or no, the persons always proceed on the lines of their characters; all that does not too much ruffle Jókai’s joyous composure of authorship. For, to put it in one word, he is an improvisatore; in fact, the greatest of all known improvisatori. This is the key to all his excellencies, as well as to his alleged failings. The Teutonic nations, and amongst the Latin ones the French are, as a rule, entirely unfamiliar with that most fascinating of talking virtuosi, the improvisatore. Even in the wild excitement of the French Revolution there was only one orator, Danton, who improvised his speeches; the rest, even Mirabeau, read them. The vast amount of parlature done in Hungary, to which we called attention at the very outset of this work, has given rise both to marvellous artists of the living word, and to audiences passionately fond of listening to good talk, and on all possible occasions too. The good talker in America is a man who à propos of any occurrence, is reminded of a story that happened “in Denver, Colorado, or Columbus, Ohio.” No such individual would be endured in Hungary. The good talker there is an improvisatore proper. He is never “reminded” of an old story; he invents on the spot or extracts from the actual topic of conversation all the sparks of wit and humour that fall upon the prose of life like dew upon dry flowers. The gift and long habit of improvisation thus makes some of those mostly unknown artists most charming companions and astoundingly clever talkers. He who has not lived amongst them, cannot possibly imagine their ease of invention, their humour, their power of description and their imagination. They are not, as in Italy, professional improvisatori; and perhaps nobody would be more astounded than themselves at the application of that term to them. Yet, a comparison with the man in France, who is “bon causeur,” and with the man in London, who has “remarkable conversational powers,” will show any unprejudiced observer the truth of the above characterization of the Magyar talker. Just as Mark Twain’s humour is only the improved and, by print, fixed humour noticeable in many an American, even so Jókai’s narrative genius is the highest form of that genius for improvisation which in Hungary may be met with frequently in lesser perfection. This explains Jókai’s permanent hold on the Hungarian nation. He has carried one great gift of his nation to the heights of real greatness. We repeat it: he is the greatest of all improvisatori in prose. Nothing can approach his miraculous facility in building up a fascinating scene; in irradiating the heaviest and most cumbrous subject with light and humour; and in wafting over the whole tale the Fata Morganas of an exuberant imagination. Young and old; Hungarian, Englishman or German; man or woman; they must all stand still and listen to the charmer. That Jókai is the best exponent of the Hungarian genius for improvisation in words will be readily believed and accepted, when we point out his startling similarity, almost identity, with another famous Hungarian, who excelled in works of the same quality but written in tones instead of in words. We mean Liszt. Jókai is the Liszt of Hungarian Literature; we might almost say, of European literature. The marvellous musician, who, both as a pianist and as a composer, held the civilized world under his spell for far over seventy years—(Liszt was born in 1811 and died in 1887)—was the king of all musical improvisatori. When he played Beethoven or Chopin, Bach or Schumann, he impressed the most cool-headed hearers as if he had just improvised the pieces he played; that one circumstance being at the same time the secret of his unrivalled powers as a pianist. When he composed—and many, very many of his compositions are works of lasting merit—the result was almost invariably an improvisation. It has that indefinable charm of rapturous glow kindled at the fire of the moment, which endows improvisations with a character unique and exceptional. It excels in major keys far more than minor moods; it has much unity of character and Stimmung rather than unity of form; it always borders on the Fantasia, and never crystallizes into a sonata proper; it cultivates side-issues, such as flourishes and fioriture with startling skill and vast effect, while the bass, or the underlying element of thought, is not laboured nor significant; it appeals to happy people rather than to such as bear heavy burdens; and it works for brilliancy more than for reticent beauty. Liszt’s E flat major concerto, for instance, is an absolutely faithful replica of some of Jókai’s best novels. Both authors excel in brilliancy, technical routine, wealth of imagination, sparkling rhythms and rapturous descriptiveness. There is nothing majestic in them, nothing grave, nothing truly sad or melancholy. Jókai disposes of an inexhaustible humour. This, as will be admitted, cannot be readily imitated in music. In Liszt, humour becomes irony and demoniac scorn. His Polonaise in E major, for example, with its appalling irony at Polish excessiveness, is the musical counterpart to Jókai’s humour. But where Liszt comes nearest to Jókai is in his Rhapsodies. As in Jókai, so in Liszt, there is a constant change of panoramic views; an exquisite wealth of tinkling, sparring and glistening rhythms; a shower of glittering dewdrops and an iridescence of sheets of coloured lights. In a measure, all Jókai’s novels are placed in fairy-land; as all Liszt’s music is on the heights of exultation. And, likewise, the final secret of Jókai’s irresistible charm is in the improvisatory character of his novels. Jókai’s reader does not feel that he is being lectured or moralized or instructed. On the contrary, he feels that he himself, in inspiring, as it were, the author, is co-operating with him in the work, just as the listeners to an improvisatore are doing. The reader is accorded part of the exquisite delight of literary creation and so feels twice happy.
This peculiar and inimitable feature and excellence of Jókai is but another manifestation of the rhapsodic character of the Magyars. Petőfi, and he alone, was in his best poems, both rhapsodic and classical. He not only expressed Magyar rhapsodism lyrically, as has Jókai novelistically and Liszt musically, but he also imparted to it that inner form of moderation and harmonious beauty which, if coupled with perfect expression and metre, renders poetry classical. It will now be easily seen why Jókai must needs have the failings of his virtues. The very nature of rhapsodic improvisations works chiefly for effect: it is subjective art, not objective. The production of the artist is not severed from his personality; it is intimately allied with and dependent on it. In Liszt, whose art admits of combining both production and presentation of the work at one and the same time, the subjective or personal factors became so strong as to render him without any doubt the most fascinating artistic individuality of this century. It is, therefore, in vain to expect in Jókai that patient and self-denying care of the objective artist for the structural beauty of his work. It is not the great number of his novels that has prevented him from giving them as much objective proportion and consistency as they have lustre and charm. Mozart died at five-and-thirty, and left more works than Jókai has written; yet nearly every one of the better ones was objectively faultless. It is Jókai’s very art that necessitates that failing in Art. If he had tried to mend it, he would have stunted some of that peerless profusion of fancy which has endeared him to untold millions. He may displease a few hundreds; he will always transport the millions. Yet one remark cannot be suppressed. Hungary, we are convinced, has not yet arrived at the stage of literary development when critics and the public look backwards for the best efforts of the nation’s intellect. There are still immense possibilities for Hungarian Literature; and all the constellations of literary greatness have not yet risen above the horizon. It will thus not be surprising when we here venture to urge the necessity of viewing even a genius such as Jókai’s historically. His merits are as boundless as his charm. The judgment of all Europe has confirmed that. For Hungarians, however, it will be wise to remember, that Jókai in literature, as Liszt in music, are the highest types indeed, but of one phase only of the many-souled national genius of the Hungarian people. Their work is great and inimitable; we hasten to add: nor should it be imitated. It is the work, not of the last, but of one of the early stages in Hungarian Literature. It has, when over-estimated, a tendency to do harm to the nation. People, who in music are taught to expect the maddening accents of rhapsodies, will rarely calm down to the enjoyment of less spiced, if more perfect music. It is even so with novels. Who now reads the novels of Kemény ([see page 157]); and who ought not to read them? Readers intoxicated with Jókai, we readily admit, cannot fairly rally to enjoy Kemény. Yet Hungary is badly in need of a more modern Kemény, as she is of a Brahms. Or has it not been noticed yet, that while Hungarians are proverbially musical, and known to be so in all countries, they have so far—if we for the moment disregard Liszt—not produced a single creative musician of European fame or considerable magnitude? There can be little doubt that Liszt himself is one of the chief causes of the sterilization of musical talent in Hungary. Vainly endeavouring to imitate him, the composers failed to proceed on different lines. Desiring to hear Hungarian music in no other form than in that of Lisztian rhapsodies, the public failed to encourage the production of new musical works. And so the vast treasure of Hungarian music has not yet been done full justice. The Bohemians, also a very musical nation, have had no Liszt; but they have, at least, their Smetanas and their Dvořáks. As a reader and patriot, no less than as a student of poetry and art, we joyfully recognize the surpassing talent of both Jókai and Liszt. As historian of the literature of our nation, we cannot but make the remark that it will no longer do for Hungarians to leave the historical position of these two great authors entirely out of consideration. It is different with countries outside Hungary. They may and shall read Jókai unmolested by any such reflections. For them he is delight pure and unequalled; and we beg their pardon for not having suppressed the above remark. But as to the interests of Hungary we dare to assume that Jókai himself, great in modesty as he is in so many other ways, will not disavow our idea, but gladly acknowledge that, great as he may be, there ought to be room for novelistic greatness of another kind in Hungarian Literature, and appreciation of other modes of novelistic art in the Hungarian public.
Jókai was born on the nineteenth of February, 1825, at Komárom (Komorn). At Pápa, when still a student, he made the acquaintance of Petőfi, whose intimate friend he became. He took an active, if moderate part, in the revolution, and came near falling into the hands of the victorious Austrians, from which fatal predicament, however, he was saved by his lovely wife Rose Laborfalvy, one of the greatest of Hungarian actresses. From that time onward he has devoted his life partly to parliamentary activity, but chiefly to literature and the political press. In the latter field he has acted as editor of, and frequent contributor to, several of the leading journals of Hungary; and, moreover, as founder and editor of the “Üstökös,” the Hungarian “Punch.” In Hungary, where political and parliamentary life has long been in existence, a paper à la “Punch” was a natural and much needed literary product. Nor do we hesitate to assert that several of such papers—for instance, Jókai’s “Üstökös” (“The Comet”), and the incomparable Porzó’s (Dr. Adolf Ágai) “Borszem Jankó” (a name) not only equal, but, as a rule, decidedly surpass German or French “Punches,” and not infrequently the London paper too. Wit in Hungary is of a peculiar kind, and Jókai is one of its most gifted devotees. It is wit, not only of situations, or humorous contrasts, but also of linguistic contortionism, if we may so express it; so that none but a master of the language can handle it with real success. On the other hand, it is fertile in humorous types, and does not indulge—unwillingly at least—in caricature.
Amongst Jókai’s novels, “An Hungarian Nabob” (“Egy magyar nábob,” 1856, translated into English) is one of his earlier masterworks. It tells the story of one of those immensely wealthy Hungarian noblemen who, in pre-revolutionary times, lived like small potentates on their vast estates, surrounded by wassailing companions, women, gamblers, fools, gypsies, and an indefinite crowd of hangers-on. The old Kárpáthy, the nabob, in spite of habitual excesses of all kinds, is, at bottom, an upright and proud man. The intrigues made against him by a profligate nephew, hitherto his only heir, and who wants to precipitate his death, are baffled by the nabob’s marriage with a young and innocent girl, who makes him the father of a boy, Zoltán. Within this apparently very simple framework what a wealth of scenes, of types, of humour, and descriptive gems! We are taken from the half-savage manor-life of the old nabob to brilliant Paris, then again to Pozsony and to Pest. The language is winged, winning, and gorgeously varied. The continuation of the “Nabob” is given in “Kárpáthy Zoltán,” a novel which, both in its pathos and in its humour, is one of the most engaging pieces of modern narrative literature. Full of historic interest are Jókai’s “The Golden Era of Transylvania” (“Erdély arany kora,” translated into English by Mr. Nisbet Bain); “The Sins of the Heartless Man” (“A kőszivü ember fiai”); “Political Fashions” (“Politikai divatok”); “The Lady with the Sea-Eyes” (“A tengerszemü hölgy”); and in “The New Landlord” (“Az új földesúr”) Jókai has, without so much as posing as a political moralist, achieved one of the best effects of patriotic moralizing. “The New Landlord” is perhaps one of the most finished and architectonically perfect of the Hungarian master’s works, although the workmanship of “What we are growing old for” (“Mire megvénűlünk”) is also remarkable. Other novels in which Jókai’s splendour of imagination and narrative genius may be enjoyed at their best are: “Love’s Fools” (“Szerelem bolondjai”); “Black Diamonds” (“Fekete gyémántok,” translated into English); “There is no Devil” (“Nincsen ördög”); “The Son of Rákóczy” (“Rákóczy fia”); “Twice Two is Four” (“Kétszer kettő négy”), etc. Besides works of fiction, exceeding two hundred and fifty volumes, Jókai has written an interesting History of Hungary; his memoirs; the Hungarian part of the late Crown Prince Rudolf’s great work on Austria-Hungary, etc. He is still enriching Hungarian Literature with ever new works of fiction.
CHAPTER XXXI.
In the preceding chapters we have essayed to give some idea of the work of the leading poets and writers of Magyar literature. The very narrow limits of this sketch of the literary life of the Hungarians have prevented us from giving more than mere outlines; and in now approaching the activity of modern Hungarian poets and writers of less prominent position, although not infrequently of very considerable value, we are forced to restrict ourselves to still more limited appreciation.
Amongst the Novel-writers we cannot omit to mention Louis Kúthy (1813-1864), Ignatius Nagy (1810-1856), and Gustavus Lauka. The two latter excelled in light, humorous novels. In the humoristic sketches and tales of Gereben Vas (nom de plume for Joseph Radákovics, 1823-1867) there is a continuous and, as to its language, admirable display of the fireworks of folk-wit and racy fun. Amongst his best works are “Great Times—Great Men” (“Nagy idők nagy emberek”); “Law-Students’ Bohemian Life” (“Jurátus élet”). Albert Pálffy (born in 1823), after a long career as an influential politician and journalist, has published, since 1892, a great number of sound, readable novels. Aloisius Degré (born in 1820), of French extraction, has always been a popular writer with readers of society-novels. Charles Bérczy (1823-1867) is the founder of sport-literature in Hungary; in his novels he follows chiefly English models. A peculiar position is occupied by Ladislas Beöthy who, in the evil decade of Austrian reaction (1850-1860) amused and consoled his despondent countrymen by his eccentric humour and originality. In the historic novels of Charles Szathmáry (1830-1891) there is more patriotism than literary power. Both as a journalist (as editor of the “Fővárosi Lapok”) and as an author of elegant and thoughtful novels, Charles Vadna (born 1832) has won a conspicuous place for himself. Alexander Balázs (1830-1887); Arnold Vértesi (born 1836); Lewis Tolnai (born 1837); William Győry (1838-1885); Miss Stephania Wohl (1848-1889); Emil Kazár (born in 1843); have in numerous novels, many of which would merit particular attention, painted the sad or gay aspects of life. Louis Abonyi (born in 1833), Alexander Baksay (born in 1832), Ödön Jakab, and Bertalan Szalóczy count among the best Hungarian novelists whose subjects are taken from the life of the Magyar peasantry. As we have already suggested, the number of Hungarian writers venturing on a novelistic poetisation of life on a grand scale, is not very great at present. Most of the modern novelists just mentioned work on a smaller scale; and thus the Hungarian Bret Harte did not fail to make his appearance. His name is Coloman Mikszáth (born in 1849). His short and thoroughly poetic tales from the folk-life of Hungary are in more than one respect superior to those of the American writer. For, to the latter’s sweet conciseness of plan and dialogue, Mikszáth adds the charm of naïveté. Some of his works have been translated into German, French and English; and the enthusiasm for his art will no doubt spread from Hungary to all other countries where the graces of true simplicity can still be enjoyed.
Amongst the numerous writers of genre-sketches and feuilletons, “Porzó” or Dr. Ágai is facile princeps; not only in Hungary, but also, we venture to add, in all Europe. He is quite unique.