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.