A History of Hungarian Literature/Chapter 16
XVI TELEKI AN D MADÁCH COUNT TELE KI (x8n-x86x),1 a .distinguished statesman, wh ose life wa s occupied by political duties, wrote, how ever, an extraordinar ily fine t ragedy, Tiz e Favourite. lts scene was laid in Rome under th e Emperor Valentinian, during the period of her decay, and the subject was taken from Gibbon's history. The drama is really the story of a terrihle vengeance. Petronius Maximus, in a game of dice, loses his wife to the emperor. The winner lures the lady, who is ignorant of what has occurred, into his palace, but sh e escapes and saves h er honour. Petronius, however, does not believe her to be i nnocent and resolves to be revenged upon the emperor. First he gains his confidence and then compels his wife, whom he regards as guilty, to become the emperor's mistress. Then he poisons the emperor's mind and stirs his resentment against his friends, and when several of these have been unjustly put to death, Petro nius heads a rebellion against bim, degrades and s lays bim. Havi ng achieved his aim, Petronius desíres to become reconciled with his wife, but she shudders at his touch and takes poison. The u nh appy avenger is elected emperor and he hears the c rowds sh outin g his nam e, but the only response evoked by the plaudits is : " Donotmockme,ORome1" TELEKI AND MADACH 249 Curiously enough the author's own life was an even greater tragedy than his drama. In x8so Teleki was an adherent of Kossuth and one of the leaders of the emigration. ln x 86o, in defiance of ali right, the Austrians took him prisoner in Dresden, and conveyed him to Vienna and straight to the palace where Francis Joseph, emperor but not yet king, receíved him and made him promise that he would take no part in politics for the time being. He was then set at liberty, but soon found hímself unable to resist the force of circumstances and of his own traditions. In the next year, Hungary's fate was at stake, and Teleki became the admired leader of the oppo sition, whether he would or not. The opposition was strongly hostile to Deák's scheme and Teleki was chasen to speak agaiost it. H e was torn by conflicting feelings. Hungary was tooking to him and expecti ng much from him, but on the other hand there was his promise to the emperor to take no more part in politics. He escaped from the dilemma by com mitting suicide wh en his fame was at its zenith. In the year x861, when John Arany had risen to fame, and established his leadership in the world of literature, he receíved a visít from a wealthy country gentleman who left with him the manuscript of a dramalic poem havi ng the peculiar title, Th e Trag edy of Man. Arany, as secretary of the Kisfaludy Society, was usual ly over whel med with manuscripts, and merely gave the work a rapid glance, noting chiefly, here and there, an occasional fault of style. As he read, however, his interest became more and more aroused, and the wanderfui power and originality of the poem revealed thernselves to him. The author, IMRE 1IAD.-cH (x823-I 864) • was at th is time 250 HUNGARIAN LITERATURE thirty-eight years of age, and had gain ed some reputation as a member of Partiament by his speeches, the fiery character of wh ich was c ongenial to the temper of that stormy epoch . The Tragedy of Mar was the first of his dramas to be published (r86r), and it was also the last he wrote, for he died in r864. Th e Tragedy of Man is a poem of the type of Goethe's Faust and Byron's Ca in. It is not one man, nor even a group of men, that the poet has chosen as the subject of his theme, but, boldly enough, the whole of mankind. His h ero is Adam, the eternal type of humanity. The work displays the whole history of man, not merely his past, but his present, and even his future. We witness the whole process of man's development, up to the time when the human race will be extinguished, and its earthly home become frazen and uninhabitable. Seen through the eyes of the poet, that history appears a huge, grim tragedy. Th e problem for the poet to solve was, h ow to compress such an immense subj ect within the narrow limit of a single drama. Th e opening scene is Jaid on biblical ground, in Eden. Adam yields to the temptation of Lucifer and tastes the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge . After losing Eden, the fallen man and his mate have to endure the hardships of exile, and they long to cast a giance into the far-off future to see what is to be the outcome of their toils and sufferings. Lucifer, whose aim is to destroy the n e wly created human race at the very outset, causes the pair to sink into a deep sl eep, and evokes a succession of visions wh ich reveal the future of human ity, and in which Adam beholds scene after scene of the world's future, hímself taking an active part in each . MADÁCH The hero of each vision, or of each epoch, is Adam himself, the eternal Man, in whom are embodied th e most characteristic features and the leading ideas of each age. The visions re present for Adam, and, in conse quence, for the wh ole human race which he typifies, a long series of what the Freneh call illu.sious perclues. ln each vision or each part of the drama, we see new aspirations, only to be followed by fresh disillusion. Mankind for ever pursues new ideals, but is for ever deceived and baulked. ln the first vision Adam appears as Pharaoh in Egypt, while Eve has the form of a slave. A.dam sees clearly that the fundamental conception of the Egyptian State is, the millions for the oné-the ruler. Adam wishes to destroy that conception, and he l ongs to free both bimself a nd his fellow men from the fetters in wh ich it binds them. The next vision shows the realisation of his hope . Adam reappears in the personality of Miltiades, in demo eratic Athens. But alas, his faith in the power of democracy is vain. His ideal is realised, yet its realisation brings only disappointment. The Athenian mob cannot make a worthy use of freedom, and proceeds to pass judgment upon its great leader Miltiades, demanding his death. In the soul of Miltiades, smarting beneath the cruel defeat of his hopes, bitter thoughts arise. He mocks at his own asp irations and calls that age alone happy which denies virloe and does not drearn of or struggle towards lofty ideals. And such an age does arrive, when man's one purpose has become the p01·suit of pleas ure. We find Adam at a bacchanalian feast in the sensual, dissolute world of the late Roman Empire. All at once, at the orgies of the 252 HUNGARIAN LITERATORE insane revellers there appears an awful guest, the Plague. The Apostle Peter holds aloft the Cross, and preaches to the terrified Roman world the gospel of Christianity and asceticism . What fate awaits the new ideal is shown in the next vision, where Adam, as Tancred the Crusader, sees how a perverted religion exalts celibacy and stigmatises pure love as a crime ; he sees how in the Byzantine Christian world Christianity has degenerated into a religion of petty dogmas, ridiculous contraversies and brutal intolerance. Men have lost the spirit, and heed but the letter. What has become of the sacred re ligion of love and self sacrifice ? Adam (still in the visi on) yearns for someiliing altogether different from this, which has filled him with nothing but bitter disappointment. " I am exhausted and long for rest. In the following scene Adam is the astronomer Kepler, absorbed in his studies, and keeping aloof from the world. But science alone cannot yield bim satisfaction : in his quiet laboratory he yearns for great reforms, and heroic deeds, which should fashion the world anew. And the age o f colossal events arrives, the age which sees the ancient world totter to its foundations and sink with a great crash into ruin. The day of the Freneh Revolution has dawned, and Adam reappears as Danton. But the prediction concerning the Freneh Revolution, that, like Saturn, it would destroy its own children, is fulfilled. The Revolution turns agaiost its heroes and Danton dies on the scaffold. Then we come to th e present age. Ad am, who had wished for a State founded on liberty and order, finds bimself in such a State : he has become a citizen of London. Yet disappointment awaits bim eve n here. The world MADACH 253 has indeed become wide, but of a dead leve l of mediocr ity. Love itself is to be bought and sold. The wh ole world is a n immense market, in which none of the higher impulses find play, and the soul of Adam is possessed with the idea that this stream of people, this crowd filling the streets of the great metropolis, is engaged in the one task of digging its own grave . Adam sees the vast grave, but sees above it, while all the rest sink into its depths, Eve freed from all that is base, radiant in her purity, tiymg beavenward as the genius of Love. The ninth scene is laid in the future, in the new socialistic world that is to be. Adam, as a traveliing scholar, visits the .S tate of the future, the Ph alanstere, established in accordance with the ideas of the Freneh socialists. The whole world is one vast settlement ; the individual has no power or initiative, fo r everything is determined by the common will. The idea of Fatherland has long ceased to exist. Every man is but a part of a huge machine, the Phalanstere. No man has a name, but merely a number, like a prisoner. Every action is in conformity with the common good, but this conformity has the Iifeless perfection only to be found in a machine. Art and poetry have bcome superfluous, it is only the useful which has a right to exist. Th e horse and the dog are only to be found in archreological museums : their place has been taken by machinery. The heads of babies are carefully examined by phreno logists, in order that their careers may be judiciously chosen. The divi ne Plato hímself is considered insan e here, and fit only for prison. Adam, however, is re pelied by such a world, so like a vast automaton, uninspired by a single grand idea, and illumined by no lofty virtue. And at length the end approaches, the dreary, sad, inglorious end. Adam sees mankind rapidly nearing the time when the last feeble spark of human life will be extinguished. The globe of the sun, shorn of its rays, so that Adam takes its blood-red disc for the moon, sheds its dim light upon a frozen world. The last men of the race, a few degenerate Esquimaux, are dragging out a miserable existence. When Adam arrives among them they take him for a god, and request that he would see that there were fewer Esquimaux but more seals.
So this is the goal to which all his struggles and aspirations are to lead, Adam thinks. His wretchedness is increased by the sight of Eve, as the mate of an Esquimaux, who humbly offers his wife's love to the stranger in accordance with the custom of the land. "I—I embrace this woman," cries Adam in horror, "I who once held Aspasia in my arms!"
La farce est jouée. Adam, who has stood beside both the cradle and the tomb of mankind, awakes from the awful dream. Was this to be the future of the race, his race? At the moment of waking, the visions just seen appear so terrible to him that he decides to put a speedy end to the long, painful struggle, of the dreadful issue of which he been warned by those prophetic dreams—yes, to put an end to it, or, rather, to prevent its ever beginning by stopping the stream of human life at its source—by his own self-destruction. But just as he is stepping on to the brink of a precipice, to carry out his fatal resolve, Eve approaches and whispers in his ear a secret, the first secret of the young world: she is going to become a mother. Adam sinks into the dust crying, "Lord, Thou hast vanquished me!" And the skies open, and God looks down upon the kneeling Adam and strengthens him for the coming struggle, in which he is not to be left MADÁC H 255 without help. In the face of life's adversities God bids him 11 Strive and Trust l " and with these words the drama ends . THi: TRAGEDY OF MAN. SCENE III. A bentitifui landscape bej• ond the bounds of Pa,.adise. Small sh11peless huts. ADAM, EvE, LuciFER. ADAM is knocking sl11kes into the gl'ound to mllke a jen ce. EvE is a1'1'11nging an a1'bOII1'. ADAM. So this is mine. . Instead of the wide world this spot is my home. l hold it and have it. I gttard it from wild beasts and I compel it to nourish me. EvE. And I am building an arbour like that which we once poSes.o;ed and so am restoring the Eden we have lost. LUCIFER. That is a mighty utterance. Family and property : these are the main springs of this world. They bring you pleasure, and torment. The two thoughts germinate, grow apace and are known as labour and fatherl and. They generate what is great and noble and devour their own children. ADAM. You speak in riddles. You promised me knowledge. In the impulse of my joy, witb some struggle, I renounced greatness. And what have I gained ? LUCIFER. Don't you feel what it is ? ADAM. I feel that as God has fo rsaken me and thrust me out belpiess into the wildemess, I, too, have forsaken Him. I wil l be a God unto myself and what I gain by my own labour shall be fully mine. That is what gives me strength and pride. LUCIFER (11side). Dost thou indeed defy the shining skies ? Behold the ftashes of their lightnings will reveal the ioner workings of your heart. 256 HUNGARIAN LITERATD RE EvE . One thing makes me proud, that I am the future mother of mankind. LuciFER (aside). That's the woman's sublimest ideal-to make guilt and pain ever lasting on earth. ADAM. What have I to thank Him for ? That I exist ? Is not the fruit of my own labour my reward for the pains of this existence ? I must win the delight of a cooling drink through torturiDg thirst. I must pay for the ardour and glad sweetness of kisses with wearlness and heaviness. Have I tom off the bonds of gratitude, and am I free to build my own fate-and sometimes, groping, to destroy what I planned-you were indeed not needed to help me in this. I could have done as much by my own strength alone. You . have not tom away the chain that bound my body to this earth. A mere hair it is-oh l the infamy of it l-that hems me in and fetters my soul. I long to soar but I sink down. My eye and my ear refuse their service when I boldly attempt to solve the enigma of space. And when imagination draws me into higher spheres, · hunger gnaws me and drags me down again full of shame, to the earth on which I wander. LUCIFER. Yes, those fetters are stronger than I. ADAM. Then you are indeed a poor weak spirit. What if this gossamer, this nothing, which myriads of beings scarcely notice-in whose web they revel joyously thinking they aré free, but which a few chosen spirits only divine-defy your power. LUCIFER. Indeed, 'tis only this which can defy me, because 'tis spirit like I am. Do you imagine that because a power works secretly and silently that it is not strong ? Belleve me, there rests in darkness that which can shatter, can create a world and every bead would tum giddy ·at sight of it. Only what limits the span of earthly time, only the work of men roars and glows. ADAM• . Then let me-I feel the atrength within me-for one moment MADÁCH behold this power that rules me, so that I am in royself a separate entity and yet part of the whole. LUCIFER, l am !" Idle words ! You were and you will be. Existence is an eternal becoming and decaying.
It
ADAM. Show me the future. Show me clearly and fully why I strive and wherefore I suffer. EvE, And show me also, if in ali this renewing and creating my charms shall not fade and decay. LUCIFER. So be it l So be it ! Enchantment cover these two. Show them clearly in a vision the dimmest, most di stant , future. And lest they lose heart and ftee ere they venture on the conftict, show them how sterile their goal, how hard the struggle, how artificial the game. ln the clouded sky, l will leave one brigbt glimmer which shall delude thern-the illusion, the palpable image of the future- hope. FROM SCENE VII. ADAM (AS TANCRED). I should like to cast away my sword and repair to the shady forests of my northern home where pure morals and a man's worth still count, a spot as yet untouched by these false ages, did not an inner voice warn me that I am destined to create them anew. LUCIFER. Vain toil ! You will never succeed by yourself alone in conquer· ing the spirit of the time. The stream rushes on-who can stand agaiost it ? You must swim with it or perish. He who does great t hings, and is called great, is only he who understands his age. He does not create it, he finds his ideas in it. The crowing of the cock does not bring the dawn. The cock only crows because day dawn s. Those despised ones yonder who go out to meet a martyr's death are an advance guard in the course of the ages. New ideas have dawned in them and they are dying for beliefs which their children will some day breathe in, like the very air. But enough of this. Look to your camp l What is happening there ? R 258 HUNGAR IAN LITERATORE Critics have commented on this work from two different points of view. Some say that the dreams were recog nised by the poet bimself not to be in accordance with historical tr uth, and .were deliberately chosen by Lucifer with the diabotical aim of driving Adam to despair and suicide, and so destroying in bim the wh ole human race. Others explain the drama by saying that the great events and epochs of history appeared to Madách bimself in the gloomy light in which he depicts them. Aceording to those commentator!'l, Madách, the poet of disillusion, who even in his lyric poems generally tamented some disap pointment, saw in the hist ory of the world nothing but a constant shattering of the hopes which spring up from generation to generation. Every age has its ideals, but even whcn reacl1ed they prove delusive. Is man's history then really what Petőfi said of it, in a dark h our of doubt and hopelessness ? " We are like the tree which flowers and fades : like th e waves which rise and fali : like the traveller, wh o mounts a bill only to descend again. And so it goes on to ali eternity, up and down, up and down." If we take that view of The Tragedy of Man, its teaching is that the alternation of hope and disillusion, of ard ent enthusiasm and bitter disappointment, which in other of his works is Madách's favo urite theme, is the inevitable lot of mortals, and the wh ole drama may be regarded as an expan sion of Schopenhauer's well-known dictum, that history is a painful nightmare weighing down the mind of humanity. But is there then no consolalion in this long series of disappointments ? Does no stray, cheering sunbeam break through the darkness ? The poet answers in the words of God, words which, in my opinion, express the MADÁCH 259 main idea of the book : 11 Search not for the secret wh ich a divine wisdom has mercifully hidden from thy sight." God points to love and spiritual aspirations for consolation, and sets the happiness of individual life agaiost the unhappy fate of the race . E ven if the history of mankind as a wbole should prove sad and disappoi nting, God has blessed the life of the individual with many joy s and hopes. This book of Madách is the first in Hungarian literature which deals not with the life of one man, or of the nation, but with mankind as a whole. But The Tragedy of Ma n marks a new departure in other respects as well. There are two contending elements in it, imagination and reflec tion. The author' s ideas do not always rise to the poetic level, and we sometimes have metrical prose rather than true poetry, though as prose it is undoubtedly of high quality. This pecul iarity in its language makes the poem a characteristic product of its age . Th e same transition from imagination to philosophical reflection wh ich we find in it, is to be traced on a targer scale in the whole of the literature of the period. It is one of the defects of Madách's poems that his philosophical reflection is not beautified by imagination , but remains abstract and logical. Another imperfection is in the drawing of his characters. The plan of the poem demands that at each epoch of the wo rld's history a complete transformation should take place in the soul of Adam, but as such a change is only conceivable as te result of a long process of development, it could not possibly occur as abruptly as it is made to do. For instance, we see that in the mind of Adam, as the Egyptian Pharao h, the conception of a thoroughly demo eratic state spri ngs into being instantaneously, but this is 26o HUNGARIAN LITERAT ORE manifestiy impossible, for at that period ali the psycho logical conditions and historical precedents which could engender such a notion were lacking. Wher.eas mental growth is really a gradual modification of existing ideas, in the poem there are nothing but sudden and startling contrasts. Adam sets his heart 'upón the exact opposite of the conditions wh ich have proved so unsatisfactory. As regards the other imporlant character in the drama, Eve, the eternal woman, it must be confessed that in ali her various transformations she is more like an abstraction than a real living woman. Yet in spite of these imperfec tions, the conception of the whole wondrous course of the human race is very grand, and the genius displayed in every detail very great. Madách's pessimism had a two-fold origin. It sprang partly from the condition of his native land, and partly from calamities in his private life . In the fifties of the past century, after the war for fre edom, Hungary was pining beneath the tYr-anny of Austria, during what is known as the Bach Period. At the same time the . poet' s life was bligh:ted by private misfortunes. The Wallach ian insur gents had atrociously butebered the whole of his sister's family, and in 1854 his wife deserted hím. Imagine a man such as his poems and letters sh ow Madách to have been, a man highly sensitíve and contemplative by nature, and indined to torture hímself with all kinds of doubts an d to take a tragic view of life j then place bim in a period when the national aspirations have bee n stifled, an age of oppres sion and despair, in a society domned to inaction and impotent resentment j add to the grief of the patriot the sadness of domestic bereavements and the pang of the inj ured husband, and we shall then understand the state of mind in which Madách wrote his drama. Let us glance MADÁCH for a moment at the age whose doubts and griefs and longings found an interpreter in Madách . In 1849, when the Austri an bayonets and Cossack Jances had finished their work, the hangmao began his. There followed a stiiJness as of death . The intellectual leaders of the people were either exiled or imprisoned, or dumb with sorro w ; the nation mourned its greatest poet, Petőfi, slain upon the field of hattie ; its gran dest states man, Széchenyi, had lost his reason. The whole cou ntry was sunk in a heavy torpor. Those wh o loved her asked in agony, "Will she ever wake again ? " u It may be that they will not succeed in destroying the nation entirely, but the wou nds they have infiicted will perhaps never be thoroughly healed," said Széchenyi. The effect of ali this upon the mind of the people becomes clear when we read th e poets of those times. For is not the poet always the truest exponent of his age ? Vörösmarty's poetry in the fifties is like a glowing furnace in the depths of which most preciaus metals are at wh ite beat. ln his poem The Ho ary Gypsy, he imagines bimself to be listening to a gipsy's weird music, and in each tune his gloomy fancy seems to hear nothing but the echo of sad events. And wh en he thinks of the sufferings of Hungary, it seems to bim as though he 11 could hear the rushing wings of th e vulture that comes to renew the immortal pains of Prometheus." Another poet, Baj za, says, "Where there is no justice, only oppression and tyranny, freedom becomes a term of irony, and prison, which sh uts out the sight of woe, becames merciful." Arany, the most cultivated and tender-hearted of alithe poets, saw his country lying crushed and ruined, and as there is no kindness in telling the felled tree that it may revive and flower agai n, he abaodoned his old poetic 262 HUNGARIAN LITERATURE ideals, and with mocking laughter on his lips, but with hitterness in his heart, wrote a travesty of the great events of the time in his satirical poem, The Gypsies of Nagy Ida. Mild Tompa bimself broke out into wild, uncontrollable grief. 14 The young wife prays that she may not bear ch ildren j parents do not bewail th eir infant's death j only the aged rejoice, gladdened by the thought that they have not long to live. " Everything in Nature itself is interpreted in terms of a gloomy symbolism. To Charles Szász. it seems as if 14 the clouds floating above were horn of the vapour of tears and blood, but some day they will send down their light nings upon the earth." The works of Paul Gyulai bear the same note of bitter ness. One of his characters, a farmer, grieves most of ali because his dea r ones, slain in hattie or by the hangman, died in va in. We may imagine what inftuence this environment had on Madách's naturally pessimistic disposition. And then, while other men found some solace for their grief as patriots in the joys of home, it was there that he receíved the cruellest blow through the faithlessness of. his wife. Madách wrote several dramas which were published after his death, but they may ali be regard ed as 11studies " for his great work, which raised bim to the rank of H ungary's greatest philosophical poet. The great democratical movement of the years around 1840 brought the peasa nt into fash ion, not only in poli tics, where the emancipation of the peasant became a battle-cry, and in the lyric and epic poetry of writers like Aran y, Petőfi and Tompa, but also upon the stage. A new dramatic genre arose, known as the 11 popular play," in wh ich the life of the H ungarian peasant was repreEDWA RD SZ IGLIGETI, EDWARD TÓT H 263 sented, accompanied with national music and dancing j it made an ag reeable change from the raving villains of the romantic dramas. I ts c reator was EDWARD SZIGLIGETI (1814-1878) who was for some time an actor and was consequently weil aequainted with stage technique. His first prodoction was The Deserler, in which a large part was still played by the upper classes, but later on the humbler classes played a more and more important and exclusive part in his dramas such as The Pistols, The Horse-herd and The Gypsy. In the Hungarian peasant world there were many poetica! figures of which Szigligeti made use. There were, for example, the proud, hot-headed and somewhat pert peasant lad, who was yet full of deep feeling, and was equally sensitíve to the sorrow of disappointed love and to the joys of life, with its song and dance j the highwayman (betyár), that Iong-since vanished king of the puszta, violent but generous j and that well-known figure of Hungarian village life, the cowardly, sly, and always comical gypsy. Szigligeti was the ch,ief provider of the H ungarian actor's repertory. During the first thirty years of the existence of the National Theatre, one third of the plays it produced were by Szigligeti. It was he who wrote the hest H ungarian farce, Liliomfi. Amon g his serious dramas the best was The Pretender, in wh ich he gave the story of Borics, the Hungarian D emetri us, who though t bimself the lawfut son of King Kálmán an d claimed the throne until he learned the terrihle secret of his illegiti mate birth. The chief follower of Súgligeti as a writer of "popular plays " was EDWARD TÓTH (1844-76), wh o was a poor actor when he wrote The Black Sheep of the Village, 264 HUNGARIAN LITERATORE in which he expressed the poetry of viliage life even better than his master had done. The hero is a peasa:nt lad who in consequence of his unhappy love for a ficle-minded girl becomes an idler and a black sheep, but who is ennobled again by his newly waken ed love for a gentle, true-hearted maiden. In the social drama, the most . important ·follower of Szigligeti was GREGORY CSI KY (1842- 189 1). His literary activity was of a curious character. He wrote a book on canon law, and one on Catholic matrimonial law, and also some very successful plays. For some time he was a Catholic priest but later on left the order. Csiky was more a man of logic than of sentiment ; he had a genius for discerning the characteristic features of his subjects and for constructing powerful plots. His characters often remind us of Dickens, so full are they of life and individuality. He achieved his first great success with the play : The PrQletariat (1879). When the play was over, and the audience clarnoured for th e author, some one shouted to hím : 11 Forward l You are on the right path." ln this drama the most successful feature was the miUeu. Every one who has lived in a large town knows such a society of parasite adventurers and broken-down creatures, and these ali stand before us, drawn with striking realism. Th e central figure is the "saintly wido w," who gives herself out as the widow of a martyrd hero of the revolution. People believe in her and help her pecuniarily, so much so that she is able to mai utain an entire office in which her petitions for assis tance are prepare d. In reality, however, the "saintly widow " is neither a saint nor a widow, but quite the reverse. At her side we see a friend who is worthy of her, a G REGORV CSIKY 1'ransylvanian nobleman who has spent ali his money and now helps the u m:artyr's widow " to live at other people's expense, and to do all manner of sh ady business. ln additio n to this r u ined landowner, there is a broken-down lawyer whose diploma was cancelled by the authorities some twenty years before, and who now works in the widow's petition office. ln this society we find the widow's daughter Irma, a wh ite lily amid ali this foulness. She bears everything patiently as she believes the widow to be her mother, but at an eve ning party the widow dri nks a littie too much p unch and betray s the secret that Irma is not her daughter. This is the tum ing-point of the d rama. Irma escapes from the house to avoid a humiliating busin ess-like marciage to which she cannot consen t, and there is a steiking scene wh en the lawyer's better natu re a wakes and he .helps the girl to get clear of her evil associates and marry the man whom she loves and who is worthy of her. The play owed its success to the realistic and almost too bold drawing of its characters. Similar in its tendency is another drama by Csiky entitled Gildeci Misery. A much more tragical play is The lron Man, in which there is a truly dramatic confiict. The man of iron is a rich manufacturer, stem, obstinate, and i mplacable, who demands absol ute obedience from every one. He has a son who is an 11 iron mari " too in a calm strong way, and wh o falls in love with the daughter of a poor nobleman. But the manufact urer, who owes all his for tune to his own industry, scoms the idle aristaerat an d will not hear of the marriage. He has his way, and extorts from the girl a promise to give up her !over, on the threat that otherwise he will 266 HUNGARIAN LITERATORE declare to the world his reasons for opposing the match and every one shaJl know that the baron has forged some bills of exchange. But now an unexpected catastrophe occurs. Ali at once the baron sees his crime in ali its hideousess ; he was not strong enough to live honestiy but at least he feels strong enough to die, and he thinks that his death may clear the way for his child's happiness. But feel ing that in honour and dishonour sh e is one with her father, she too commits suicide. The so n, who has inherited the unyieiding nature of his father, is irrevocably estranged from the man whose hardness has caused these deaths, and kills bimself amidst the ruin of his hopes. The tyrannical u ir on man " stands before us, cut off from every source of consolation. A very interesting tragedy is Csiky's Sp arlacus, dealing with the slave rebellion in Rome. The crisis is brought on by the circumstanec that the slave Spartacus carries off a patridan lady, but he is in turn enslaved by the majestic purity of his captive, so that he dares not claim her love, and by his homage to her kindies the suspicion of his fellows.