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A History of Hungarian Literature/Chapter 7

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VII

THE AGE OF DECADENCE

At length, in the year 1686, the day came when an epoch-making event was to take place, an event on which the very existence of the country depended, one for which the way had been prepared by Zrinyi and which was expected by everyone with mingled hope and fear. Hungary, with the co-operation of Austria, cast off the Turkish yoke, and Buda was regained for Christianity. The deliverance was effected by the troops of Prince Charles of Lorraine; every country in Europe was represented in them, including the remote highlands of Scotland.

Hungary was free. But strange to say, the period which followed that glorious historical event was from the literary point of view not one of advance but of decadence. Literature seemed extinct. Mikes, the one really original writer of the period, lived in exile far from his country, on the shores of the Sea of Marmora. There he wrote the works, which only became known several decades later. In Hungary itself, literary produc­tion seemed to have come to a standstill. There were few writers and few readers. The explanation of this curious fact lies in the circumstances which benumbed every organ of the body politic. The desolate state of the realm of literature was largely due to the desolation which reigned everywhere in the country, a result of the frightful depopulation to which it had been subjected. The Turkish Supremacy, which had lasted for more than one hundred and fifty years, had terrible consequences. When the enemy was finally expelled, there scarcely remained more than a million Hungarians. Not only had the Turks slain enormous numbers of them, but they had carried off almost as many, to serve as soldiers or as slaves. The Lowlands, the most purely Hungarian parts of the country, were the chief sufferers from the devastation.

Another cause of decadence was the universal poverty. The Turkish rule had a depressing effect on the financial condition of the country, and when that evil was removed the Austrian Customs' system followed.

It was this period which gave birth to the sarcastic proverb, Hungary will be choked in its own fat. The export of farm products was deliberately made more difficult, and the import system was so arranged that all industrial products had to be purchased from Austria. Hence, of course, the price of Hungarian products was sadly depressed, and the nation was compelled to buy manufactured goods dear in Vienna, and to sell its raw material cheap. The Austrian troops quartered upon the inhabitants consumed and wasted as much as the Turks before them. The large estates became the property of Austrian officers. The value of money decreased while the taxes remained high.

A third reason for the decline of literature was the disfavour in which the native tongue was held. Scholars wrote in Latin, and Latin was spoken by the deputies in Parliament. The wealthy aristocracy felt more and more drawn towards Vienna. There were no large towns in Hungary, and even in such towns as there were, most of the wealthy burgesses spoke German.

The most important event of the eighteenth century in Hungary was the war for freedom waged by Prince Francis Rákóczy II. against the Habsburg dynasty. Rákóczy's mother was Ilona Zrinyi, already mentioned as the heroic defender of the fortress of Munkács against the Austrians. Afterwards, she married Imre Thököly, who became a prominent leader in the wars of Rákóczy II., and died in exile in Asia Minor. When Austria treated Hungary as a conquered province, Vienna looked upon Rákóczy as the centre and soul of the national efforts to secure independence. The war lasted from 1703 to 1711, and ended in Rákóczy's exile.

But in spite of these depressing circumstances, there were two brilliant literary phenomena, both of them con­nected with the magic name of Rákóczy. One was the masterly prose of Rákóczy's faithful follower, Count Kelemen Mikes, and the other, the poetry born in the camp of Rákóczy's soldiers, called the Kurucz army. There sprang up among Rákóczy's soldiers an interesting, folk-like poetry—the Kurucz poetry,[1] sometimes uncouth, but full of strength and genuine feeling.

The poems do not all belong to the time of Rákóczy's war (1703–1711), for some were written during the earlier Kurucz wars, in which Imre Thököly, Ilona Zrinyi's husband, was the leader . But the most characteristic were written during the stirring and enthusiastic years of Rákóczy's campaign. It is chiefly the poetry of the camp, sung by soldiers to soldiers. The poems were recited, sung, and occasionally copied, but never printed and published. It was not until one hundred and fifty years later that they were collected. The songs are among the finest treasures of Hungarian popular poetry, the richness of which inclines us to say that the greatest Hungarian poet is the Hungarian people.

As they were songs for the camp, they naturally contain at times an element of aggressive and crude strength. But the good fortune of the Kurucz army waned, and the foreign and imperial party gained the upper hand, a fact that accounts for the note of melancholy so common in the songs. Moreover, as the Kurucz party were often prosecuted for their Protestant faith, it is only natural that a fervent religious element should reveal itself in their poetry.

Its dominant feature is the exaltation of racial and national feeling. No other popular poetry can be compared with it. Even its bursts of anger, indignation, sorrow, or bitter sarcasm contain a certain noble dignity. Some of the poems are purely lyrical, breathing the prevailing sentiments of the times—fervent patriotism, or embittered hatred of the enemy; others, however, are of the nature of epics, relating the events of the campaign in the form of a dialogue, and so resembling the Scottish ballads. One of the best is the song about Ocskay's Treason. Another is a plaintive song of the homeless soldiers, who, with no secure shelter, wander about the plains and forests. Very touching is the Farewell of Rákóczy. There are several songs written by Protestant pastors, who had been carried away to become galley-slaves. When we read them, we seem to hear the unhappy captives singing plaintively of their sufferings, to the tune of some hymn they had loved in happier days. The world-famed Rákóczy March did not receive its present form until the year 1806, yet even in its original shape it is a powerful creation, and expresses strikingly the two contending feelings of the time, a fierce love of fighting and a profound melancholy.

When Francis Rákóczy went into exile, never to return, he left his family, his dreams of freedom and glory, his crown, and his immense wealth behind him, and became a horneless wanderer. There were still some, however, who dung faithfully to him in the days of his exile; among them was a young nobleman, twenty-one years of age, Count Kelemen Mikes (1690–1762).

He accompanied Rákóczy in all his wanderings. First they went to Poland, then to England, and at length to France, where another exiled prince, James II. of England, had been hospitably received in the hope that so me diplomatic advantages might follow. At the French Court Mikes became acquainted with French literature, and translated several books, chiefly religious works.

The Hungarian exiles did not stay long at Versailles. They went to Turkey, and finally took up their abode at Rodosto, on the coast of the Sca of Marmora. Here Mikes dwelt until his dying day, spending thirty years in exile. On peaceful evenings the exiles watched the sun as it sank into the blue waves of the Marble Sea. In the morning they saw it rise above the minarets, never, alas, to herald the day of their freedom.

Years rolled by, and Rákóczy died. He was soon followed by his faithful general, Bercsényi, and one by one the little band were laid to rest in the land of their exile. Mikes outlived the others, and remained a solitary stranger in a strange land. It was on October 2, 1762, that the closing eyes of the last Kurucz watched the sun sink into the sea for the last time.

It cannot be said that as a writer Mikes was a powerful or remarkable personality, but his style is wonderfully attractive. His chief work, the Letters from Turkey, was not published until the end of the eighteenth century.

The letters are mostly dated from Rodosto, and are addressed to a lady cousin living in Constantinople. They were copied into a book, and after the death of Mikes, were found collected in one volume. It is not known whether the letters were ever actually despatched. At first sight we are inclined to believe they must have been. They are all properly dated, their beginning and end are exactly like those of ordinary every-day missives, and their contents are just the news of the day. On the other hand, the fact that they were carefully copied into one volume and that no relative of Mikes has ever been heard of as living in Constantinople is against that supposition. In addition, the letters may be divided into well-defined groups, as if the author had arranged them according to their contents. Accordingly, many scholars feel sure that this collection of letters is really his diary, or autobiography, a work almost unique as to its form.

The letters are full of the most charming humour. They supply us with the merriest accounts of his everyday life, and contain many interesting ethnographical notes, while here and there is a touch of real pathos. There is much real, earnest religious feeling in them too, but—and this is characteristically Hungarian—absolutely no sentimentalism. There is nothing in contemporary Hungarian literature to equal their pleasant, fluent, conversational style. There is no pompousness, no affectation; all is life and grace and transparent sincerity. Three groups of the letters are especially interesting: those dealing with the life of the Hungarian emigrants, with Turkish life and customs, and those relating historical anecdotes.

Those which tell of the personal history of the unfortunate Prince Rákóczy make the strangest appeal to us. Mikes describes the sad, lonely life which the Prince led. Deeply religious, he never missed the Church services. His leisure, and, alas! he had plenty, was usually spent in carpentering or at his joiner's bench. Mikes adds "how very well he did even that work." Some years after the Prince's death, his son Joseph made an unlucky attempt to enter Hungary, but the enterprise failed, the small Hungarian army had to retire, and young Rákóczy died, as his father had done, in the arms of the faithful Mikes. "A curious world," writes Mikes in his last letter. "How many changes have I witnessed? When I wrote my first letter to you, dear cousin, I was but twenty-seven, and now sixty-nine years weigh upon me."

The letters give us a perfect picture of the inner and outer life of a man whose strength was sustained by the priceless blessings of a calm confidence in God and a happy optimistic view of the world around him.

The literary life of Hungary in the eighteenth century presents a desolate picture.

Even the two men who may justly be regarded as the most notable figures of that day lived far from their fatherland—Mikes on the shores of the Sea of Marmora, and Francis Faludi in the heart of the Eternal City, at St. Peter's in Rome. For several years Faludi was a confessor there.

Francis Faludi (1704–1779) was a Jesuit. Toldi, the first writer of literary history in Hungary, said of Hungarian monks, that they had all the merits of monks, without their faults. It was certainly true of Faludi, who was a quiet, humble-minded man, of untiring activity, of a placid and kindly disposition, filled with a great love for his fellow men, and for beauty of every kind. Occasionally he would speak the language of the galants like the abbés of the French Court, a language full of refined mythological allusions. He was not a creative genius. By careful study he obtained a perfect knowledge of his native tongue, which had then fallen so much into neglect, and handled it in masterly fashion. The purity, the charm and inexhaustible variety of his style have no equal in the literature of the entire century. His talent for languages was of great help to him in his work as a translator. Amongst other works, he translated a book of philosophical reflections by Graciano Baltazar, a Spanish Jesuit, entitled The Courtier. It was this book which became the favourite reading of Arthur Schopenhauer. It deals with the problem how to get on in life. The writer does not, however, treat virtue, honour and diligence as the foundations of success, but circumspection, knowledge of men, and a crafty use of opportunities. The book was really intended for the use of young courtiers who wished to advance to honour over the treacherous ground of Court life.

In harmony with the spirit of the times, Faludi wrote many stories, so-called moral tales, amongst which it must be confessed there are some piquant ones; but at the end of these the author relieves the mind of the reader by assuring him that the story is merely an instructive allegory, and only written for the sake of the moral lesson to be drawn from it.

In the Winter Evenings (possibly after the Spanish) the members of a small gathering of friends are supposed to be telling stories to each other. One tale is about Mauritius, a powerful wizard and king, who flies with his daughter to a lonely island. It curiously resembles The Tempest.

Faludi's works may be divided into three groups. His translations of collections of sententiæ (Baltazar's work among them) form one group, and a second consists of translations of moral dialogues. The third is composed of his original works, songs which appeal to the heart, and are forcible in their simplicity, descriptions of scenes of nature, idylls written in more melodious language than that of any previous writer, one morality, and a collection of his own original sententiæ, or teachings, entitled The Godly Man.

Had Faludi been more extensively read, and his pure and refined language more carefully studied, it is possible that the great linguistic controversy which arose a few years after his death, the so-called Language Reform, might have taken a different turn.

  1. The word Kurucz is derived from the Latin crux, a cross. In the sixteenth century the powers wished to form an army of crusaders to march against the Turks. In the course of the proceedings, how­ever, some regiments revolted against the nobility or their generals. Rebels were first called Kurucz on account of their symbol the crux. Later on, when the armies of Thököly and Rákóczy were rebel troops, the name Kurucz was also attached to them.