Eyes Like the Sea: A Novel
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EYES LIKE THE SEA.]
EYES LIKE THE SEA
A NOVELBy MAURUS JOKAI
TRANSLATED FROM THE HUNGARIANBY R. NISBET BAIN
NEW YORKG. P. PUTNAM'S SONS27 AND 29 WEST 23D ST1894
CONTENTS
PAGEPREFACE ix
CHAPTER I.
SEA-EYES--MONSIEUR GALIFARD--THE FIRST NEEDLE-PRICK 1
CHAPTER II.
MY FIRST DISTINCTION--MY FIRST GRIEVANCE--THE DAMENWALZER--THEFRIGHTFUL MONSTER--THE READJUSTED SCARF--THE SECOND NEEDLE-PRICK 7
CHAPTER III.
MY MASTERPIECE AND MY HUT 24
CHAPTER IV.
PETOFI WITH US--PLANS FOR THE FUTURE--THE RAPE OF THEBRIDES--AMATEUR THEATRICALS--MY MENSHIKOV 40
CHAPTER V.
OLYMPIAN STRIVINGS 54
CHAPTER VI.
AN ODD DUEL--THE FATEFUL LETTER J.--I ALSO BECOME APETER GYURICZA 60
CHAPTER VII.
WELTSCHMERZ CONDITIONS--"REMAIN OR FLY!" 74
CHAPTER VIII.
PETER GYURICZA'S CONSORT 80
CHAPTER IX.
THE WOMAN WHO WENT ALONG WITH ME 117
CHAPTER X.
WHERE THE WORLD IS WALLED UP 132
CHAPTER XI.
VALENTINE BALVANYOSSI AND TIHAMER RENGETEGI 140
CHAPTER XII.
THE MEETING AT THE PAGAN ALTAR 151
CHAPTER XIII.
WHAT HAPPENED AFTER THAT 190
CHAPTER XIV.
THE DEMON'S BAIT 247
CHAPTER XV.
MARVELS NOT TO BE SEEN FOR MONEY 266
CHAPTER XVI.
SOLDIERING 297
CHAPTER XVII.
TEMPTATION 309
CHAPTER XVIII.
A COLD DOUCHE! 321
CHAPTER XIX.
ESAIAS MEDVESI 357
CHAPTER XX.
CONFESSION 379
CHAPTER XXI.
MARIA NOSTRA 394
PREFACE
The pessimistic tone of Continental fiction, and its pronouncedpreference for minute and morbid analysis, are quite revolutionizing themodern novel. Fiction is ceasing to be a branch of art, and fastbecoming, instead, a branch of science. The aim of the novelist,apparently, is to lecture instead of to amuse his readers. Plot,incident, and description are being sacrificed more and more to thedissection of peculiar and abnormal types of character, and the story istoo often lost in physiological details or psychological studies. Thewave of _Naturalism_, as it is called (though nothing could really bemore unnatural), has spread from France all over Europe. The Spanish andItalian novels are but pale reflections of the French novel. The GermanNaturalists have all the qualities of the French School, minus itsgrace. In Holland, the so-called _Sensitivists_ are at great pains tocombine a coarse materialism with a sickly sentimentality. Much moreoriginal, but equally depressing, is the new school of Scandinaviannovelists represented by such names as Garborg, Strindberg, Jacobsen,Loffler, Hamsun, and Bjornson (at least in his later works), all of whomare more or less under the influence of Ibsenism, which may be roughlydefined as a radical revolt against conventionality. In point ofthoroughness some of these Northern worthies are not a whit behind theirfellow craftsmen in France. The novel of the year in Norway for 1891 wasa loathsomely circumstantial account of slow starvation. There is a ladynovelist in the same country who could give points to Zola himself; andnearly every work of Strindberg's has scandalized a large portion of thepublic in Sweden. Nay, even remote Finland has been reached at last bythe wave of _Naturalism_ in fiction, and Respectability there is stillin tears at the perversion of the most gifted of Finnish novelists,Juhani Aho. In the Slavonic countries also the pessimistic, analyticalnovel is paramount, though considerably chastened by Slavonic mysticism,and modified by peculiar political and social conditions. Though muchnobler in sentiment, the novel in Poland, Russia, and Bohemia is quiteas melancholy in character as the general run of fiction elsewhere. Aminor key predominates them all. There is no room for humour in themental vivisection which now passes for _Belles-lettres_. We may learnsomething, no doubt, from these _fin de siecle_ novelists, but to get asingle healthy laugh out of any one of them is quite impossible.
There is, however, one country which is a singular exception to thisgeneral rule. In Hungary the good old novel of incident and adventure isstill held in high honour, and humour is of the very essence of thenational literature. This curious isolated phenomenon is due, in greatmeasure, to the immense influence of the veteran novelist, Maurus Jokai,who may be said to have created the modern Hungarian novel,[1] and whohas already written more romances than any man can hope to read in alife-time. Jokai is a great poet. He possesses a gorgeous fancy, anall-embracing imagination, and a constructive skill unsurpassed inmodern fiction; but his most delightful quality is his humour, a humourof the cheeriest, heartiest sort, without a single _soupcon_ ofill-nature about it, a quality precious in any age, and doubly so in anoverwrought, supercivilized age like our own. Lovers of literature mustalways regret, however, that the great Hungarian romancer has been soprodigal of his rare gifts. He has written far too much, and his worksvary immensely. Between such masterpieces, for instance, as "_KarpathyZoltan_" and "_Az arany ember_" on the one hand, and such pot-boilers as"_Nincsen Ordog_," or even "_Szerelem Bolondjai_," on the other, theinterval is truly abysmal. But that such a difference is due not toexhaustion, but simply to excessive exuberance, is evident from thestory which we now present for the first time to English readers. "_Atengerszemu holgy_" is certainly the most brilliant of Jokai's later,and perhaps[2] the most humorous of all his works. It was justlycrowned by the Hungarian Academy as the best Magyar novel of the year1890, and well sustains the long-established reputation of the master.Apart from the intensely dramatic incidents of the story, and theoriginality and vividness of the characterization, "_A tengerszemuholgy_" is especially interesting as being, to a very great extent,autobiographical. It is not indeed a _professed_ record of the author'slife-like "_Emlekeim_" (My Memoirs) for instance. It professes to be anovel, and a most startling novel it is. Yet in none of Jokai's othernovels does he tell us so much about himself, his home, and his earlystruggles both as an author and a patriot; _he_ is one of the chiefcharacters in his own romance. Of the heroine, Bessy, I was about to saythat she stood alone in fiction, but there is a certain superficialresemblance, purely accidental of course, between her and that otherdelightful and original rogue of romance, Mrs. Desborough, in Mr. RobertLouis Stevenson's "More New Arabian Nights," though all who have had theprivilege of making the acquaintance of both ladies will feel bound toadmit that Jokai's Bessy, with her five husbands, is even more piquant,stimulating, and fascinating than Mr. Stevenson's charming and elusiveheroine.
R. NISBET BAIN.
[Footnote 1: I do not fo
rget _Karman_, _Josika_, and _Eotvos_, but theformer was an imitator of Richardson, and the two latter of WalterScott.]
[Footnote 2: I say "perhaps," as I can only claim to have readtwenty-five out of Jokai's one hundred and fifty novels.]
EYES LIKE THE SEA