Two old soldiers meet again after 41 years to settle – it seems from the carefully built up tension of the novel – an old score of some sort. The first half of the book is an artistically faultless evocation of the Austro-Hungarian empire and then, exactly half way through, it goes all Eastern European: the two men come face to face with each other and (after gorging themselves on an obscenely extravagant meal, I might add) start to talk about Serious Things. What I mean by going all Eastern European is that the author spends a few pages explaining to you that you have been wrong about everything all your life. And – for good measure – changing the question just when you think you understand what he’s getting at (supposedly an Irish trait).
You thought you knew what friendship was? “Greater love than this no man hath than to lay down his life for his friends,” perhaps? Too facile. And don’t bother checking in a dictionary either. Dictionaries are full of meaningless “facts” and senseless “definitions.” An Eastern European is concerned with the truth. Facts are for the Gadgrindian west. A direct translation of one line (of dialogue – mind you): “The fact of your flight is easy to understand. Not the reason for it.”
Does “understanding a fact” not carry within it the explanation of the causes of the fact — or at least a very strong implication thereof? Newton would not have bothered to tell us he understood that an apple falling from a tree will hit the ground. His insight was to understand why the apple falls.
Another excerpt from the passage: “Friendship is of course not the same as the problem of people with sick tendencies, who seek some kind of degenerate satisfaction with the same sex.” Who’d a thunk it? A man can be friends with another man even if both are heterosexual.
More enlightenment as to the nature of friendship: “Living creatures organise mutual help […] I’ve seen hundreds of examples in the animal world. I see fewer such examples among humans.” Hence the mighty civilisations, complete with progressive taxation, social welfare, and emergency services built up by numerous animal species.
The speaker in the above examples is the general and we should not rush to identify his currently modish (in Poland’s ruling circles anyway) views on homosexuality with those of the author. Maybe the general (the son of an avid hunter) has seen less examples of disinterested self-help among humans than among animals because he has spent his life cosseted by paid lackeys and sycophantic junior officers. Perhaps the disquisition on friendship are to be read as the absurd ramblings of — who knows? — a man who never faced up to his homosexuality. Perhaps I should read the second half of the book.
The book in question is A gyerty�k csonkig �gnek by Sandor Marai. My translations are from the Polish (translated by Feliks Netz) but therein lies a tale. The Polish title is Żar, or Embers, as is the English title and as is the German title (Die Glut). Embers was translated (by Carol Brown Janeway) from the German translation by Christina Viragh. I don’t know where the Polish one came from but Netz does seem to know Hungarian. You can read all about it here.
Oops:
“Henrik’s monologue is immensely moving and pertinent. He delivers profound meditations on the nature of friendship, domestic bliss and hopeless passion” (Paul Bailey, Daily Telegraph)