Miklós Bánffy, The Transylvanian Trilogy: final post

Miklós Bánffy’s The Transylvanian Trilogy gets better in vols. 2 and 3. In my previous two posts I suggested that vol. 1 was over-populated with minor characters who clogged the narrative, contributing little except unmemorable names and attributes. The next two volumes introduce quite a few new characters, but the cast-list stabilises a little, and the players become more identifiable and their significance clearer.

Banffy cover

My two Everyman’s Library volumes of the Trilogy

I said last time I’d try to be more positive in this final post on the trilogy. The plot certainly gathers momentum, and I found myself racing through the last volume as the thwarted affair between Abady and Adrienne becomes ever more passionate but meets more and more obstacles. I don’t intend spoiling what happens, but would urge you to persevere to the end to find out – it’s a powerful dénouement for these lovers and for Transylvanian society.

I also said I’d say more about the secondary central male character in this rather too androcentric trilogy, Laszlo Gyeroffy. His erotic-romantic progress is more disastrous than Abady’s, largely as a consequence of the grudge he bears against the Hungarian aristocratic social world he was born into but from which he’s been ostracised. After the scandalous breakup of his parents’ marriage when his mother ran off with another man, his father reacted badly and killed himself and his mother disappeared. Society considers him tainted, and he’s treated like a pariah.

Vol. 1 ended with his descent into addiction: gambling and alcohol (there’s a titanic amount of drinking and drunkenness in the trilogy). This leads to his losing Klara, the love of his life. He’d spiralled deeper into a decline after this, and despite the attempts of the beautiful Fanny Beredy, one of the few resourceful and spirited independent women we meet in the story, to redeem him, he’s so full of loathing for life and himself and his largely self-induced exile from society that he spurns not just her but several subsequent (beautiful of course) young women who try to raise him from the gutter.

He’s sold his estate and most of the family heirlooms he’d managed to retain far too cheaply, having lost interest in everything. He also spurns the attempts of his family, including Abady’s, to rescue him from his descent into hell. His decline is sad to witness, and not entirely his fault; he’s a victim of that ‘dramatist Fate’ mentioned in vol. 1 as much as he is of his own self-destructive nature. This theme is raised more overtly with the decline of another young aristocrat, Gazsi, whose sad end causes Abady to ponder (without much philosophical profundity or originality) whether it’s human nature or lived experience that influences our fates.

The rather disturbingly sexist presentation of women I noted as present at times in vol. 1 is less apparent in the remaining volumes, but it’s still there. In the final volume, for example, a shopkeeper’s young daughter, just thirteen or so, secretly ministers to Laszlo’s obsessive need for alcohol in defiance of her father’s beatings, seeing in this shadow of a man the ‘fairy prince’ he seems to her when he tells her stories of his dazzling former life at the peak of Budapest social life. For a couple more years her love for him grows. There’s never any suggestion of a sexual relationship, for Laszlo is too far gone in self-pity to notice her; but this doesn’t alter the element of exploitation in his treatment of the besotted girl.

There’s more, too, of the over-sexualised presentation of women. Several scenes stand out in which Adrienne is involved. I pointed out the furtive gaze on her of Abady in vol. 1 when she’d abandoned herself to the physical thrill of ice skating; in these later volumes there are even more sexually explicit scenes in which her voluptuous sensuality is lingered over in a manner that can only be described as soft porn. One is when she arrives at a ‘bal des têtes’ dressed in a shimmering gold dress with ‘the lowest possible décolletage’; she looks ‘like some legendary goddess’. When she and Abady have sex later he’s seen literally bowing down in reverence to her beauty as if she were a Hindu goddess.

It’s not the sumptuous moment of erotically charged mutual worship that maybe I’ve made it sound like: the other men at the ball are shown drooling over her with ‘red-hot desire’, while Abady congratulates himself on his good luck. Far from showing an empowered Adrienne, this simply reinforces the secondary role women are forced to play in this society: her only ‘armour’, as the narrator describes Adrienne’s metallic gown in this scene, and her manner when she’s flirting at another time to disguise her true feelings for Abady, is her sexual attractiveness. She might as well have no intelligence or other qualities – and Bánffy only hints at their existence. His interest resides in Abady.

Meanwhile the political disaster of WWI looms ever nearer, while the Hungarian politicians in their ‘shifting political groups’, changing like a weather-vane in the wind, continue to look only inwards to the petty feuds and squabbles in their own country. Near the end, when the Archduke Ferdinand is assassinated and war seems ever more inevitable, there’s a moment when the narrator muses that with ‘skilful diplomacy’ it could still have been averted – but of course the reckless Hungarians indulge in quite the opposite, and carnage follows. Their lemming-like charge into it is referred to in the narrative as a ‘curse that had fallen on Hungary’.

The ‘cold cynicism’ of politicians like Slawata, who tries to lure Abady into his schemes, is reflected in the hopeless addiction of this doomed generation of Austro-Hungarian aristocrats for an antiquated and destructively perverse form of ‘code of honour’, which I touched on in the first of these posts. Its most extreme manifestation is in duels, several of which take place in the final two volumes, and all of them absurd, or ‘stupid, stupid’, as Abady puts it when he too is involved after a ludicrous exchange with a drunken, corrupt lawyer-politician. (I’m reminded of Conrad’s more acerbic view of this theme in ‘The Duel’ [in A Set of Six, 1908], in which the participants engage in decades of vicious duelling, of ‘homicidal austerity’, for reasons neither of them can remember.)

I had to skip many of the lengthy political scenes in this trilogy, which went into far too much detail, involving arcane aspects of Habsburg, Balkan and other european political chicanery, than I could endure. But the elegiac treatment of this fatally doomed world of aristocratic misfits, scoundrels and smouldering Byronic heroes is compellingly done, for the most part, and the constant, looming awareness of the slaughter that will change that world forever is handled with chilling aplomb by Bánffy.

 

 

 

 

 

Miklós Bánffy, The Transylvanian Trilogy: post 2, in which I look at vol. 1, ‘They Were Counted’

 

FR Leavis says of Anna Karenina, quoting Matthew Arnold, that Tolstoy’s novel has ‘many characters…too many’ – but dismisses this as a misreading. He does the same with James’s contention that this novel lacks ‘composition’ and is ‘defiant of economy and architecture’. Miklós Bánffy’s Transylvanian Trilogy has an elegantly composed structure (more on that later), but perhaps falls short of the kind of greatness Leavis argues is found in Anna Karenina. This is largely because of its defiance of economy and ‘composition’ – it is too long, has too many superfluous characters (I mentioned last time my need to keep a record of names to try to reduce the confusion caused by the huge cast; I counted 23 different names in just two pages of Pt 1 ch. 2), too many digressions and superfluous descriptive passages.

Banffy cover

My two Everyman’s Library volumes of the Trilogy

The Trilogy is, nevertheless, almost a great sequence of novels. It’s difficult in the space of this second post on it here to substantiate such a claim, and to give a sense of its overall quality, its (mostly) coherent and subtly controlled narrative – or the defects noted above.

In this post I shall concentrate on vol. 1 of the Trilogy. In the previous post I gave an outline and introduction.

Balint Abady is the protagonist, heir to a vast estate of forests and farmland in Transylvania, in 1904 when the Trilogy opens a region of Hungary (but since the Treaty of Trianon of 1920 part of Romania). The region had a long history of fierce ‘national consciousness’ (Hugh Thomas, quoting Banffy in his Introduction to vol. 1), showing hostility to the Habsburgs and Germany, and, in this Trilogy, towards the Hungarians (an animosity I witnessed in the 1970s when I visited Ceauşescu’s communist state; I even stayed in Cluj, which is the nearest city to the Abady castle of Denestornya at Kolozsvar).

This causes the dissent and arrogantly parochial factionalism that the scenes set in the Hungarian parliament so witheringly portray; the politicians wrangle and orate, oblivious while the empire around them implodes. Abady is Bánffy’s mouthpiece and alter ego, frequently shown despairing at their ‘narrow-minded, prejudiced, dogmatic talk’, which ‘got on his nerves’ (Pt 1 ch. 2), their politically myopic stupidity, their over-fondness for histrionic gestures and violence in the parliamentary chamber, and for their ‘usual rabble-rousing speeches full of slogans’ (Pt 3 ch. 1). He’s shown to be ‘disgusted by the insincerity and triviality of it all’ (Pt 4, ch. 3). A page later there’s this impassioned narrative comment on such divisive, xenophobic scenes:

Such was the general political naivety…that they at once assumed that they were the victims of a conspiracy. They saw enemies everywhere, not realizing that all nations were governed by their own interests and that the skill with which these were grasped and developed was the true basis of a nation’s peace and prosperity. From this distrust of anyone who did not agree with them sprang the divisions within their own ranks…

Coat of arms of the Austro-Hungarian Empire

Coat of arms of the Austro-Hungarian empire in 1915: public domain via Wikimedia Commons

The ethnic and regional factions in this parliament preclude any kind of rational debate or consensus politics of the kind Abady advocates, and the ‘kaiserliche und königliche’ dual monarchy is simply despised and dismissed, rather than understood and dealt with diplomatically – Bánffy the politician-diplomat, like Abady, tried and failed to hold these factions together while striving to save his doomed, beloved homeland.

Abady is an interestingly flawed character, however; he’s too innocent and politically naïve to succeed in such a quest. He can’t even manage a rapprochement between the Romanian ethnic peasants of his own estates and villages with their Hungarian overlords. Instead he’s distrusted or exploited by them, and even by the Romanian lawyer Timisan, with whom Abady forms a kind of friendship, but who proves as unreliable in aiding his quest for compromise and progress as the rest.

He’s also not immune from the corruption of this state. He’s elected then re-elected to his constituency of Lelbanya through the habitual use of bribes of the small electorate; he suspects the election was rigged, but acquiesces. He’s only too easily duped by the wily Azbej, the steward of his mother’s estates, and the others whose equally self-interested duplicity is more than a match for his callow rectitude.

His flaws are a feature of his tortured love life, too. He falls deeply in love with Adrienne, who’s married to a sadistic madman who enjoys toying with them. One of my main problems with this Trilogy is with Banffy’s portrayal of women and sex. Abady has had numerous mistresses and conquests in his younger days, most recently with a pretty married aristocrat on a neighbouring estate. The women desired by the men in the trilogy are always beautiful and more or less sensual; we get little sense of their characters or emotional complexity.

Adrienne is more fully rounded in her portrayal than the others, but we know little about her beyond her role in Abady’s relentless campaign to have sex with her. He’s vaguely aware that her reluctance is caused by her being raped by her brutal husband, which has understandably traumatised her, but this doesn’t prevent him from trying initially to use poetic language about the purity of ‘animal nature’ to win her over. She’s too smart to fall for this transparent approach, calling the mating instinct he’s invoked a ‘baited trap, a swindle.’ Instead of showing empathy for her vulnerable state (she’d married Uzdy to get away from a cloying home, only to find herself a different and worse kind of captive, despised by him and his cruel family) and understanding the causes of her sexual prurience, and helping her overcome them with tenderness and emotional maturity, he instead is shown concluding ‘he must feel his way carefully’. She’s his prey, like the animals and birds these male aristocrats love slaughtering in the name of sport.

For weeks and months Abady tries to exercise decency and constraint, despite the voices in him that laugh at his ‘scruples and self-searching’, and which accuse him of behaving ‘more like a timid schoolboy than a grown man of the world.’ So one day when he and Adrienne are lying on cushions on the floor, embracing and kissing, and she speaks of the right of women to have freedom to do with their bodies and thoughts what they liked, despite what society considered moral, he sees this as ‘the moment for which he had been waiting’, when he should ‘press for more.’

He starts his ‘attack’ and tries to force her into having sex, but she springs free, appalled and accusatory. His response is very like that of the abject schoolboy he’d admonished himself as being earlier, but his humility comes too late, his apology is disingenuous and his integrity, to my mind, shattered.

As vol. 1 progresses Adrienne finally overcomes her aversion to sex and they become lovers, but this nasty scene taints the otherwise conventional and romantic-erotic scenes between them that follow.

There’s something too lascivious in the male gaze of the two main romantic heroes, Abady and his cousin Laszlo Gyeroffy (as when Laszlo looks at the ‘voluptuous’ Fanny Beredy, the ‘curves of her body’ barely hidden by her clinging gown – Pt 2 ch. 3), among other sexually predatory men in the Trilogy. Descriptions of men are far more varied and less stereotypically sexual. There’s a scene in which Adrienne is shown ice-skating, and Abady watches her, unseen, transfixed. At first the description is lyrical and rather beautiful, but it becomes more troublesome. Adrienne is compared, in Abady’s focalisation, to ‘a young maenad caught in a magic wintery bacchanalia, a prey to every madness and abandon, drunk with unrestrained desire and ready for whatever the night might bring’. This says more about his lust than her true self. Yes, she’s abandoned to the sensual pleasure of the skating, but the desire is surely all his; she’s objectified. And doesn’t know he’s watching her; it’s voyeurism.

Other women characters are also too often commodified like this and likened to panthers or goddesses or their bodies rhapsodically described, especially when they wear revealing ball gowns. I don’t want to overstate this tendency in the novel; Bánffy is careful to show Abady coming to realise that his attempted assault on Adrienne is no better than her husband’s habitual treatment of her. The way in which the lovely Fanny Beredy – the women are always implausibly sexy and beautiful – uses her sexual allure to distract the heartbroken Laszlo into a passionate affair with her is done more convincingly and subtly than the heavy-handed and chauvinistic campaigns of Abady and most of the other menfolk in these pages. There are also some sympathetically drawn strong and spirited women in the novel, like the independent Sara Bogdan Lazar – but even she falls for the dubiously Byronic and doomed Laszlo.

At one point Laszlo witnesses a distrurbing scene where a butler is about to rape a terrified housemaid; her subsequent pregnancy and disgrace indicate Bánffy’s moral sense, but even so his treatment of these two central male characters and their sexual attitudes isn’t entirely satisfactory.

Already I’ve said too much for one post, and have barely touched the surface of this flawed novel. I’m also aware I’ve been largely critical. The final section of vol. 1 does much to mitigate the unsavoury features I’ve noted above. I’d like to consider the more positive virtues of the Trilogy when I turn to the final two volumes. And I haven’t said enough about some of the fine writing, especially the descriptions of landscapes, and nature in vol. 1; I hope to rectify all this next time.

 

 

The days of the Arpad kings: Miklós Bánffy, The Transylvanian Trilogy post 1

Miklós Bánffy (1873-1950), The Transylvanian Trilogy. Vol. 1: They Were Counted (624 pp.) Vol. 2: They Were Found Wanting; They Were Divided (830 pp). Everyman’s Library, 2013. Translated by Patrick Thursfield and Katalin Bánffy-Jelen (the author’s daughter), winners of the Weidenfeld Translation Prize for vol. 3 in 2002. The trilogy first appeared in Hungarian in 1933 (vol. 1), 1937 (vol. 2) and 1940 (vol. 3). The English translations date from 1999-2002.

Banffy coverLast December I enjoyed a post by Emma at Book Around the Corner on vol. 1 of the Transylvanian Trilogy by Miklós Bánffy. I commented that I’d had the Everyman two-volume English translation on my shelves for some time and must get round to reading it. Why not do a readalong? she challenged. Fellow blogger Meredith at Dolce Belleza was also tempted, but in the end we both had to duck out because of other commitments.

 

I did press ahead with reading the trilogy, however.

It fills some 1500 pages so it’s impossible to boil down all my thoughts about this great work in a short post. I’ll begin, then, with an introductory piece to provide some literary and historical-political context. For the action of the novels begins in 1904 with numerous tumultuous scenes in the Budapest parliament alternating with more frequent scenes at sumptuous balls, hunting parties and salons, and ends as the young men set off cheerfully for a war in Europe in 1914 which they believe with heartbreaking optimism and romantic naiveté will be over by Christmas.

The novels are set against the labyrinthine complexity of politics in the Austro-Hungarian Habsburg Empire and the Balkans in their dying days leading up to the disaster of WWI, ‘when European civilization committed suicide’, as the eminent historian Hugh Thomas puts it in his informative introduction to my edition. As a consequence there’s a bitterly elegiac tone to the trilogy.

Bánffy came from one of the ancient Hungarian aristocratic families that had ruled Hungary for a thousand years. His wealth derived from the family’s vast forest estates in Transylvania (the trilogy’s protagonist, Bálint Abady, spends much of his time, when not engaged in romantic pursuits or parliamentary debates, trying to modernise his badly-run family forest estates).  That troubled province was handed over to the new state of Romania at the Treaty of Trianon in 1920. Like parts of lowland northern Europe, this was a region at the crossroads of clashing ethnic and other groups, which as a result was a site of fierce conflict for centuries.

Today we know Transylvania best, perhaps, through the sensational-melodramatic Gothic novel of 1897 by the Irish hack writer and theatre impresario Bram Stoker, who somehow created one of the most significant works of fiction and character archetypes of the modern European age, given that he was a second-rate writer. His half-digested library research into the folklore surrounding Transylvanian Count Vlad the Impaler was conflated with the high camp Gothic-horror stories about vampires that Byron’s physician Polidori had revived in 1816 when Mary Shelley produced the first draft of Frankenstein as her contribution to that famous ghost story competition with which they wiled away the long dark days and nights of the ‘year without a summer’ by Lake Geneva (see my posts on this recently). Stoker’s Dracula has coloured our view of Transylvania ever since as a dark, exotic land of wolf-haunted forests, sinister castles and long-nailed, hissing undead predatory Counts with harems of sexy bloodsucking brides.

Bánffy’s trilogy has no time for this entertainingly lurid stuff. His is the world of ballroom gossip, aristocratic adultery and political intrigue, factional plotting and treachery. As foreign minister for Hungary from 1921-22 he was involved in the attempts by his countrymen to mitigate the punitive land divisions that ensued from the post-war convention at Trianon to carve up the empire that had been lost after the catastrophic war and defeat of the Germans in 1918. He succeeded in leading Hungary into the League of Nations in 1922, but was denounced by Right-wing nationalist Hungarians who saw him as having sold them out to Yugoslavia. He then lived to see the rise of Fascism and invasion of his homeland by the Nazis, followed by the Russians who ousted and replaced them with an almost equally repressive Communist regime. When he died in 1950 he was living in exile from his ruined home near Cluj-Napoca.

Bonczhida Castle

Bonczhida Castle, ancestral home of the Bánffy family, devastated during WWII and now undergoing restoration. Image in the public domain via Wikimedia Commons

He’d been brought up to hope and believe that his beloved country would one day break free from the Austro-Hungarian Empire and resume its independence as a monarchy, restoring its status before the catastrophic defeat to the Turks at Mohács in 1526. Much of the tragedy of the political element of the trilogy results from that naive and romantic dream which blinded Hungarian politicians to the otherwise  obvious signs of the approaching disaster of 1914.

Most of the characters in the trilogy have very long race memories, and still wrangle bitterly about ancient battles and ensuing humiliations, while oblivious of nearing disaster. In Vol. 2, for example, Count Antal Szent-Gyorgyi will only invite guests to his famous shooting parties if they fulfil his decidedly choosy criteria. Not only did he rule out ‘bad shots’ and the ‘bad-mannered’; he also excluded anyone with ‘decided political opinions’ for he ‘loathed politics – and politicians’. With his ‘rich knowledge of history and genealogies’ he would also rule out anyone ‘if he thought their ancestry ignoble or unworthy’, considering princes and near-royalty as less estimable than ‘some simple country nobleman whose ancestors had been ‘nice people’ since time immemorial’:

For Count Antal, anyone who was able to trace his descent from the days of the Arpad kings…took precedence over all others.

People of Czech extraction were also excluded, possibly because his ancestors’ lands had been overrun by ‘the army of Giskra’, or else because of his hatred of the pan-Slav movement – which meant pro-Russian and therefore anti-Habsburg. His loyalties were even more eccentrically refined; he barred anyone who had any connection to ‘the Heir, the Archduke Franz-Ferdinand’, for his allegiance was to ‘the old Emperor, and the Heir’s supporters were clearly anxiously awaiting the Emperor’s demise, showing themselves ‘greedy, unacceptable opportunists’.

This brief background gives some indication of the strengths and weaknesses of the trilogy. It’s an immensely ambitious, highly addictive and readable attempt to set a tragic romantic drama against the even more tragic backdrop of the most momentous upheaval in world history since the days of Napoleon. This places it in the company of similarly wide-ranging and portentous epics like War and Peace, and, in a different way, Proust’s A la Recherche

But the very complexity of Balkan/Austro-Hungarian history and politics often slows down the narrative and causes the reader to long for an index of characters. I drew up my own in the end. And those Hungarian and Transylvanian names are so polysyllabic and tongue-twistingly multi-consonantal, they don’t reside memorably in this ageing reader’s memory. I had constantly to resort to my notebook summary of each chapter, as minor characters reappeared in a more important role some hundreds of pages since their last appearance. And every one of the huge aristocratic cast of characters seems to be related to everyone else.

Next time, maybe in more than one post, I’ll take a look at the plot and try to set it in the context I’ve started sketching here.

Vol. 1 has a detailed introduction (as mentioned above) by the historian Hugh Thomas, a genealogical family tree of the Bánffy dynasty, a chronology of historical and family events, and both volumes contain maps of the Austro-Hungarian Empire in 1913 and of Transylvania.