Mór Jókai strana 9 z 20

Egy nő, akinek szeme tengerszem, a csodát jelenti a szemébe pillantó férfi számára. A csoda pedig birtokolhatatlan. Erzsike szédelgők, csábítók, kerítők prédája lesz, férfiaké, akiket nem érint a csoda. Utolsó férjét megöli, és a márianosztrai fogházban fejezi be életét. Mi történik egyetlen méltó hódolójával? Az ő sorsa nem tragikus. Humora sosem hagyja cserben, szenvedélyesen érdekli a történelem és a politika, leköti az írás. Egyébként Jókai Mórnak hívják. Jókai önéletrajzi ihletésű, öregkori remekét nyújtjuk át az olvasónak.

A ?regény 1904-ben jelent meg először könyv alakban, de már korábban, 1902-ben a Budapesti Napló elkezdte közölni folytatásokban. A romantikus történet keretét egy brazil kereskedelmi hajón szolgált magyar tengerésztiszt elbeszélése adja. Egyik útján a dél-amerikai partok közelében tengerből kimagasló vulkán tetején egy vashajót vesz észre. Sikerül megközelítenie a helyet, s meglepetéssel fedezi fel, hogy a vidéken és a hajón emberek élnek. A parancsnok, a Capitano és házanépe barátságába fogadja, s így alkalma van megismerni különös történetüket. A hajó és utasai Európából kerültek ide, és csodával határos módon menekültek meg a biztos pusztulástól. A gazdag, termékeny földön valóságos kis paradicsomot teremtettek, s olyan társadalmi rendet alkottak, ahol a szeretet a jelszó, nem tudják, mit jelent „ölni”, s nem ismerik a pénz hatalmát. Teljes megelégedésben élnek, s hiába a tengerésztiszt minden rábeszélése, hogy aknázzák ki a föld mélyében rejlő drágakincsek értékét, s térjenek vissza gazdagon, hatalmasan az emberek közé – a Capitano hajthatatlan, s neki kell belátnia, hogy a Capitanónak igaza van.

1891-ben, az író pályájának utolsó szakaszában íródott a könyv, s egy évvel később jelent meg a Pesti Hírlapban. A cselekmény a Bach-korszakban játszódik. Lenke Lőrinc tábornok fiát, Simont a kolerajárvány idején egy vele egykorú cigány csecsemővel cserélik el. A tábornok igazi fiából világhírű cigányprímás lesz, míg az elcseréltetésükről mit sem tudó ál-Simon báró mihaszna, törtető, gyáva tisztviselőként vonja magára városa gyűlöletét. Bátyját koholt vádakkal lecsukatja, anyját lenézi, semmibe veszi, mindebben méltó társa Aranka, a szintén törtető feleség. A városba érkező igazi Lenke hangversenyt rendez, ám Simon, aki nem képes elviselni mások sikerét, be akarja tiltani a koncertet. Miután bátyja ebben megakadályozza, majd párbajra hívja ki, Simon őrültet színlel. A tipikusan jókais, romantikus eseményszövés ellenére mondanivalójában e mű nem éri utol a hasonló fogantatású regényeket, ám – az életmű részeként érdemes beszerezni.

Jókai Mór egyik legnagyobb művének tekinti a szakirodalom Az arany ember-t.  A regény a magyar kapitalizmus keletkezéstörténetének egyik sikeres és közismert  szépirodalmi dokumentuma. Tímár Mihály a véletlen közreműködésével hatalmas vagyonhoz jut.  Az arany ember, milliomosként kéri meg a szegény török lány, Tímea kezét. A lány hálából  igent mond, de szerelmet nem kaphat a lánytól Tímár. Alabástrom szobor felesége és az üzleti pálya  ridegsége meghasonlásra kényszerítik a férfit, és elmenekül oda, ahol nem a pénzt, hanem az embert nézik.  Ezt találja meg a térképen még nem jelölt helyen, a Senki-szigetén, Noémi mellett. A mű a realizmus és  a romantika határán készült, amely kifejezetten érezhető a regényben. A csodaszép tájleírások, a sok  végletes fekete-fehér szereplő, véletlen fordulatok a romantika jellemzői, míg Tímár összetett jelleme,  kapitalizálódó társadalom bemutatása tipikus realista vonások a műben. 

Halil Patrona és Gül-Bejáze szerelmének mesés-fordulatos története mögött valódi történelmi eseményei állnak. Halil Patrona a XVIII. század első felének nevezetes török történelmi alakja volt, aki személyes adottságai és az események összejátszása révén a hatalmas felkelés népvezére lett, s aki reformtervével akarta megújítani az alaposan elkorhadt szervezetű Törökországot. Ezt a történelmi eseményt idézte föl és színezte ki a hiteles török és általában mohamedán szokások, mesemozzanatok, adatok felhasználásával Jókai, megteremtvén ezt a szép, rövid lélegzetű regényt, amely egyszerre keleti színekből, hangulatokból szőtt mese és felemelkedő hőstörténet.

       On September 28th, 1730, a rebellion burst forth in Stambul against Sultan Achmed III., whose cowardly hesitation to take the field against the advancing hosts of the victorious Persians had revolted both the army and the people. The rebellion began in the camp of the Janissaries, and the ringleader was one Halil Patrona, a poor Albanian sailor-man, who after plying for a time the trade of a petty huckster had been compelled, by crime or accident, to seek a refuge among the mercenary soldiery of the Empire. The rebellion was unexpectedly, amazingly successful. The Sultan, after vainly sacrificing his chief councillors to the fury of the mob, was himself dethroned by Halil, and Mahmud I. appointed Sultan in his stead. For the next six weeks the ex-costermonger held the destiny of the Ottoman Empire in his hands till, on November 25th, he and his chief associates were treacherously assassinated in full Divan by the secret command, and actually in the presence of, the very monarch whom he had drawn from obscurity to set upon the throne.

At that time I was but ten years old, my brother Lorand sixteen; our dear mother was still young, and father, I well remember, no more than thirty-six. Our grandmother, on my father's side, was also of our party, and at that time was some sixty years of age; she had lovely thick hair, of the pure whiteness of snow. In my childhood I had often thought how dearly the angels must love those who keep their hair so beautiful and white; and used to have the childish belief that one's hair grows white from abundance of joy.It is true, we never had any sorrow; it seemed as if our whole family had contracted some secret bond of unity, whereby each member thereof bound himself to cause as much joy and as little sorrow as possible to the others.

    Our story opens in an Italian railway station, in the spring of 1848. From a train that had just arrived, the passengers were hastening to secure their places in another that stood waiting for them. A guard had succeeded in crowding a party of two ladies and a gentleman into one of these itinerant prison-cells, which already contained seven occupants, before the newcomers perceived that they were being imposed upon. A vigorous protest followed. The elder of the two ladies, seizing the guard by the arm, addressed him in an angry tone, first in German, then in French.     With the calm indifference of an automaton, the uniformed official pointed to a placard against the wall. Per dieci persone was the inscription it bore. Ten persons, it seemed, were expected to find places here.     "But we have first-class tickets," protested the lady, producing a bit of yellow pasteboard in proof of her assertion.

There were six of them besides the Prior and Abbot. The seventh was away in the village, collecting the gifts of charity.     "Benedicite," began the Prior. "Here is a message from our most gracious patroness." With that he laid upon the table a sealed letter in Latin, which the others passed from hand to hand. All understood it, but it was evident that not one of them liked the letter, for they turned up their noses, pursed their lips and knit their eyebrows.     "One of us is bidden to the court of our most munificent patroness to educate her only son."     "He is a little devil!" exclaimed the Abbot.     "He talks and whistles in church," cried another.     "He reviles the saints and the souls of the departed."     "He torments animals." Each one had something to say; especially the last.     "He is the accursed child of a mad mother."     "She is the destruction of all men," continued the Abbot. "She sins against all the commandments."     "She tramples under foot all the sacraments."     "She is a raging fury and a sacrilegious witch."     "She sent her husband to his grave with a deadly drink."   

In the days when Kuczuk was the Pasha of Grosswardein, the good city of Debreczen had a very bad time of it. This whimsical Turk, whenever some little trifle had put him out of humour with the citizens of Debreczen, would threaten to ravage the town from end to end with fire and sword, cut the men to mincemeat, carry off all the women into captivity, pack up all the treasures of the town in sacks, and sow with salt the place where once it had stood.        At first the prudent and pacific magistrates of Debreczen used to soothe the heavy displeasure of the whimsical Pasha with fair-spoken entreaties, good words, and precious gifts; but one day Master Stephen Dobozy was elected governor, and being a short-necked, fiery-tempered man, it so happened that when, for some cause or other, Kuczuk Pasha again began to murmur against them, and threatened the Debreczeners that this time he really would come to them, Dobozy sent back this message: "Let him come if he likes."

       The post-prandial orator was in the midst of his toast, the champagne-foam ran over the edge of his glass and trickled down his fat fingers, his lungs were expanded and his vocal chords strained to the utmost in the delivery of the well-rounded period upon which he was launched, and the blood was rushing to his head in the generous enthusiasm of the moment. In that brilliant circle of guests every man held his hand in readiness on the slender stem of his glass and waited, all attention, for the toast to come to an end in a final dazzling display of oratorical pyrotechnics. The attendants hastened to fill the half-empty glasses, and the leader of the gypsy orchestra, which was stationed at the farther end of the hall, held his violin-bow in the air, ready to fall in at the right moment with a burst of melody that should drown the clinking of glasses at the close of the toast.       

To a man who has earned such titles as "The Shakespeare of Hungary" and "The Glory of Hungarian Literature"; who published in fifty years three hundred and fifty novels, dramas, and miscellaneous works, not to mention innumerable articles for the press that owes its freedom chiefly to him, it seems incredible that there was ever a time of indecision as to what career he was best fitted to follow. The idle life of the nobility into which Maurus Jókay was born in 1825 had no attractions for a strongly intellectual boy, fired with zeal and energy that carried him easily to the head of each class in school and college; nor did he feel any attraction for the prosaic practice of law, his father's profession, to which Austria's despotism drove many a nobleman in those wretched days for Hungary. It was Pétofi, the poet, who was his dearest friend during the student-life at Pápa; idealism ever attracted him, and, by natural gravitation toward the finest minds, he chose the friendship of young men who quickly rose into eminence during the days of revolution and invasion that tried men's souls.

       "Was it you who yawned so, Clementina?"        Nobody answered.        The questioner was an old gentleman in his eightieth year or so, dressed in a splendid flowered silk Kaftan, with a woollen night-cap on his head, warm cotton stockings on his feet, and diamond, turquoise, and ruby rings on his fingers. He was reclining on an atlas ottoman, his face was as wooden as a mummy's, a mere patch-work of wrinkles, he had a dry, thin, pointed nose, shaggy, autumnal-yellow eyebrows, and his large prominent black eyes protected by irritably sensitive eyelids, lent little charm to his peculiar cast of countenance.        "Well! Will nobody answer? Who yawned so loudly behind my back just now?" he asked again, with an angry snort. "Will nobody answer?"        Nobody answered, and yet there was a sufficient number of people in the room to have found an answer between them. In front of the hearth was sitting a young woman about thirty or thirty-five, with just such a strongly-pronounced pointed nose, with just such high raised eyebrows as the old gentleman's, only her face was still red (though the favour of Nature had not much to do with that perhaps) and her eyebrows were still black; but her thin lips were just as hermetically sealed as the old man's, when she was not speaking. This young woman was playing at Patience.

The S—— family was one of the richest in Wallachia, and consequently one of the most famous. The head of the family dictated to twelve boyars, collected hearth-money and tithes from four-and-fifty villages, lived nine months in the year at Stambul, held the Sultan's bridle when he mounted his steed in time of war, contributed two thousand lands-knechts to the host of the Pasha of Macedonia, and had permission to keep on his slippers when he entered the inner court of the Seraglio.        In the year 1600 and something, George was the name of the first-born of the S—— family, but with him we shall not have very much concern. We shall do much better to follow the fortunes of the second born, Michael, whom his family had sent betimes to Bucharest to be brought up as a priest in the Seminary there. The youth had, however, a remarkably thick head, and, so far from making any great progress in the sciences, was becoming quite an ancient classman, when he suddenly married the daughter of a sub-deacon, and buried himself in a little village in Wallachia. There he spent a good many years of his life with scarce sufficient stipend to clothe him decently, and had he not tilled his soil with his own hands, he would have been hard put to it to find maize-cakes enough to live upon.

       This happened when no train crossed the Hortobágy, when throughout the Alföld there was not a railway, and the water of the Hortobágy had not been regulated. The two-wheeled mill clattered gaily in the little river, and the otter lived happily among the reeds.        At the first streak of dawn, a horseman came riding across the flat Zám puszta, which lies on the far side of the Hortobágy River (taking Debreczin as the centre of the world). Whence did he come? Whither was he going? Impossible to guess. The puszta has no pathway, grass grows over hoof-print and cart track. Up to the endless horizon there is nothing but grass, not a tree, a well pole, or a hut to break the majestic green plain. The horse went its way instinctively. Its rider dozing, nodded in the saddle, first on one side, then the other, but never let slip his foot from the stirrup.

A mountain-chain, pierced through from base to summit—a gorge four miles in length, walled in by lofty precipices; between their dizzy heights the giant stream of the Old World, the Danube.        Did the pressure of this mass of water force a passage for itself, or was the rock riven by subterranean fire? Did Neptune or Vulcan, or both together, execute this supernatural work, which the iron-clad hand of man scarce can emulate in these days of competition with divine achievements?        Of the rule of the one deity traces are visible on the heights of Fruska Gora in the fossil sea-shells strewn around, and in Veterani's cave with its petrified relics of saurian monsters of the deep; of the other god, the basalt of Piatra Detonata bears witness. While the man of the iron hand is revealed by long galleries hewn in the rock, a vaulted road, the ruined piers of an immense bridge, the tablets sculptured in bas-relief on the face of the cliff, and by a channel two hundred feet wide, hollowed in the bed of the river, through which the largest ships may pass.        The Iron Gate has a history of two thousand years. Four nations—Romans, Turks, Roumanians and Hungarians, have each in turn given it a different name.