HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ

“Because of his outstanding merits as an epic writer.”

When I was a kid I made a shield from plywood, grabbed a stick in the woods, and rode my imaginary steed, a knight of the Round Table in search of dragons to slay.  The old stories told by Geoffrey of Monmouth, Sir Walter Scott, and Alfred Tennyson, retold by Mark Twain, John Steinbeck, Mary Stewart, and Bernard Cornwell, made chivalry and knighthood part of early reading.  To my young mind knights were in and around the British Isles.  Later Richard Wagner sang of knights in Germany.  But who ever heard of knights in Poland?  Henryk Sienkiewicz did and he wrote thousands of pages of brilliant prose to tell their story to the world. 

Henryk Sienkiewicz was born in 1846 not far from Warsaw.  His family was sufficiently prosperous to provide him an abbot tutor and a French governess.   His deep Christian faith was strengthened by challenges of professors and fellow students at Warsaw University.  Freed from studies words began to flow from his pen.  Most of his early work addressed the philosophical conundrums he saw about him.  Trips to Paris and across the United States to California broadened his scope.  Repeated attacks on and partitioning of his country sent his fellow Poles all over the world, providing subject matter for an observant young writer.  It was in the 1880’s that the moralist turned historian.  He saw the sad history of Poland with its dismemberments, struggles with neighbors, and uprising against oppressors as overshadowing its glory days.  His trilogy of historical fiction By Fire and the Sword, The Deluge, and Pan Michael celebrates the life and trials of Poland in the 17^th Century.  The Teutonic Knights takes us to Poland of the 14^th Century with all of the glory of knighthood, chivalry, and striving to maintain a national identity in a feudal society.  Henryk Sienkiewicz became the bard of the Polish people.  His pictures of the glory which was Poland made him the country’s great patriot, consoling the people, and giving them a faith in the future.

While in Rome he saw this inscription carved in a small chapel: “Quo Vadis, Domine?”  Translated, “Where are you going, Lord?” referring to the legend of Saint Peter who, fleeing the persecutions of Nero, met Jesus going toward Rome.  When Peter asked where Jesus was going he replied as Peter was shirking his duties as shepherd it would be necessary to be crucified again.  Quo Vadis? arrived at the perfect time, coinciding with the neo-Christian movement in Europe, known in the United States as “The Great Awakening”.  The reading public was thirsty for a tale in which faith in God would triumph over godless civilization.  In very explicit terms Sienkiewicz glorified the victory of the martyred Christian’s simple faith over the overwhelming power of the corrupt Roman Empire.  The book was an instant success, which when translated gave its author international status. 

It is a tribute to this 1905 Nobel laureate that 115 years later all of his books are for sale on Amizon.com and two copies of the film version of Quo Vadis? are available on Netflix.  I choose The Teutonic Knights which was written after Quo Vadis?  A copy was available in the local library.  In addition I read The Lighthouse –keeper and Yanko the Musician.  I bought a used copy of Quo Vadis?  published by a conservative Christian group.  I had already read the other works and the translation insulted the work of this brilliant writer.  I was further offended by a very clumsy attempt to insert dogma through annotation.  I do not need passages explained to me, especially in the light of a specific view of history.  I gave the book away and hope the recipient enjoys it.  Instead, like a high school English Lit student, I ordered the movie from Netflix.  I will watch it after I finish this article. 

The Teutonic Knights (also titled Knights of the Cross) is everything I expected.  The good guys, all Polish, are beyond reproach.  The bad guys, all German, are pure evil.  It is a true epic; the edition I read was 787 pages.  Written in at a time when Poland was partitioned by Russia, Austria, and German Prussia, The Teutonic Knights is a very obvious shot at the latter.  The subject is the fight of the Poles and Lithuanians against the Teutonic Knights who were originally charged with bringing Christianity to what was considered by Rome a pagan area of Europe.   Although the book shows pagan practice just under the surface, the Teutonic Knights had over stayed their welcome, corrupted by the easy life which power and property bought.  Full of chivalric love, acts of loyalty, and deeds of bravado the book ends in 1410 at the Battle of Tannenberg where the Teutonic Knights are repelled in bloody combat.  Of course, after many brushes with death and a constant adherence to his knightly code the hero, Zbyszko, marries the beautiful and faithful Jagienka, they have three sons, and live happily ever after.   Good stuff and very easy to get lost in.

 Occasionally the line between prose and poetry gets blurred.  Such is the case with the novella  The Light-house Keeper.  This short work sang to my soul.  Maybe it is because like the primary character I too have wandered and came to appreciate here only when I was there.  An old Pole applies for the position of lighthouse keeper in Aspinwall, near Panama.  All of his life he has wandered the world, mostly as a solder but also as miner, farmer, and whaler.  Life has not been good, some quirk of fate always forces him to move on.  He came to the absolute isolation of a lighthouse on an island to rest and here to die.  And for many months he delighted in the isolation, never failing in his duties.  Once, in a news paper he noticed the formation of a Polish-American Society and sent a small amount of his unneeded salary.  As a gift they send him books of poetry in his native language.  Through the language of his youth, which he had not heard in 40 years, he is transported to a place he had forgotten.  He filled with love of country which can only be felt by those who have been separated for a long period, he became so absorbed he forgot to light the lighthouse and a ship ran aground.  He lost his job in paradise but he found paradise in his soul where lay his heritage.  If you read nothing else by Sienkiewicz read The Lighthouse-Keeper. 

If Yanko the Musician doesn’t break your heart it is made of stone.  This tale is straight out of Charles Dickens.  A deformed child is born to poverty.  Rejected and abused, his only happiness is the music he hears everywhere.  One night he passes a tavern and hears a fiddle.  Overwhelmed, he makes an unsatisfactory replica from a piece of slate and string.  At the manor house the lackey has a fiddle which he plays for the waiting-maid.  Yanko hides to hear the music.  One night the lackey leaves the fiddle in the kitchen and Yanko succumbs to temptation to touch it.   He is caught and accused of theft.  As punishment the counsel turns him over to the thuggish night watchman who flogs him to death.  His last words are, “Mother, will the Lord God give me a real fiddle in Heaven?”  It is a real tear jerker. 

For a whole lot of reasons, including the length of his work, Henryk Sienkiewicz took six weeks to read and digest.  It was well worth it.  I hope in the future to get back to some of his other works.  He moved high on my list of favorite authors.  Please dear reader go to the trouble of finding The Lighthouse-keeper.  It is well worth the search. 

Now it is off to Northern Tuscany and the poet Glosué Carducci, time Gieacchino Rossini and pears and cheese with good strong coffee.  

FRÉDÉRIC MISTRAL

“In recognition of the fresh originality and true inspiration of his poetic production, which faithfully reflects the natural scenery and native spirit of his people and, in addition, his significant work as a Provençal philologist”

In this age of the European Union, international television, and the internet it is hard to believe within only a single generation before mine there were within Europe a vast array of languages.  Today in Africa, and many other parts of the world, a person will speak at least three languages: the tribal language in which they were raised, the national language, and the European language adopted by their country.  Such was the case in Europe at the end of the 19^th Century.  Provençal, the language of the south-east district of France called Provence, is a dialect of Occitan which was the language of the troubadours who took their music and literature over Europe in the 11^th and 12^th Century.  Catalan, the language of Catalonia a province of Mediterranean Spain, is closely related.  Even within Provence there are several dialects of Provençal.  During the 19^th Century France pushed hard to unite itself under one language.  Today, although Provençal is taught in schools and universities it is only spoken by about five hundred thousand older citizens.  Frédéric Mistral did much to preserve this ancient and beautiful language.

Not only did Mistral preserve a language, he preserved a whole culture and portrayed a time within it.   I choose to read the epic poem Miréio for which he is best known.  The poem is in 12 Canto (verses) and the edition I read had many footnotes.   The footnotes were necessary because throughout he introduced plants, animals, places, local legends, and folk customs unrecognizable to someone not native to Provence.  In so doing he introduces and preserves lore which could be lost.  Not only are the words beautiful, the poem is stuffed with interesting bits of information.  In Canto 11 we get a long explanation of just how Mary Magdalene, her sister Martha, their brother Lazarus and a host of those closest to Jesus left Palestine and came to live in Provence.  This legend is the theme of many books, most recently Dan Brown’s De Vinci Code.   Canto 4 describes in great detail the life and nature of a shepherd, a cattle rancher, and a horse breeder.  Cantos 2 and 3 show us the process of silk production as practiced in the 18^th Century.  All through the rest we are given glorious views of the countryside, bits of local poetry, and interesting vignettes of local lore all packed into a melodramatic story of ill fated love. 

Miréio is a beautiful young woman who lives with her parents on the prosperous Lotus Farm where she raises and harvests the cocoons of silk worms.  She was of an age to marry and suitors both rich and masculine arrived at her door.  One day an itinerant basket weaver arrived with his son Vincent and it was instant and enduring love.  Maréio’s father was outraged and a spurned suitor who is a cattle rancher takes out his rage on the hapless Vincent severely wounding him.  In desperation Miréio runs away from home hoping to find peace at the Shrine of the Three Maries.  She has just reached her goal when Vincent and her parents find her dying of exposure.  In her mind she rises in the boat with the three Maries to Paradise.   The story is one we know, it is the language and the color which paint this old tale anew.  Only occasionally does a piece of writing make me anxious to see the place where it is set.  This is one of those occasions. 

Canto VI

The Witch (first stanza)

The merry birds, until the white dawn showeth

Clear in the east, are silent every one

Silent the odorous Earth until she knoweth

In her warm heart the coming of the sun,

As a maiden in her fairest robes bedight

Breathless awaits her lover and her flight

I would encourage you to look up Frédéric Mistral.  The words flow and the work is full of color.   Now a look at José Echegaray, the Spanish playwright who shared the Nobel Prize in literature in 1904.  No doubt Manuel de Falla with sangria and fried squid. 

JOSÉ ECHEGARAY

“In recognition of the numerous and brilliant compositions which, in an individual and original manner, have revived the great traditions of the Spanish drama.”

We have to bear in mind that although these Nobel Prizes were awarded in the Twentieth Century the recipients were of the Nineteenth.   This is particularly obvious in the life and work of José Echegaray.  We have here another mathematician who turned his talents to politics and literature.  When, after the collapse of the monarchy for which he worked as director of public works, he was exiled to Paris he became enamored by the theater.  In his political career he was a liberal, strongly supporting freedom of religious belief in a Roman Catholic country, still he lived the mores of his time.  Honor and societal structure were an important theme of his work.  He loved to overdramatize the problems of conscience and moral conflict.  José Echegaray claimed to love mathematics, politics and literature equally.  In the latter case there was no one of his time who wrote with such conciseness of the classical tradition.

I choose two plays: The Great Galeoto and Madman or Saint?  After reading them I decided that if the societal rules presented were still in force most who work in Washington D.C. would either be dead as the result of duels or confined to mental institutions. 

The Great Galeoto has three primary characters: Don Julian, an older and prosperous aristocrat, Teodora, his much younger and very beautiful wife, and Ernest, the orphaned son of Don Julian’s closest friend and mentor.  The minor characters are Don Servero, a jealous younger brother, and his avarice ridden family.  As I was reading I kept coming across the word “calumny”.  I checked with Mr. Webster and got, “Calumny, 1. A misrepresentation intended to harm another’s reputation, 2. The act of uttering false charges or misrepresentations maliciously calculated to harm another’s reputation.”  Yup, that about sums it up.  Ernest, a poet and philosopher, lives with Don Julian and his wife.  Being closer to in age and sharing interests with Teodora, Ernest spends a lot of time with his patron’s wife, even standing in for Don Julian at social events and theatrical presentations.    Seeing an opportunity to be rid of both the young wife and the troublesome poet Don Servero and his family spread rumors of infidelity.  When Ernest accidently walks into a drinking bout where young military types are defaming his benefactor’s wife he strikes one and is promptly challenged to a duel which he cannot win.  When he hears of it, Don Julian, a much better swordsman, steps in and is mortally wounded in the conflict.  In the following scenes Don Severo and his wife Mercedes continue to push the falsehood until even the dying Don Julian condemns his wife and adopted son as traitors.  Earnest and Teodora are driven out of the house and the brother acquires both the position and the fortune.   To the end Ernest the philosopher questions his position and decries the injustice of the situation.

(From Act III scene vi) Ernest (considering revenge on the man who mortally wounded his friend): What does it matter?  What is the weight or value of such calumny?  The worst of it is that thought is degraded by mean contact with a mean idea.  From force of dwelling upon a crime, the conscience becomes familiar with it.  It shows itself terrible and repellent –but it shows itself- at night, in dark solitude!... I am myself; my name is an honorable one.  If I killed Nebreda (the person who challenged him to a duel) solely because of a lie, what would I not do to myself if guilt threatened to give truth to calumny?”

The joys of Madman or Saint? went beyond the reading.  I bought the book from an online book seller.  The slim volume was published in 1912 and the copy I held in my hands had never been read.  I knew this as the pages were uncut.  I found a particular tactual delight in slitting the pages as I read.

 In this play Lorenzo de Avendano, the primary character is a wealthy philosopher poet who dotes on his daughter Inez and wife Angela.  His parents died when he was a young man.  His beloved nurse was committed to a 15 year prison term for stealing a locket from the neck of her late employer.  Thomas, a friend and adviser, informs him the nurse has been released and is dying.  Lorenzo insists she be brought to his house.  On arrival she admits stealing the locket but only because a message inside led him to a letter left by his mother.  When the letter is retrieved it informs Lorenzo that he is not the natural child of wealthy parents.  His parents were unable to have children so they raised the child of the nurse as their own allowing him to inherit both title and wealth.  With tears in his eyes he recognizes his biological mother and, being an honorable man, resolves to give both wealth and title to their true heir.  This sends the family into a tizzy of self protection and everybody, including the nurse, conspires to prevent him from carrying out what they view as a self-destructive and totally mad plan.  The play ends with the hapless Lorenzo being carted off to an asylum all the while declaring he was doing what was right. 

(Act III, scene xiv, Lorenzo has discovered the proof of his birth has been destroyed by his biological mother, the nurse, and everyone in his family is convinced he is mad.  He is about to be committed)  Lorenzo:  … “My God! So be it! So be it! Conquered- basely conquered!  How they enjoy their triumph!  How they look at me in hypocritical sorrow.  And they pretend to cry!  They all pretend!  My heart – the illusions of my life – love – my child, my child!  Phantoms that speed and flee – flee forever!  And I believed it all!  How blue the sky was!  How pale Inez was!  And now what shall I believe in?  Now, you see, I don’t struggle, I yield; the victory is yours.  Why have those men come if I don’t resist?  I shall go where you like.  Good-by!”

You will notice that in the above quote there are only two periods.  All the rest of the punctuation is exclamation points or question marks, a good summation of the works of José Echegaray which I read. 

The winner of the 1905 Noble Prize in Literature was Henryk Sienkiewicz of Poland.  I was delighted when I actually recognized one of the sited works; Quo Vadis.  When I checked the local library system I found they had five different titles by this author on their shelves.  This is the first writer of historical novels to be a Nobel laureate and as this medium is a particular favorite of mine I am looking forward to a good read.  I have plenty of  Chopin in my CD collection now if I can only find some pierogi and Zywiec.

BJÖRNSTJERN BJÖRNSON

“As a tribute to his noble, magnificent, and versatile work as a poet, which has always been distinguished by both the freshness of its inspiration and the rare purity of its spirit.”

To understand the work of this playwright, novelist, poet, and politician it is necessary to understand the times in which he lived.  The dawn of the 20^th Century was a heady time of change.   The Industrial Revolution was firmly established.  The middle class was feeling its power.  Workers were organized, demanding their fair share of the fabulous things being produced.  Universal franchise, organized labor, and Socialism were accepted goals among many.  The horrors of French Revolution and Napoleonic Wars were of a past generation.  The acid attacks of anarchists and the trenches of World War were in an unseeable future.  It was a time ripe for idealism; Björnstjern Björnson was right in the middle of it.

This son of a Norwegian pastor wrote literary criticism for newspapers until he found his muse in the theater.  Growing up in a lush rural area among the agrarian peasantry his lyrical dramas venerated Norse sagas, peasant tales, and country life.  Until 1905 Norway was under the political and cultural control of Sweden, a situation Björnson spent his life resisting and lived to see fulfilled.   His early work venerated Norway’s glorious history in the Middle Ages.  Later, with The Editor and The Bankrupt he was able to fulfill his dream of giving Norway an internationally respected dramatic literature.  His work made him the creator of Norwegian prose.  Björnstjern Björnson’s is Norway’s Francis Scott Key, his poem Ja, vi elsker dette landet is the lyric of the Norwegian national anthem. 

Cultural history, politics, and religion were a part of all of his works.  Between the Battles, Sunny Hill, King Snorre, Sigurd the Bad, and Sigurd Jorsalfar illuminate the cultural and political history of Norway.  The King, Beyond Our Power, and Paul Lange og Tora Parsberg present liberal political causes.  The Heritage of the Kurts proposes education reform.   Beyond Human Might, In God’s Way, and A Gauntlet challenge the Church and Christian dogma. 

I chose to read four works: The King, Beyond Our Power, In God’s Way and a collection of 31 of his poems.  

The King is the least of the four.  First, the subject is outdated.  When it was written (1877), with the exception of Switzerland, kings and queens ruled the countries of Europe.   At the end of the 19^th Century the institution of monarchy was brought into question.  By the mid 20^th Century you could count European monarchs on one hand; all strictly ceremonial.  The King shows the depth to which monarchy can affect a society.  Björnson’s hero is a young man who has just assumed the throne of an unnamed country.  Raised in the palace, he led a protected and isolated life.  After a debauched youth he is forced to reconsider his values when soundly rejected by the daughter of a republican dissenter his courts had imprisoned on a charge of treason.   On self examination he finds the charade of divine rule a fraud and resolves to change the system from within.  His first step is to woe Clara, the commoner governess who rejected him, to become his wife and help him humanize the monarchy.  It is disaster, too many have too much at stake to trust government to the populace.  A divine king is required to keep an order beneficial to the ruling class; the young king’s efforts are thwarted.   As in many plays of this era the primary characters wind up dead.

Beyond Our Power sounded familiar from the first words.  I was well into the play when it occurred to me, “This is George Bernard Shaw”.  A few years ago, inspired by My Fair Lady, I read a bunch of Shaw’s plays.  We will get to him as he won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1925.  I would not be at all surprised if Björnson was one of Shaw’s inspirations.  Beyond Our Power is a dark play.  It opens deep in the bowls of a Norwegian community where desperate people live in caves.  Appropriately, the area is called “Hell”.  There is a general strike in process and leaders are rallying the people to hang on.  The primary characters are Elias and Rachel, siblings who have inherited some wealth.  Rachel, a practical idealist, uses the family mansion to establish a hospital which she runs for all in the community.  Elias, an anarchist, supports the strike by a desperate action; he dynamites a palace where the employers are meeting to organize against the strike.  Of the strikers only he stays in the palace to signal the proper moment.  The message is clear.  The employers are shown as callous and greedy; the employees pawns in the production process, cowed and in desperate need of leadership.  Three kinds of leadership are emerge: Rachel the persistent caregiver, Herre the local organizer, and Elias the all or nothing radical.  This play is one in a long line of early 20^th Century literary efforts to raise the general level of society by dignifying the status of labor.

In God’s Way is a different form with a different message.  As a novel Björnson is able to flesh out his characters and make the reader a part of the relationship.   Again we have siblings as primary characters.  Kallem and Josephine are brother and sister.  Edward Kallem is a medical doctor running a hospital which mostly treats tuberculoses, rampant at the time.  He is married to the beautiful and talented Ragni.  Josephine is a bright young mother whose husband is the Reverend Ole Tuft, local cleric.  Both husbands are deeply committed to their professions and both wives are struggling with their roles as professional wives.  The Reverend is very narrow in his views, today we would call him a Fundamentalist, which galls his wife.  When he insists she support him she rebels, challenging the dogma.  Dr. Kallem is consumed with the problems of his patients and asks his wife to support him by looking to some of the social needs of the families of the sick.  Ragni complies by taking under her wing a young man who shows promise on the piano, an instrument on which she is skilled.  The boy falls hopelessly in love with his mentor and the rumor mill makes it into something scandalous.  Ragni is so crushed by the gossip and the fear of her husband’s reaction she contracts tuberculoses and dies.  Dr. Kallem is infuriated that rather than crush the chatter his brother-in-law preaches a sermon on adultery which the community takes as confirmation.  Not long after the son of the minister and his wife comes down with a complicated illness requiring an operation which only Dr. Kallem can perform.  After saving their son the doctor maintains his distance.  Distressed by the separation from her brother and wishing to thank him Josephine tries to visit. When turned away by a servant she writes.  He replies by sending Regni’s correspondence showing how the gossip sucked the life from this vibrant woman.  Josephine blames herself for supporting her husband.   The distress of the death of Regni and the near death of their son forces the Reverend and his wife to take a second look at their faith.  They conclude that acceptance is more important than belonging.   The exclusivity of their faith becomes less important than the welfare of their fellow man.  By trying to impose their agenda they were getting in God’s way. 

Although I enjoyed In God’s Way I would recommend Morris West’s fiction and Karen Armstrong’s A Case for God as more contemporary and easier to read.  As I have said poetry is not a strong suite of mine.  I am including the following as that which most appealed to me.

THE TREE

Ready with leaves and with buds stood the tree.

“Shall I take them?” the frost said, now puffing with glee.

“Oh my, no, let them stand,

Till flowers are at hand!”

All trembling from tree-top to root came the plea.

Flowers unfolding the birds gladly sung.

“Shall I take them?” the wind said and merrily swung.

“Oh my, no, let them stand,

Till cherries are at hand!”

Protested the tree, while quivering hung.

The cherries came forth ‘neath the sun’s glowing eye.

“Shall I take them?” a rosy young girl’s eager cry.

Oh my, yes, you can take,

I’ve kept them for your sake!”

Low bending its branches, the tree brought them nigh.

I mentioned European politics becoming much involved in the Nobel Prize.  By 1904 it was there big time, so much so the committee decided to split the prize between a French poet and a Spanish playwright.  I will take Frédéric Mistral first.  I will have to look for a CD with the folk music of Provence.  That will go with fish soup and red wine while I enjoy the bard of Provençal.

THEODOR MOMMSEN

 “The greatest living master of the art of historical writing, with special refernce to his monumental work, The History of Rome”

OH NUTZ, I got myself all ready to read the second Nobel laureate and in the first sentence of the preface I found the book I bought was a translation by a descendent, Theodor Ernst Mommsen, who died in 1958.  It was a stupid, if understandable, mistake; same name, same subject.  I went at once to ABE Books where I found a copy of the fifth volume of his history of Rome, The provinces of the Roman Empire from Caesar to Diocletian.  In the fifteen days I need to wait I will dip into the book I have. 

The books arrived and I have been immersed in the Roman Empire.  The provinces of the Roman Empire (1996, Barnes & Noble Books, New York) is an academic study in two volumes which looks in depth at the vast area influenced by Roman rule.  The second book I found is a part of a series called the Nobel Prize Library (1971, Helvetica Press Inc., New York).  It seems I am not the first to realize I know too little of these writers.  The Nobel Prize Library was published under the sponsorship of the Nobel Foundation and the Swedish Academy.  There are 20 volumes in the set.  The prize winners are listed alphabetically so Mauriac, F. Mistral, Mommsen is volume 10.  Each entry includes the presentation address, a thumbnail biography, the prize citation, and a sampling of the most influential work.  I will own the set before this adventure is finished.

First, a little about the German law professor and linguist with a passion for Roman history and archeology.  When Theodor Mommsen was born, November 30, 1817, Schleswig, his natal village, was in Denmark.  For the first seventeen years of his life the greatest proponent of German unity and democracy was a Dane.  The father of Germany’s most aggressive agnostic was a Protestant curate.  The oldest manuscript of this prolific writer, in his childish hand, transcribed prayers and religious meditations.  He began his life’s most profound accomplishment at the age of 26.  Corpus Inscripition Latinarum is a 15 volume collection of carefully documented inscriptions on stone, bronze, and coin from the length and berth of the Roman Empire.  It remains the final authority.  Other works still considered prime sources are History of Roman Coinage, The Dialects of Southern Italy, Roman Public Law, and his four volume History of Rome.  All and much more were written while maintaining his position as professor of law at Leipzig University.  Mark Twain’s response to Mommsen gives the reader an idea of the veneration in which this German scholar was held in his time.  While on a European tour in 1892 Twain was honored at a formal banquet by the University of Berlin.   After all of the guests had taken their places there was a flourish at the door to the hall as a late comer entered.  An excited whisper flew through the hall -MOMMSEN - and people rose to shout and cheer.  “Then the little man with his long hair and Emersonian face edged his way past us and took his seat.  I could have touched him with my hand –Mommsen! - Think of it… I would have walked a great many miles to get a sight of him, and here he was, without trouble or tramp or cost of any kind.  Here he was in a titanic deceptive modesty which made him look like other men.”  The name of Mark Twain I knew but I never heard of the man he admired.  Humor will always trump scholarship.

There is a bit of history behind this particular award.  If you may remember the Sully Prudhomme award cause a bit of a flap.  Since it was the first the committee was feeling its way.  This award was given over the lion of Russian literature Leo Tolstoy.  The Swedish Academy claimed Tolstoy was overlooked in1901 because he was not nominated as per the rules of the committee.  Tolstoy was promptly nominated for the 1902 prize by a Swedish professor of literature.  Unfortunately for the committee Tolstoy had published some criticism of the Bible which challenged his idealism judged by the mores of the time.  The British nominated Herbert Spencer and the French put up Emile Zola among others.  The Swedish Academy heaved a sigh of relief when the Prussian Academy of Sciences in Berlin proposed Mommsen.  Both the man and his work fit the parameters of the committee and he was chosen.  The Swedish Academy ducked a potentially embarrassing situation, but two whom time would hold as great, Tolstoy and Zola, were never to receive the prize.  Many consider this a degradation of the Nobel Prize.  Two quotes from C.D. AF Wirsen , Permanent Secretary of the Swedish Academy, in his presentation address show the Academy finding its way.  First as reason for the choice, “The reader treads on safe ground, unmolested by the surf.  The great work stands before our eyes as if cast in metal.”  OK, so it is good solid stuff.  To justify their choice over more creative writers he said, “His intuition and creative power bridge the gap between the historian and the poet.”  In his conclusion he went back to justifying Mommsen’s work as literature rather than history.  “And, indeed, Mommsen did write poetry in his youth.  The Songbook of Three Friends of 1843 is witness that he might have become a servant of the muses if, in his own words, circumstances had not brought it about that ‘what with folios and with prose/not every bud turned out a rose’.   The Nobel Committee was finding its way: it still is.

For my introduction to Theodor Mommsen I read History of Rome volume 3 chapters ten to fifteen which is the Nobel Prize Library included as its example of his work.  And The Provinces of the Roman Empire chapter 5 Britain and chapter 11 Judaea and the Jews.

It soon became obvious that he admired Julius Caesar and had little time for his joint ruler Pompey.  His interplay of these two reads like a novel of political intrigue.  It was his commentary as much as his history which impressed me.  Most of Chapter 15 is a discussion of Caesar’s attempts to reverse the economic misfortunes of the failing republic as it moves into monarchy.   Considering it was written in the late 19^th Century it resonates today.  He opens by explaining the root of the problem which he sees as “the disappearance of the agricultural and the unnatural increase of the mercantile population”.  “Out of this economic system, based both in its agrarian and mercantile aspects on masses of capital and on speculation, there arose a most fearful maldistribution of wealth” Sound familiar?  Soon the society was divided between “the mass of beggars and the world of quality”.   For the next seven pages he goes into detail regarding the decadence of the wealthy and the abject destitution of the poor.  Farm land was converted into estates with little productive land.  Houses were increasingly lavish.   Obesity and dietary problems were pandemic as the tables of the wealthy competed.  Dogs and horses sold for spectacular amounts of money.  Fortunes were spent on increasingly luxurious means of transportation.  In the mean time, among the poor usury flourished with debtor-slaves becoming increasingly common.  Whole communities were held by bankers for incurred debt.  In one case the city council was blockaded in the town hall until six members died of starvation.  The fortunate poor enlisted in the army.  With this small stipend the family was supported.  More desperate sold themselves for food and lodging into the gladiatorial contests.  Most died but the few who were successful became fabulously wealthy.  (Does this sound like modern professional sports?)  A scarier prediction is on page 356 he concludes this section with the following, “Not until the dragonseed of North America ripens will the world again have similar fruits to reap.”  We have been warned.

Every American who gives a damn about the welfare of our state should read Chapter 15 of this book.  On page 365 in the same chapter he waxes almost poetic in his admiration of the Jewish people of the Roman Empire.   This tied in directly with the section I read in The provinces of the Roman Empire.  I cannot possibly do justice to this man in the 1500 words to which I have limited myself.  George Santayana reminds us those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it.  If you would know the past we may be condemned to repeat pick up Theodor Mommsen.

It is obvious the Swedish Academy was feeling its way around.  First, we had a French poet, then a German historian.  In 1903 they chose a Norwegian playwright Björnstjerne Björnson.  I wonder if I can find some lutefisk.  I can surely find some black bread.  I will have to figure out what a Norwegian would drink with that.  For the time being I will make it tea.  For music it must be Edvard Grieg.

    

SULLY PRUDHOMME

“In special recognition of his poetic composition, which gives evidence of lofty idealism, artistic perfection and a rare combination of the qualities of both heart and intellect”

This is not how I envisioned this project beginning.  I have always been able to find the books I want on ABEbooks.com, Amazon.com, or through the library.  Not so in this case.  I looked in all of these places.  There are books, all in French.  I ordered a copy of Le France: sonnets, which Amazon assured me was in English.  It is a beautiful little volume I will keep it as a souvenir, but I am years of French language lessons from appreciating its verbal beauty.   As I write I await an anthology from the Pennsylvania State Library System which might have some translated poems.  Both MaryAnn and I have been hard on the trail of this elusive Frenchman.  So far our search has yielded only one translation Le vase brise (The broken vase).  I love it but need much more.  While we wait for translations let’s take a look at our scientist turned poet.

Rene Francois Armand Prudhomme was born in Paris on March 16, 1839.  His father died when he was two so his mother was forced to move to the home of her brother.  His father, known as Sully, inspired the poetic non de plum, hyphenating his fathers nick name with their surname.  He excelled in classical literature and mathematics at the Lycee Bonaparte where he took a Bachelor of Science degree with the intention of entering engineering.  While a student he contracted ophthalmia, a severe inflammation of the eyes, which forced him to discontinue his studies.  The scientific mind set stayed. 

After several job changes, he studied law while working in a Persian law office.  As remedy for an unhappy love affair he studied philosophy in the evenings and composed short poems.  These were well received by fellow writers.  He became attached to the Parnassians, a group who insisted on restraint, precision, and objectivity in poetry.  They viewed themselves as an antidote to romantics such as Victor Hugo.  Acceptance into this group allowed him to forgo study of the law and devote his full time to writing.  In 1865 he published his first volume of poetry, Stanzas and poems. 

For the next five years he would enjoy a happy and productive existence.  In 1870, while serving France’s national militia during the Franco-Prussian War, Sully heard that his mother, and beloved uncle and aunt all had died.  It is believed the shock coupled with the stresses of the war resulted in a stroke which left the lower part of his body partially paralyzed.  He continued to write poetry described as wistfully tender and serious.  During what is called his middle period he went to longer poetic forms.  In this medium he discussed philosophical and scientific concepts.  His goal was to bring art and life together.  I am frustrated by my lack of linguistic skills.  I would love to read La justice .  From descriptions it sounds like just the kind of thing that would appeal to me.  A trip to the Library of Congress is in the near future to see if there is a translation available.  Even then, I am sure the translation does not do justice to the original.  I can see this is a poet I will pursue long after I have finished this project.

Sully Prudhomme did several epic poems and a series of prose works, largely on literary criticism, scientific reasoning, and philosophical thought.  In 1881 he was elected to the French Academy, the authority on grammar, vocabulary, and usage of the French language.  After a long and paralyzing illness he died in his home in Chatenay-Malabry, France , September 7, 1907.

In his presentation speech C. D. af Wirsen, Permanent Secretary of the Swedish Academy, explained the nature of the award and said specifically of Sully Prudhomme’s work, “The Swedish Academy has been less attracted by his didactic or abstract poems than by his smaller lyric compositions, which are full of feeling and contemplation, and which charm by their nobility and dignity and by the extremely rare union of delicate reflection and rich sentiment.” 

I am afraid I will have to take the good Permanent Secretary at his word.  MaryAnn and I had the great good fortune to finding seven translations of Sully Prudomme’s poems on the internet.  We found an excellent translation of The broken vase at http://speakingoffaith.publicradio.org/programs/2009/fraility/prudhomme-poetry.shtml with the French.  At http://oldpoetry.com we found At the water’s edge, In this world,  On the water, Cradles,  Never to see or hear her, and Music for the dying.  Also the book I ordered through the library came through.  It is a series entitled Nobel prize library (1971) Alex Gregory, NY & CRM Publishing, CA. It has four more poems and a prose piece, An intimate journal.  This too small collection of poems is like a bracelet of diamonds, rubies, emeralds and pearls on the wrist of a lover.  The beauty of the ornament is only enhanced by the far deeper beauty of its wearer.   Each of these little poems sent me to a time and with a person.  How did this man, more than one hundred years ago, know about the time I…no, this is neither the time or place for that story.   I was especially moved by The broken vase and Never to see or hear her, I suspect anyone who has been passionately in love would resonate to these words.  I have included the translation of The broken vase from the Nobel prize library .  I hope you enjoy it as much as me.

The Broken Vase

The vase that holds the dying rose

Tapped lightly by a lady’s fan

Cracked at this slightest of all blows,

Though not an eye the flaw could scan.

And yet the line, so light, so slight,

Etched ever deeper on the bowl,

Spread to the left, spread to the right,

Until it circled round the whole.

The water sinks, the petals fall,

Yet none divines, no word is spoken;

The surface seems intact to all;

Ah! Touch it not – the vase is broken.

Thus oft the heart is lightly brused

By some slight word of those we cherished;

Yet through the wound our blood has oozed,

 As lo! The flower of love has perished.

Thought to the world our life seems whole,

The hidden wound is unforgot5;

It grows and weeps within the soul:

The heart is broken – touch it not.

I am sure she did not mean to hurt the poor fellow, but when your heart is so close to the surface the brush of something so light as a fan can cause the dripping which kills something inside.  But God forbid Never to see or hear her.  I enjoyed this too short visit with Sully Prudhomme.  I am sure I will come back many times.

This is going to be a big change, from a French poet to a German classical historian.  This calls for Wagner, probably Tannhauser, some good very dark beer, and sausage thinly sliced.  Now to settle back in my chair to read  Imperial lives and letters of the eleventh century by Theodor Mommsen, winner of the 1902 Nobel Prize in Literature.

NOBEL WORDS

Like many grand aspirations this one came while in the Peace Corps.  I went to Kenya right out of college and loved the place.  When the time came to retire I could think of nothing I would sooner do than return to Africa.  My wife, MaryAnn, and I found ourselves in a fabulously beautiful valley high in the mountains of Lesotho, a small kingdom completely surrounded by The Republic of South Africa.  Our home was about a mile from the nearest dirt road.  No electricity, no car, and no close neighbors allowed lots of time to read.  In this respect we were fortunate as MaryAnn’s job was to set up libraries in local schools.  Thanks to generous contributions by friends and family we had books in abundance.  On occasional trips to Bloemfontein, S.A., the closest large city, we stocked up at the bookstores.   On one of these expeditions I came across Nadine Gordimer who received the 1991 Nobel Prize in Literature.  Her unusual style captivated me and I realized I had no idea who other Nobel winners were and more importantly why they received the prize.  I went to the rather primitive reference section of MaryAnn’s Malealea Secondary School Library and found an out dated copy of The World Almanac.  It told me that I had never heard of the vast majority of the authors whom the Nobel Committee felt worthy of the world’s most prestigious literary prize.  This would not do.  I resolved to read at least two works by each of the 102 authors.  That was in 2005 and as with all big projects it got put off while we readapted to life in the United States.  I have regained my resolve and with this first installment in the journal I have begun.

First I needed to arm myself with a little background; ain’t the Internet wonderful?  Why would a chemist, engineer, and fellow who specialized in blowing things up sponsor a prize in literature?  Physical science, medicine, chemistry, and even economics (added later) made sense and fit with the personality type.  Considering the destructive power of the dynamite and gelignite he created the Peace Prize as a bit of pay back.  But why a prize in something so romantic and artsy as literature?  A bit of research showed that under the scientific surface was a roaring romantic.  When Alfred was a young man his father, Immanuel, moved the family to Russia where he started a munitions factory.  Alfred met and fell madly in love with Alexandra, a Russian beauty.  He proposed and she rejected him out of hand.  In 1876 after he held the patent for dynamite and had invented gelignite, a safer form of explosive, he took Bertha Kinsky as a secretary.  There was a brief but intense relationship until she left him to marry an old flame with an exalted name, Baron Arthur Gundaccar von Suttner.  Their feelings for one another were sufficiently deep for them to continue corresponding until Alfred Nobel died in 1896.  It is believed her prompting resulted in the Peace Prize.  In 1905 the same Bertha von Suttner received the Nobel Peace Prize “for sincere peace activities”.   And then there was Sofie Hess, a flower girl from Vienna.  This fling lasted 18 years.  The letters which he exchanged with his three loves were considered by his heirs as sufficiently torrid to be gathered and locked in the Nobel Institute in Stockholm until 1955 when they were released to authorized biographers.  In his letters to his last love she was addressed as “Madame Sofie Nobel”.   Although Alfred Nobel never married he knew romance.

Since their inception the Nobel Prizes have raised controversy.  This is natural as when there is a winner there is also a “loser” who will find reasons the decision should have been reversed.    The Prize in Literature is no exception.  First, there is the wording of the will; “in the field of literature the most outstanding work in an ideal direction.”  The Swedish word ideaisk can mean either ideal or idealistic.  For the early awards the Swedish Academy adopted a strict interpretation of the term, leaning toward scholars, poets, and idealists at the expense of innovators like Leo Tolstoy, Henrik Ibsen, Emile Zola, Mark Twain, Henry James, and James Joyce.  In the later half of the Twentieth Century the word was interpreted more broadly. 

When appearing on a world stage inevitably there will be charges of political nepotism.  There can be no doubt that until very recently the Prize has been very Eurocentric.  Of the 206 Nobel Laureates 81 are European (39.3%), 13 are Scandinavian (6.3%) and beginning with Sinclair Lewis in 1930 eight are from the United States (3.8%).   These numbers are striking when compared with two Laureates in all of Asia (0.97%), three in Africa (1.4%) and four in South America (1.9%).  On several occasions members of the selection committee awarded themselves the prizes.  There can be no doubt during periods of conflict the prize is skewered.  During the Second World War it was not given at all.  During the First World War it was missed twice.  The political position of several authors has been sited as reason for them receiving or being denied the prize. 

The current manner of selection does much to screen out these complications.  Nominations are requested of members of the Swedish Academy, members of literary societies, literature academies, professors of language, former Nobel literature laureates, and the presidents of writer’s organizations.  From thousands of requests posted about 50 proposals are returned to the Swedish Academy by the deadline of February 1.  The Academy narrows the field to 20 by April and to five by June.  The works of these five are reviewed by members of the Academy who vote in October. 

I am sure every reader has an author who is a shoo in for the Nobel Prize in Literature.  Mine is Salman Rushdie, who I understand has been considered on several occasions.  Hopefully he will win before I finish this adventure in reading.

OK, the time has come.  I will play a CD of Jacques Offenbach on the stereo, put an espresso and some brie by the chair and start to read the works of Sully Prudhomme, French scientist turned poet who received the first Nobel Prize in Literature in 1901.

I started sharing these ramblings with a few friends and family.  It was suggested I offer them to a wider audience through a blog.  I plan to post one Nobel winner on the first Wednesday of each month for the next ten years.  I hope you enjoy this project as much as I have.  It is my sincere wish you are motivated to read those you have never encountered and reread your old friends. 

Do Good;

J. Phillip Eisemann