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Timar?s Two Worlds E-Book

Mór Jókai

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Herausgeber: Enrico Conti
Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
Sprache: Englisch
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Móric Jókay de Ásva , known as Mór Jókai; (18 February 1825 – 5 May 1904), was a Hungarian dramatist, novelist and revolutionary. He was active participant and a leading personality in the outbreak of Hungarian Liberal Revolution of 1848 in Pest. Jókai's romantic novels became very popular among the elite of Victorian era England, he was often compared to Dickens in the 19th century British press.One of his most famous fan and admirer was Queen Victoria herself. “Timar’s Two Worlds” is a "Sensation fiction" of its time, which is domestic drama gone overboard. Though often listed as early science fiction, it in fact contains not a single speccy thing, but an epilogue chapter on a communal village based on a mother and daughter who lived cashless on an island. This counts rather as a Utopian "modern dialogue" rather than fiction, as it has no plot or story arc. The main story is quite a time-trip to Hungary, and somewhat fascinating if, by modern standards, slow to develop. Once it gets going, you may be surprised how wild things get--by Victorian standards.

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Leseprobe

Timar’s Two Worlds (“Az arany ember”) (The Golden Man)

Mór Jókai

To the best of our knowledge, the text of this

work is in the “Public Domain”.

HOWEVER, copyright law varies in other countries, and the work may still be under

responsibility to check the applicable copyright laws in your country before

downloading this work.

BOOK FIRST. — THE “ST. BARBARA.“

The Iron Gate.

The White Cat.

A Dangerous Leap with a Mammoth.

A Strict Search.

The Ownerless Island.

Almira and Narcissa.

The Voices of the Night.

The History of the Islanders.

Ali Tschorbadschi.

The Living Statue.

A Burial at Sea.

An Excellent Joke.

The Fate of the “St. Barbara.”

The Guardian.

BOOK SECOND. — TIMÉA.

Good Advice.

The Red Crescent.

The Gold Mine.

Michael Timar, Baron Von Levetinczy.

A Girl’s Heart.

Another Jest.

The Wedding-dress.

Timéa.

BOOK THIRD. — THE OWNERLESS ISLAND.

The Marriage of the Marble Statue.

The Guardian Devil.

Spring Meadows.

A Spider Among the Roses.

Out of the World.

The Tropic of Capricorn.

Sweet Home.

BOOK FOURTH. — NOÉMI.

A New Guest.

The Wood-carver.

Melancholy.

Therese.

BOOK FIFTH. — ATHALIE.

The Broken Sword.

The First Loss.

The Ice.

The Phantom.

What has the Moon to Tell?

Who Comes?

The Corpse.

Dodi’s Letter.

“You Stupid Creature!”

Athalie.

The Last Stab.

The Penitent in “Maria-nostra.”

Nobody.

BOOK FIRST. — THE “ST. BARBARA.“

Chapter i.

The Iron Gate.

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.

We seem to approach a temple built by giants, with rocky pillars, towering columns, and wonderful colossi on its lofty frieze, stretching out in a perspective of four miles, and, as it winds, discovering new domes with other groups of natural masonry, and other wondrous forms. One wall is smooth as polished granite, red and white veins zigzagging across it like mysterious characters in the handwriting of God. In another place the whole face is rusty brown, as if of solid iron. Here and there the oblique strata suggest the daring architecture of the Titans. At the next turn we are met by the portal of a Gothic cathedral, with its pointed gables, its clustered basaltic columns. Out of the dingy wall shines now and again a golden speck like a glimpse of the Ark of the Covenant — there sulphur blooms, the ore-flower. But living blossoms also deck the crags. From the crevices of the cornice hang green festoons. These are great foliage-trees and pines, whose dark masses are interspersed with frost-flecked garlands of red and gold.

Now and then the mouth of some valley makes a break in the endless, dizzy precipice, and allows a peep into a hidden paradise untrodden by man.

Here between two cliffs lies a deep shadow, and into this twilight shines like a fairy world the picture of a sunny vale, with a forest of wild vines, whose small red clusters lend color to the trees, and whose bright leaves weave a carpet below. No human dwelling is visible; a clear stream winds along, from which deer drink fearlessly; then the brook throws its silver ribbon over the edge of the cliff. Thousands pass by the valley, and each one asks himself who lives there.

Then follows another temple more huge and awful than the first; the towering walls drawing closer by three hundred yards and soaring three thousand feet into the sky.

That projecting needle at the top is the “Gropa lui Petro,” the grave of St. Peter; the two gigantic forms on either side are his apostolic companions; yonder monster opposite is the “Babile,” and the one which closes the vista is the “Golumbaczka Mali” or Dove-rock; while the gray pinnacle which towers above is the high Robbers’ Peak, “Rasbojnik Beliki.”

Between these walls flows the Danube in its rocky bed. The mighty mother-stream, accustomed far above on the Hungarian plains to flow with majestic quiet in a bed three miles wide, to caress the overhanging willows, to look on blooming meadows and play with chattering mills, is here confined in a pass only a hundred and fifty fathoms in width.

With what rage it rushes through! He who traveled with it before recognizes it no longer; the grisly giant is rejuvenated into heroic youth. Its waves leap along the stony bed, from which sometimes a great bowlder projects like a witch’s altar, the huge “Babagay,” the crowned “Kassan.” On this it bursts with majestic fury, roaring round it with swirls which hollow deep abysses in the bottom; thence it rushes, hissing and seething, across the slabs of rock which stretch obliquely from side to side of the channel. In many places it has already mastered the obstacles which barred its way, and flows foaming through the open breach. There, it has burrowed beneath the wall of the ravine, and by its continuous current has washed out a channel below the overhanging rock. Here, it has carved islands out of the stubborn granite, new creations, to be found on no chart, overgrown with wild bushes. They belong to no state — neither Hungary, Turkey, nor Servia; they are ownerless, nameless, subject to no tribute, outside the world. And there again it has carried away an island, with all its shrubs, trees, huts, and wiped it from the map.

The rock and islets divide the stream, which between Ogradina and Plesvissovicza has a speed of ten miles an hour, into many arms; and the sailor has need to study these intricate and narrow passages, for there is but one deep-water channel through the rocky bed — inshore none but the smallest boats can float.

Among the small islands between the lesser branches of the Danube, singular constructions of human hands are mingled with the grand works of nature; double rows of palisades made of strong trunks of trees, which, joined in the form of a V, present their open side down stream. These are the sturgeon-traps. The marine visitors swim up stream into the snare, and on and on into the ever-narrowing trap — for it is not their custom to turn back — until they find themselves in the death-chamber from which there is no release.

The voices of this sublime region are superhuman. A perpetual universal tumult; so monotonous, so nearly akin to silence and yet so distinct — as if it uttered the name of God. How the great river dances over the granite shores, how it scourges the rocky walls, bounds against the island altars, dives rattling into the whirlpool, pervades the cataract with harmony!

The echo from the mighty cliffs raises this eternal voice of the waters into an unearthly melody, like organ notes and thunder dying away. Man is silent, as if afraid to hear his own language amidst this song of the Titans: sailors communicate by signs, and the fishermen’s superstition forbids talking here under a penalty. The consciousness of danger impels all to silent prayer.

At any time the passage between these dark precipices, towering on either hand, might give the sensation of being ferried along under the walls of one’s own tomb; but what must it be when that supreme terror of the sailor, the Bora, sweeps down! A continuous and ever-increasing gale, which at certain seasons makes the Iron Gate impassable.

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

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