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Embers Paperback – August 13, 2002
| Sándor Márai (Author) Find all the books, read about the author, and more. See search results for this author |
| Carol Brown Janeway (Translator) Find all the books, read about the author, and more. See search results for this author |
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In a secluded woodland castle an old General prepares to receive a rare visitor, a man who was once his closest friend but who he has not seen in forty-one years. Over the ensuing hours host and guest will fight a duel of words and silences, accusations and evasions. They will exhume the memory of their friendship and that of the General’s beautiful, long-dead wife. And they will return to the time the three of them last sat together following a hunt in the nearby forest--a hunt in which no game was taken but during which something was lost forever. Embers is a classic of modern European literature, a work whose poignant evocation of the past also seems like a prophetic glimpse into the moral abyss of the present
- Print length224 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherVintage
- Publication dateAugust 13, 2002
- Dimensions5.16 x 0.58 x 8 inches
- ISBN-100375707425
- ISBN-13978-0375707421
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Editorial Reviews
Review
“A lustrous novel. . . . [with] its powerful undercurrent of suspense and its elegantly wrought armature of moral and metaphysical argument. . . . Triumphant.” --The New York Times Book Review
“The reader will . . . be . . . very quietly nailed to the spot . . . mesmerizing. . . . In every way . . . satisfying.” --Los Angeles Times
“Tantalizing. . . .Brilliant. . . . [Marai’s] words resonate.” —The Wall Street Journal
From the Inside Flap
In a secluded woodland castle an old General prepares to receive a rare visitor, a man who was once his closest friend but who he has not seen in forty-one years. Over the ensuing hours host and guest will fight a duel of words and silences, accusations and evasions. They will exhume the memory of their friendship and that of the General?s beautiful, long-dead wife. And they will return to the time the three of them last sat together following a hunt in the nearby forest--a hunt in which no game was taken but during which something was lost forever. Embers is a classic of modern European literature, a work whose poignant evocation of the past also seems like a prophetic glimpse into the moral abyss of the present
From the Back Cover
In a secluded woodland castle an old General prepares to receive a rare visitor, a man who was once his closest friend but who he has not seen in forty-one years. Over the ensuing hours host and guest will fight a duel of words and silences, accusations and evasions. They will exhume the memory of their friendship and that of the General's beautiful, long-dead wife. And they will return to the time the three of them last sat together following a hunt in the nearby forest--a hunt in which no game was taken but during which something was lost forever. Embers is a classic of modern European literature, a work whose poignant evocation of the past also seems like a prophetic glimpse into the moral abyss of the present
About the Author
A NOTE ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
Carol Brown Janeway's translations include Binjamin Wilkomirski's Fragments, Marie de Hennezel's Intimate Death, Bernhard Schlink's The Reader, Jan Philipp Reemtsma's In the Cellar, Hans-Ulrich Treichel's Lost, Zvi Kolitz's Yosl Rakover Talks to God, and Benjamin Lebert's Crazy.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
In the morning, the old general spent a considerable time in the wine cellars with his winegrower inspecting two casks of wine that had begun to ferment. He had gone there at first light, and it was past eleven o'clock before he had finished drawing off the wine and returned home. Between the columns of the veranda, which exuded a musty smell from its damp flagstones, his gamekeeper was standing waiting for him, holding a letter.
"What do you want?"the General demanded brusquely, pushing back his broad-brimmed straw hat to reveal a flushed face. For years now, he had neither opened nor read a single letter. The mail went to the estate manager's office, to be sorted and dealt with by one of the stewards.
"It was brought by a messenger,"said the gamekeeper, standing stiffly at attention.
The General recognized the handwriting. Taking the letter and putting it in his pocket, he stepped into the cool of the entrance hall and, without uttering a word, handed the gamekeeper both his stick and his hat. He removed a pair of spectacles from his cigar case, went over to the window where light insinuated itself through the slats of the blinds, and began to read.
"Wait,"he said over his shoulder to the gamekeeper, who was about to leave the room to dispose of cane and hat.
He crumpled the letter into his pocket. "Tell Kalman to harness up at six o'clock. The Landau, because there's rain in the air. And he is to wear full-dress livery. You too,"he said with unexpected force, as if suddenly angered. "Everything must shine. The carriage and harness are to be cleaned immediately. Then put on your livery, and seat yourself next to Kalman on the coachbox. Understood?"
"Yes, Excellence,"said the gamekeeper, looking his master directly in the eye. "At six o'clock.""At half past six you will leave,"said the General, and then appeared to be making some calculation, for his lips moved silently. "You will go to the White Eagle. All you are to say is that I have sent you, and the carriage for the Captain is waiting. Repeat."
The gamekeeper repeated the words. Then the General raised his hand, as if he had just thought of something else, and he looked up at the ceiling but didn't say anything and went upstairs to the second floor. The gamekeeper, still frozen to attention, watched him, unblinking, and waited until the thickset, broad-shouldered figure disappeared around the turn of the stone balustrade.
The General went into his room, washed his hands, and stepped over to his high, narrow standing desk; arranged on its surface of unstained green felt were pens, ink, and a perfectly aligned stack of those notebooks covered in black-and-white-checked oilcloth commonly used by schoolchildren for their home- work. In the middle of the desk stood a green-shaded lamp, which the General switched on, as the room was dark. On the other side of the closed blinds, in the scorched, withered garden, summer ignited a last blaze like an arsonist setting the fields on fire in senseless fury before making his escape. The General took out the letter, carefully smoothed the paper, set his glasses on his nose and placed the sheet under the bright light to read the straight short lines of angular handwriting, his arms folded behind his back.
There was a calendar hanging on the wall. Its fist-sized numbers showed August 14. The General looked up at the ceiling and counted: August 14. July 2. He was calculating how much time had elapsed between that long-ago day and today. "Forty-one years,"he said finally, half aloud. Recently he had been talking to himself even when he was alone in the room. "Forty years,"he then said, confused, and blushed like a school- boy who's stumbled in the middle of a lesson, tilted his head back and closed his watering eyes. His neck reddened and bulged over the maize-yellow collar of his jacket. "July 2, 1899, was the day of the hunt,"he murmured, then fell silent. Propping his elbows on the desk like a student at his studies, he went back to staring anxiously at the letter with its brief handwritten message. "Forty-one,"he said again, hoarsely. "And forty-three days. Yes, exactly."
He seemed calmer now, and began to walk up and down. The room had a vaulted ceiling, supported by a central column. It had once been two rooms, a bedroom, and a dressing room.
Many years ago--he thought only in decades, anything more exact upset him, as if he might be reminded of things he would rather forget--he had had the wall between the two rooms torn down. Only the column holding up the central vault remained. The castle had been built two hundred years earlier by an army supplier who sold oats to the Austrian cavalry and in course of time was promoted to the nobility. The General had been born here in this room.
In those days the room farthest back, the dark one that looked onto the garden and estate offices, had been his mother's bedroom, while the lighter, airier room had been the dressing room.
For decades now, since he had moved into this wing of the building, and torn down the dividing wall, this large, shadowy chamber had replaced the two rooms. Seventeen paces from the door to the bed. Eighteen paces from the wall on the garden side to the balcony. Both distances counted off exactly.
He lived here as an invalid lives within the space he has learned to inhabit. As if the room had been tailored to his body. Years passed without him setting foot in the other wing of the castle, in which salon after salon opened one into the next, first green, then blue, then red, all hung with gold chandeliers.
The windows in the south wing gave onto the park with its chestnut trees that stood in a semicircle in front of protruding balustrades held up by fat stone angels, and bowed down over the balconies in spring in all their dark-green magnificence, lit with pink flowering candles. When he went out, it was to the cellars or into the forest or--every morning, rain or shine, even in winter--to the trout pond. And when he came back, he went through the entrance hall and up to his bedroom, and it was here that he ate all his meals.
"So he's come back,"he said aloud, standing in the middle of the room. "Forty-one years and forty-three days later."
These words seemed suddenly to exhaust him, as if he had only just understood the enormousness of forty-one years and forty-three days. He swayed, then sat down in the leather armchair with its worn back. On the little table within reach of his hand was a little silver bell, which he rang.
"Tell Nini to come up here,"he said to the servant. And then, politely, "If she'd be so kind."
Product details
- Publisher : Vintage; Reprint edition (August 13, 2002)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 224 pages
- ISBN-10 : 0375707425
- ISBN-13 : 978-0375707421
- Item Weight : 6.4 ounces
- Dimensions : 5.16 x 0.58 x 8 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #133,952 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #6,755 in Literary Fiction (Books)
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As Henrik understands it Konrad and Krisztina had become lovers, and on that day Konrad had intended to kill his friend during the hunt. The right moment came and then vanished. Despite his intense hatred of Henrik, Konrad had lowered his rifle at the last instant. All of this has been reconstructed by the General, who did not at first understand the depths of that hatred or the reasons for it (which preceded the affair and may have been growing for years). The reasons were simple and straightforward and became clear to him with the passage of time (the reader can also infer them retrospectively, based on the narrative of their shared youth, to which the first quarter of the book is devoted). Konrad and Henrik were classmates from the age of ten in a Viennese military academy, then professional comrades in the peacetime Imperial Army. While everything in life came easily to Henrik, a man of open, sunny disposition in his youth, and more importantly, a man of inherited wealth and position who is implicitly trusted by everyone whose path crosses his, Konrad is a social outsider, born to an increasingly impoverished Galician couple who sacrifice every last pleasure and penny to pay for his education and the necessary accoutrements of a man of his station in life. He accepts nothing from his friend's family, other than being their constant guest, since Henrik cannot bear to part with his companionship. He is doubly an outsider in the army due to his artistic inclinations and talents as a musician (which creates a sympathetic resonance between Konrad and, first, Henrik's mother, then his wife). This uneasy bond continues for twenty-some years, until the evening of the final meal. The contrast in fates, social acceptance, and prospects has become unsupportable to Konrad. And yet he does nothing, other than flee the entanglement, going as far as to become an English citizen and further removing himself by working for decades in a colonial enterprise in the tropics of southern Asia.
From the day after the hunt, when Henrik seeks Konrad and instead finds Krisztina in his friend's abandoned apartment, he never speaks to his wife again, moving into the family hunting lodge while his wife remains ensconced in the castle. Neither one ever summons the other. She dies after eight years of this strictly enforced separation. Henrik remains in the army, serving in the First World War and then retiring to his room in the castle to ponder matters in solitude for the next twenty-two years. He knows that someday Konrad will return so that they will have the necessary discussion which constitutes most of the novel. Like a hunter setting a trap for his prey, he has prepared the discussion in great detail, circling around the two questions which he wishes Konrad to answer. His conversation, full of excursions into the findings of his solitary meditations - the nature of hunting as a ritual of sacrifice, the consideration of private and public murder (war), the inviolability of true friendship, the lack of self-understanding of men suffering from arrogance as well as ignorance -- is something of a philosophical treatise, undertaken as an exercise in both revenge and self-knowledge. In fact, if he can bring Konrad to agreement on the key issue of self-knowledge, he will have accomplished his revenge, which is entirely psychological - even spiritual -- in conception.
The two questions he wishes answered are not the obvious ones which suggest themselves: Did Konrad intend to kill him? And were Konrad and Krisztina lovers? (Remember, since that day no one in the triangle has communicated with the other two, much less admitted to any particular act of betrayal.) But, as Henrik realizes, each person's life and death has given the answers to those questions, which are the mere facts of an imaginary police report and therefore banal and predictable. He poses two other questions, which I will not share here. The answer to one of them can satisfy him while shaming his friend, but might bury the last shred of his love for his deceased wife. The answer to the other can only shame them both while exalting the same woman.
This is a philosophical novel which addresses many of the unsettling mental phenomena that accompany the self-knowledge attainable only by a withdrawal from the active world that accompanies old age. The time frame and social frame (which, as Henrik notes, was partially destroyed by the first war and promises to be totally destroyed by the second war in progress) are given as facts, but have broader cultural implications. The fatal day was July 2, 1899, and the meeting takes place on August 14, 1940. Henrik and Konrad were born in 1865; therefore they belong to the generations of the author's parents and grandparents and represent a disappearing way of life and thought. In a way this novel is also an early step that Marai was taking in the direction of a final valediction to the country he loved but came to find intolerable, the beginning of a slow flame which itself would end in dying embers.
(The following remarks are parenthetical, as they do not deal directly with an appreciation of the novel. I believe - and I am only guessing here - that a portion of "Embers" has enjoyed a second life in film, specifically in the portrayal of the young Alfred Redl and his friend, the aristocratic Kristof Kubinyi, in Istvan Szabo's film "Colonel Redl" (released in 1984). Although the credits of this film cite John Osborne's play "A Patriot for Me" as a textual source, you will find nothing in that play which reflects on the strong childhood relationship between these two characters in the film (in fact, the play has no Kubinyi and no scenes from Redl's youth). As usual Szabo has taken great biographical and narrative liberties with the actual Redl's life in order to shape his drama, which, like his films "Mephisto" and "Hanussen", examines the underlying theme of betrayal. In fact in each of these films there is layer upon layer of betrayal, starting with the self and radiating out to friends and nation. In "Colonel Redl" the main features of the bond between Redl and Kubinyi -- its establishment when they were young cadets, its intensity, the contrast between the "second family" and the family of birth, the comparative social backgrounds and prospects of each partner, and the trajectory of the friendship -- are so close to the characterization of the bond between Henrik and Konrad during their shared childhood and youth that it would seem to be beyond coincidence (other details point in this direction, e.g., the real Redl was born in 1864, the fictional Henrik and Konrad in 1865). It's hard to believe that Szabo didn't know this novel by his prominent countryman and use it in his own fashion (I don't know if he has spoken or written about this; my remarks may be redundant of something on the record unknown to me). In his typical fashion Szabo has mixed the psychological characteristics of the two members of each bond (Henrik/Konrad-Kubinyi/Redl) to suit his own purposes. (E.g., Redl, unlike Konrad but like Henrik, is the "real soldier" with a strong emotional attachment to the Imperial Army and Habsburg society which he betrays; but in "Embers" such a betrayal would be impossible for Henrik. Henrik, a Hungarian aristocrat like Kubinyi, is a far more serious man who is capable of introspection and withdrawal from society, while Kubinyi has neither of these gifts. And so on.) And of course the same "onion" of betrayal lies at the heart of Marai's story. Perhaps my speculation here is idle and unprovable, but, having seen the film several times since its release, I was immediately stuck by the strong resemblance between the film's and the novel's depiction of this bond when I read "Embers".)
The Knopf edition, like its edition of this novel's sibling, "The Rebels", is handsome and compact. The translation by Carol Brown Janeway gives a fair sample of Marai's clean and powerful language, which, although this is apparently self-contradictory, supports Henrik's belief that some very important things in and about our lives are known and yet remain beyond the power of language to express. This is the third of Marai's novels recently "resurrected" for publication in English translation, and it should inspire further undertakings which will bring his work a deserved contemporary readership at home and abroad.
This book has received many enthusiastic recommendations, and because of that, I was disappointed that it seemed without more substance. I did like the book, and Marai's style, flavorless at first, picked up steam and created an air of suspense in the latter half, though I'm not sure the pay-off justified the wait. Nonetheless, among the cogent observations and an occasional deft turn of a phrase, Marai's endpoint that the truth is revealed in what we do rather than what we say is nicely wrought and a bit deeper than in the simple adage of actions speak louder than words.
However, the melodramatic actions of the two men (one banishes himself to the 'tropics', and the other exiles himself to his estate) for the forty-one years since their last meeting seems a bit much. It assumes a fatalistic approach to life that is difficult for me to accept - a friendship that is the sum total of two lives, and its ensuing rift a sentence of living death that neither man is able to overcome. I would not argue with someone who claimed to have such a friendship, but even Marai acknowledges the rareness of such a thing.
There is also some awkwardness in the telling of the story, which is either related in flashback, or else recapitulated in front of a dying fire by one man, The General, to the other. The amount of detail in the fireside conversation feels unrealistic, though to be fair, the man had forty-one years to obsess over the events - he would probably have it down pat. Of the principle characters, only the General is completely fleshed out, as the events come from his perspective. Konrad, his friend, is seen only in relation to the General, and the General's wife, for being such an integral part of the story, is only sketched, and it is hard to empathize with the General's emotional turmoil over her. Conversely, Marai gives us more detail about the General's nursemaid than necessary, which led me to think she would play a larger role, but then she all but disappears in the second half.
While I always appreciate the opportunity to read authors with whom I'm unfamiliar, I feel that this example of Marai's work will be the only one that I will have actively sought out. Enjoyable, but not especially memorable.
Top reviews from other countries
It's not a novel with a perfect storyline or perfect characterisations, as some reviewers seem to seek. It's better than that. It's a beautifully written philosophical soliloquy on friendship, loss and betrayal, and incredibly powerful for such a small book.







