An innocent laudator is faced with a difficult task in roughly two cases: first, when the honouree is exceedingly well-known; second, when their oeuvre is particularly extensive. In the first instance, the eulogy is confined to established facts; in the second, the brevity of time renders meaningful appraisal impossible. In the case of Samu Benkő, both difficulties combine and amplify one another. I therefore do not attempt the impossible; I shall instead quote from Ákos Egyed’s [Hungarian historian from Transylvania, 1929- ] essay, Művelődéstörténet-írásunk útjai (Paths of Writing Cultural History), published in Korunk, 1978, no. 3. It is telling that of the essay’s eight and a half pages, a full four are devoted solely to presenting Benkő’s work, situating it not only within the Transylvanian context but also within the broader framework of modern, Annales-inspired historiography.
From Egyed Ákos’s still-relevant analysis, I shall quote only the passage that underlines rather than proves my opening statement: “Benkő neither resorts to the formulas of quantitative expression (perhaps not very suitable in cultural history) nor to structuralist methods (which, however, prove usable in model construction). In his studies, he consistently proceeds along the lines of historicity and historical analysis, and in terms of expression, he cultivates the scientific-literary genre, the discursive prose.
Clear, precise, and purposeful (though occasionally a sentence betrays a certain affectedness), his stylistic system precisely conveys – sometimes, I might add, through the very ‘affectation’ of his choice of rare, occasion-specific terms – the intended meaning. Benkő’s historiography (in terms of theme, research, interpretation, expression, and publication) operates at the borderlands of historical science and literature. More precisely, he strives to compose scientific content as a writer. This may partly explain his success. [...] Benkő is indeed one of the fortunate few historians to whom the white raven of historiographical success has attached itself. The ‘publicity’ of his writings and volumes is relatively wide-ranging. Hence his fortune? Regarding his volume Sorsformáló értelem (Fatefulness in Meaning), I have already noted: Benkő may be called fortunate because he ‘does not let his luck pass him by’. He perceives – and ‘knows knowing’ (to borrow his own favourite expression) – what needs to be written, what carries weight. He elaborates his chosen topics with the finesse characteristic of the Kelemen Lajos school. Thus, he observes the rules of historical scholarship while also taking the reading public into account. For all these reasons, and by virtue of them, Samu Benkő is a ‘fortunate’, ‘successful’ historian. And because, even in the hard hours of his life – of which there were some – he never ceased his research.”
Egyed Ákos places the words ‘fortunate’ and ‘successful’ in quotation marks; I would, especially with regard to the latter, do so twice: in our current post-capitalist, profit-oriented decades, the term has acquired a strongly commercial connotation. Yet I do not, because in Ákos Egyed’s formulation, both historically accurate and, arguably, even more valid today, there is an important and extra-historiographical point being made. Namely, that the scholar (and intellectual generally) does not necessarily have to leave their homeland to achieve success. One can be at home and, indeed – horribile dictu – successful as an erudite scholar at home, a ‘domidoctus’. But of course, only if they “do not let their luck pass them by”. And what precisely this ‘luck’ entails – only God, or perhaps not even God, can know.
I shall not investigate further; instead, I recall my first personal encounter with Samu Benkő. József Kőrösi – who decades before it became fashionable had concerned himself with ‘Hungarian–Hungarian relations’ – entrusted me in 1968 with reviewing the freshly published Bolyai János vallomásai (lit. Testimonies of János Bolyai). [János Bolyai, 1802-1860, was a Hungarian mathematician who developed absolute geometry] At the time, I had already earned the disapproval of the profession several times in Bolyai matters; perhaps for this reason Kőrösi selected me. The review soon appeared in Valóság, in the April 1969 issue, according to the repertory. Exactly one year later – this I know from the elegantly handwritten dedication in green ink – Samu Benkő appeared at the Academy Library with a copy of the book, “gratefully thanking” me for the review. More accurately, he wrote: “gratefully thanking for your kind words”. Of course, I have quoted most of these “kind words” from him; just as he himself was presumably enchanted primarily by the beautiful words of János Bolyai, for he cited them one by one, inexhaustibly, painstakingly extracting them from Bolyai’s scarcely legible, scattered manuscripts, which constitute one of the great works of our nineteenth-century ‘belles lettres’ (and not merely ‘literature’); a feat only recently appreciated again when Elemér Kiss uncovered Bolyai’s number-theoretical discoveries and proofs, often a century ahead of their time.
Testimonies of János Bolyai represents a perfect harmony of philological and literary work; in the purest sense, literature, and in the fullest sense, science. Considering his later writings, one can retrospectively discern Benkő Samu’s distinctive and unmistakable prose: that magically objective yet personal style which, in Egyed Ákos’s words, predestined his works for success. At the time, however, I did not yet know this, and I do not recall our exact conversation. Certainly Bolyai and the Annales were discussed, as we shared these passions; yet most of the time was spent searching for an inexpensive restaurant where Samu could have lunch, and by the time we found one somewhere between the outer Váci Street and Veress Pálné Street – then rather dilapidated – we were thoroughly soaked under Samu’s not particularly Euro-compliant umbrella in the not overly warm April rain. The umbrella, difficult as it was, was finally folded in the doorway with its few hidden steps, but I do not remember what we ate – perhaps tripe stew; perhaps the memory of that modest, honest Hungarian intellectual meal, independent of systems and governments, has now overlaid the memory of another Hungarian–Hungarian encounter decades before, in a small inn tucked behind Komárom Castle.
(In: A Bethlen Gábor Alapítvány díjazottjai 2000-ben. [Awardees of the Bethlen Gábor Foundation in 2000] Hitel, January 2001, vol. XIV., no. 1, pp. 27–28.)