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Frans Sammut, Il-Ħolma Maltija, 2012. SKS, 444 pp.
Frans Sammut’s Il-Ħolma Maltija was first published in 1994, and immediately claimed its place among the finest novels in the Maltese language.
After 18 years, this second edition is most welcome, this time as a fitting tribute to its author, whose life was sadly cut short on May 4, 2011.
I see this edition as a fitting tribute because the book is technically and aesthetically far superior to the stingy first edition.
It is hardbound, enclosed in a colour jacket, has a page in full colour and, most welcome of all, the font is large and easy on the eyes, printed on fine, yellowish paper with broad margins.
Sammut was an acute, critical observer of the local contemporary scene, as he showed in his youthful works, like the short stories of Labirint (1968) and the novels Il-Gaġġa (1971), which enjoyed no fewer than five editions and were even boldly filmed, Samuraj (1975), and also in the more mature Paceville (1991).
The psychological self-identification of the author with the hero is strengthened by the use of the first person singular
But Sammut also had a deep interest in the past, was fascinated by the Napoleonic parenthesis in Maltese history and was also proud of his native town, Żebbuġ.
No wonder, therefore, that when he decided to try his hand at the historical novel he chose Mikiel Anton Vassalli as his hero, a man from Żebbuġ who lived the dramatic transition from the Knights’ rule to Napoleon’s conquest, and soon after, to that of Great Britain.
Although the life of Vassalli is not all clearly documented up to the very end (his grave remains unidentified), his works are widely recognised as monumental contributions to the study of the Maltese language.
Rhetoric apart (whether he deserves the title of father of the Maltese language or father of the Maltese nation has often been debated), he played a decisive part in the process of standardisation of the Maltese language.
The standardisation was a winding and bumpy road which began with Ignazio Saverio Mifsud and De Soldanis, developed with Vassalli, Francesco Vella and Gian Anton Vassallo.
Our language flourished with the many poets and writers of the 19th century, till it reached its classical maturity with the high-quality verse of Dun Karm Psaila and his contemporaries.
In this novel, Sammut is more interested in the thoughts and feelings of Vassalli the man, and delves into the plight of the idealist who feels misunderstood, and even betrayed, by his fellow countrymen.
The author sees Vassalli as an intellectual titan who is constantly isolated and downtrodden by his rulers, and unheeded and undefended by his compatriots.
In essence, this is the ‘Maltese dream’ which gives the book its title: the achievement of cultural independence which would lead to political independence, an impossible dream around 1800 because the time was not ripe for such ideas in small states.
And yet, this seems to be not only Vassalli’s dream but also Sammut’s: his combative nature, where convictions are concerned, makes him identify with his hero even more than his being a Żebbuġi and, up to a certain point, a francophile.
The psychological self-identification of the author with the hero is strengthened by the use of the first person singular, thanks to a literary device used in many a historical novel.
On page 12, Sammut announces the amazing discovery of Vassalli’s memoirs, handwritten in 1828, and declares that he is editing them with a minimum of explanatory notes. In this way he justifies the clever use of obsolete words (that were registered in Vassalli’s Lexicon) to give his prose an antique patina.
Words like ġgajta, miżwed, traħħamlu, dgħul, tajfiet, qoħta, dgħami, dbiba are not easily comprehended by the average reader but they do not hinder the flow of the text because they are sprinkled sparsely, just enough to give local and historical colour.
Sammut is a very careful writer, a true expert of style and expression, and these words are placed in contexts that help the reader to guess their meaning. His accomplished prose is a pleasure to read.
There are lyrical gems like the sensitive description that opens chapter one, where the wide view from the sea to Mdina is zoomed down to the church of St Philip, compared to a grandmother surrounded by her children and grandchildren.
The prose can become powerful and imaginative as on pages 66-68, where he describes Vassalli’s nightmare.
Sammut is also a master of argumentative and philosophical styles when he discusses religious problems like the contrasts between Christian and Muslim beliefs, and other ethical, existential and political issues which are obviously also his own (see the poignant reflections on time on page 186).
The narrative is given a cultural dimension by references to baroque architecture, Dante, Mozart, Beaumarchais, Buonarroti, Filangieri, Beccaria, De Sade, as well as solidity by mentioning local figures like Lorenzo Gafà, Ransijat, Formosa de Fremaux, Wenzu Grech il-Patrun, Mikiel Balzan, Dovik Grech, Marì mart Baskal Felice, Franġisk Saver Caruana and the intriguing Avukat P who lives in Rome.
The contents of this book are varied and rich, striking a balance between the narration of external events and the confidential sharing of thoughts and sentiments.
I can only find one flaw, which is not attributable to Sammut but to the editors of this second edition.
They could have omitted the Second Section (pages 199-248), which is a translation of Vassalli’s Alla Nazione Maltese, the introduction to his Lexicon. This had its raison d’être in the first edition but in this novel, I felt it interrupted the flow of the narrative.
It seems that Sammut, the esteemed prose writer, only wanted to enter the world of verse on tiptoe.
The introduction is a clear and perceptive study by Norbert Ellul-Vincenti.
The novel has lost none of its charm and significance in 20 years and is well worth re-reading.