GOOD FRIDAY IN THE GREEK CHURCH.
A few miles from Grosswardein lies a valley, where, surrounded by
undulating tertiary hills, is a mineral spring; and thither, a few days
after our arrival, we made an excursion. Our way leads us through the
market, where are milk-white oxen by the score, and hundreds of black
swine with long noses and high backs, surrounded by swarms of piglings,
the funniest little creatures imaginable, each with its back arched
like a cat, and its tiny white legs and little black hoofs looking like
shoes and stockings. In the centre of the square women are selling
_tisch-wein_ and hot soup thickened with macaroni, and wherever
one turns there are gipsies selling baskets and wooden utensils.
Forcing our way through the vegetable baskets and the oxen and the
pigs, we reach a broad road in which singular conveyances are jogging
along. More strange by far than any we have yet seen in Hungary are the
vehicles met with here, which, though apparently belonging to a class
far above the ordinary peasant, are so different from any found in the
rest of Europe, that we might have arrived at an altogether new world.
Under the cool shadows of the _robinias_, which grow luxuriantly
in the Alfőld--a tree in England erroneously called _acacia_, but
which is the “locust tree” (_Robinia pseudacacie_) of the United
States, so strongly advocated for English cultivation by Cobbet--the
women stand and gossip, whilst resting their heavy burdens on the
ground.
By the wayside are characteristic studies. A woman is making bricks,
whilst standing beside her, smoking and languidly watching her
movements, is her lord and master; for the male Wallach is a creature
who loves to take life easily. A little farther on, and we see another
woman hoeing away at the hard, sun-baked ground of her cottage garden,
as her inferior half, sitting the while on the doorstep, nurses the
baby.
[Illustration]
In this country it would seem that “women must” not only “weep,” but
women must also work; whilst, by an inversion of the order of things,
the men remain idle. But we are nearing our destination where there is
a bathing establishment, for yonder is a broad still pool formed by the
hot spring, in which, surrounded by clouds of vapour, washer-women are
wading waist deep, as they hammer away at the visitors’ clothes.
It was a pretty sight that at length greeted our arrival at the Bathing
Establishment, and one that reminded us of _Fêtes Champêtres_ in
olden times. It is situated in the centre of large grounds, where,
standing or sitting, were some two hundred people, with here and there
knots of young men and maidens dancing to the inspiriting strains
of a gipsy band. Beyond a number of chestnut trees, rises a densely
forest-clad hill which birds make merry all day with song, and where
numerous nightingales trill. There are so few woods in the Alfőld that
where they exist birds congregate in great numbers.
The hotel contains eighty rooms, and the people we here see disporting
themselves so gaily, and who appear so completely the reverse of
invalid, are but the ordinary visitors to the Baths. The Hungarians,
like the Romans, are a bath-loving people, and resort during the hot
summer season to places of this kind, just as we do in England to the
sea-side.
The source of the hot spring lies at the bottom of a crater-like basin,
from which the water comes bubbling to the surface as from a volcano,
bringing with it a quantity of small shells of two kinds containing
living creatures. Looking down into the water, which is clear as
crystal, we see them not only being tossed up to the surface, but lying
at the bottom of the crater, as well as round its sides.
The water here forms another broad pool, the surface of which is
covered in many places with the lotus (_Nymphæa thermalis_)
brought from the Nile and kept alive during the winter by the high
temperature of the water. It begins to blossom in the beginning of
April, and was in perfection at the time of our visit.
[Illustration: ALL AMONG THE SHEAVES.]
Besides the private baths attached to the hotel, there are large public
ones also outside the grounds for the poorer classes, thousands of whom
flock here during the season, and parboil themselves simply for the
love of it. The charge for the use of these public baths is at the rate
of thirty kreuzers (tenpence) for every twenty-four hours, so that the
people who resort to them may be said at all events to have plenty for
their money. They come hither from great distances. Slávs from Csaba,
more than fifty miles away, and others from places equally remote, and
simply divesting themselves of their top boots and fur jackets, plunge
into the steaming tide, the men in their long-fringed _gatyák_,
full white sleeves, and embroidered waistcoats, and the women in their
gay bodices and coloured skirts. It is in fact an aquatic pic-nic,
for they bring their provisions with them, and take their meals in
the water, occasionally even dancing the _csárdás_, whilst some
of the bathers, who possess a musical turn, sit on the edge of the
bath with their feet and legs dangling in the water, and play their
primitive instruments or keep time with the dance by clapping their
hands, amidst the ringing and bewildering shouts of the dancers. They
generally remain in the bath eighteen hours out of the twenty-four,
and as our cicerone informed us, all for an “_ausflug_” (outing).
Every now and then as they become faint and weak from the effects of
the seething, they have recourse to the outer atmosphere for a while,
where, lying down on the ground, wrapped in their bundas, they remain
until the cool air has revived them, when they return and again join in
the aquatic festivities.
Among the new arrivals we noticed two tall, fine-looking men wearing
splendid lamb’s wool cloaks, embroidered at the edges in gay colours,
and others in curious blanket-cloaks like those worn by the Arabs.
It was late in the evening, and dark shadows were gathering over the
plains when, leaving this singular locality behind, we directed our
course homewards. From the cottages along the road now and then came
the sound of the nervous little _telinka_, embroidering with
fitful and fanciful variations, the hoarse snore of the bag-pipes as
they droned out their wild, weird music to the night; whilst from a
distance reached us the rich, deep throb of the cymbals. In many of
the houses there is dancing and revelry, and accustomed as we are to
the quiet and sullen habits of our own peasantry, we regard these
pleasure-loving people with astonishment.
The Wallachs, like the Slovaks, belong chiefly to the Greek rite, of
which there are two separate bodies, the non-united or “Oriental Greek
Church,” which acknowledges the Patriarch of Constantinople as its
head, and the “United Greek,” which recognises the supremacy of the
Pope of Rome.
The recurrence of a high festival affords us an opportunity during the
time we are here of witnessing one of the gorgeous services of the
Greek Church, the splendid vestments and the imposing, and to us novel,
ritual filling us with a new delight. The music was heavenly, the grand
old Ambrosial chants, begun by a long-robed priest whose beard extended
far below his chest, being taken up by the fresh young voices of the
choir, which, welling upwards in a flood of melody, echoed through the
vaulted roof.
It is impossible to give any adequate idea of the imposing ritual of
the Greek Church to those who have not witnessed it, or of the apparent
devotion and ecstatic adoration of the people as they prostrate
themselves until their faces touch the marble floor, whilst the singing
of the unseen choir seems to be that of a company of angels come down
to earth to join in the Christian worship.
It was this music, the most beautiful and touching in the whole world,
that melted the stern, cold heart of the Russian prince of old--the
Great Vladimir himself--causing him to give up his Pagan gods, and was
the indirect origin of the Greek rite becoming the national church of
the northern branch of the Slavonian family.
Our visits to Grosswardein have been well-timed. On our last visit we
happened to be here in the latter end of April and beginning of May,
and were able to witness another, but a very different, ceremonial of
these Eastern churches.
It was Good Friday. This day of penitence and fasting falls nearly a
month later in the Greek calendar than in our own, and high up in the
open towers of both the “United Greek” and “Oriental Greek” churches,
instead of the sweet chiming of bells, men were busy with wooden
clappers producing such unearthly sounds, as they kept hammering
against a beam to call the faithful to worship, that, until undeceived
by a friendly passer-by, we were under the full impression that giants
with wooden legs were disporting themselves amongst the clock-work.
[Illustration]
Inside the “Oriental Greek” churches the banners, together with the
tables on which the sacred relics reposed, were draped with black.
Tall tapers burned at sombre shrines erected for the occasion in
the centre of the nave, and which were approached by a pathway of
trees and flowers growing in large tubs--oleanders, geraniums, roses,
lilies, and a variety of other plants, too numerous to mention, but
all out of keeping to our thinking, for it was anything but a pathway
of flowers which _He_ trod, whose sufferings and death the people
were commemorating. At the end of the long pathway was a canopy draped
in violet, beneath which, on an altar, rested a silver crucifix
and relics, and above a life-size figure of the Saviour hanging on
the cross. Towards this men and women, both young and old, pressed
reverently, and approaching the table on tiptoe lingered before it with
sad faces and sometimes weeping eyes; they kissed the crucifix and
relics, and dropped a coin into a bowl, and then stood and gazed again,
as if reluctant to turn away; and when they did it was with steps soft
and slow. Notwithstanding the immense crowd--for the great nave was as
full as it could cram, there was perfect stillness and a hush almost
supernatural, and our hearts were moved by the strong faith and love
which the people evinced in and for the Holy Hero of the day, as they
crossed themselves, and gently and sadly turned away to make room for
other worshippers.
There was no sermon here to-day, for their bishop was dead; but
crossing the market-place, where men and women were sitting enveloped
in black sheepskin cloaks and jackets, we entered the cathedral of the
“United” Greek Church, where one was being preached, and where the
people were standing and listening attentively to the “old, old Story.”
* * * * *
I have travelled in many lands, but it is in Hungary alone that I have
observed such intense devotion of the people. To them the religion they
profess is no mere shadow, but a deep, great, and abiding reality. It
is, however, principally amongst the Greek Catholics of both rites
that this earnestness in devotion is seen. Although the Greek Church
is in mourning and its devotees are fasting, it is the vigil of a high
festival day in the Roman Catholic.
To-morrow is the first day of May, a month of rejoicing, so the
churches are decorated with flowers, whilst in the streets young girls
are carrying offerings to lay at the Virgin’s shrine. Following them
we enter the church of the San Franciscan Friars, a gorgeous edifice
all tinsel and gold, with life-size, gaudily-painted figures of the
twelve Apostles, the Virgin, and the Holy Women, all so natural that
they seem endowed with sound and motion. Round the ledge of the pulpit
are smaller ones in almost every attitude, some of which are poised
on one leg, whilst others are hanging to the cornice, all of them so
marvellously life-like that as we look at them we tremble lest they
should break their little necks by toppling over on to the floor of the
nave below. On the sounding-board there is another crowd of puppets,
no less bewildering to the devout mind; but near the north entrance
hangs a figure of our Saviour upon the cross, the blue lips, the livid
face, and the expression of agony all so wonderfully depicted as to be
painful to look at.
As we left the church the bells were chiming and the people flocking to
the “Benediction;” whilst in another part of the town devout Jews were
hastening to their synagogue, for it was the beginning of their Sabbath.
Not far from the hospital of “St. John of God” a funeral passed us.
First came a small boy in a white surplice and black cassock bearing
aloft a gilt cross veiled in white muslin, accompanied by other small
boys; after whom came the priest, followed by several men in the
ancient costume of the Magyars, in light blue embroidered _mentes_
and caps of the same colour adorned with white feathers, the last of
whom carried on a large white satin cushion a chaplet of flowers. Then
came the bier, painted in blue and silver, and drawn by white horses
draped in light blue cloth. Resting on the coffin, which was in the
shape of a sarcophagus and looked as though it was made of silver,
there lay at either end a beautiful wreath of flowers, the whole being
covered with a white lace pall. Carriages followed, in which were
ladies, but none of them were in mourning.
Meeting a gentleman we asked him whose funeral it was.
“Only that of some citizen,” he replied, and without doing more than
turn his head, went on his way.
I never saw such a place as Grosswardein for clocks: almost every
church steeple possesses four dials; but none of them agree as to the
time, all maintaining a particular one of their own, and none of them
being right!
* * * * *
May Day has come. We were awakened at five o’clock by the strains of a
military band which according to ancient custom ushers in this golden
morning by playing in front of the Palace of the Catholic Bishop,
situated not very far from our own sylvan retreat. Everything wears
a joyous appearance, even the trains, which are decked with robinia
boughs, and full of holiday-makers on their way to a village a few
miles from Grosswardein.
In the evening the _cafés_ are full to overflowing, and the
gipsies playing in one of them such an exquisite melody as we pass
that, after listening outside, we enter softly and take our seat.
Like nearly all in Hungary the _café_ in question was kept by a
Jew; whose young and handsome wife sat beside us. So soon as she had
ascertained that we were foreigners she sent for her four children and
made them dance the _csárdás_ to the music of the gipsies, who
immediately began a lively air. The children were between the ages of
four and nine, and it was the prettiest and most amusing sight possible
to see the little creatures now advancing, now retiring coyly, then
pouting with offended dignity as, pretending to make love, they went
through all the phases of the dance.
* * * * *
But to return after this digression to the period included in our
present visit to Hungary. We get on “swimmingly” in our modest little
quarters, and enjoying the quiet and repose which they temporarily
afford us, regard them as an oasis in our travels--a brief rest in
which to review our past experiences and make plans for the future. All
is tranquillity until the fourth day of our residence in our little
Wallach’s rustic dwelling, when her husband, who had been absent on
our arrival, returned. He was much older than his “better-half,” and,
were it not that the Wallachs never intermarry with the Jews, one would
unquestionably have said from his general appearance that he belonged
to the family of Israel.
From that moment our peace of mind grew less and less. It was quite
astonishing the quantity of wine we managed to get through. Our tea
also dwindled most unaccountably. I ventured to hint this to the little
woman one morning, upon which, throwing her skirt over her head and
bursting into tears, she exclaimed in broken accents, “_Es war immer
so-o-o!_” and her sobs were quite overpowering.
What could we do but beg her to think no more about it? assuring her
that it must be the cat, or the rats, or the mice, all of which are
well known to have a weakness for such beverages. How could we bear
to see her sweet face distorted by weeping? and peace was once more
restored.
At length, our sojourn ended, the day of reckoning came. The bill,
which was made out in German characters, was both exorbitant and a
marvel of ingenuity. The number of eggs we managed to get through
in one week would have sufficed for a banquet of Hannibal. It was
surprising, too, the quantity of bread and butter we consumed; and as
to our behaviour we must have been the most riotous of lodgers, for we
broke three panes of glass, the backs of two chairs, and wrenched a
castor off a leg of the sofa; all of which misdemeanours were charged
as separate items on the bill.
It was amusing to witness András’s energy as he did battle with our
miscreant host, whose wife did not appear upon the scene. It is only
fair, however, to say that we saw her more than once during the stormy
interview, standing behind the door bathed in tears. At length, after
much expenditure of lungs, András came off victorious, the bill was
settled to our entire satisfaction, and we were soon rattling over the
uneven roads on our way to the station.
Here we were detained some considerable time whilst a train was leaving
with a crowd of emigrants on their way to the United States. We had
read that morning in a Wallach newspaper that 8000 Slovaks had also
started from the north of Hungary for the same happy region, after
having sold their property for a mere nothing. But our own train is
ready at last, and entering the blazing Alfőld, the heat becomes almost
suffocating, the sun shining fiercely as it only does on plains. The
sheep-dogs pant as they throw themselves down on the parched ground;
in the distant horizon, however, long bands of dark cloud, extending
perpendicularly to the thirsty earth, show that a gracious rain is
falling. The cattle turn their heads to face the breeze which the storm
brings with it. In the marshes the tall pampas canes bow their plumes
and rock to and fro, and there is a grateful smell of earth refreshed
by falling showers. The water ripples in the pools, and scuds before
the wind, which soon increases to a gale. The storm overtakes us and
the rain comes pattering down, but it is too fierce to last; in less
than an hour it passes over, and the sun shines bright as ever, whilst
to our left a rainbow embraces with its splendid arch half the circuit
of the plains.
In the carriage with us was a gentleman, a native of Szegedin,
returning to that ill-starred city, after having been to Pest on
matters connected with its rebuilding.
A thriving place of seventy thousand inhabitants, it is difficult
to realise that it has virtually passed away; that interesting city
memorable as being near the spot where the first Hungarian Diet under
Arpád was held, and which consequently received the name of “The
district of organisation;” for here, on the establishment of the Magyar
camp, a grand assembly was held, composed of heads of families and the
chieftains of the various tribes, and at which the political affairs
of the clans were discussed, and their relative positions determined;
that strange city of pure Magyars, with its mixture of races; Germans,
Christianised Jews, Nazarenes, and ennobled Greeks; above all, that
city of Radicals, upon which Kossuth profanely declared he would build
his dynasty; the words with which he ended his memorable speech, that
was the immediate cause of the civil war of 1848, being, “_De én is
mondom néked: Te Szeged vagy, és ezen a kősziklán épitem fel az én
egyházamat: és a pokol kapui nem vehetnek azon diadalmat._” (“And I
say also unto thee that thou art Szegedin, and upon this rock I will
build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.”)
But the foundations of that “rock” on which he was to build his
dynasty--so much for the prophecies of the wisest of dictators--long
undermined, have now crumbled to the dust, and Szegedin--the Szegedin
that is that _he_ knew, with its one-storied houses, white
gables, and long wide streets, built, one would think, on the model
of the camp of the Magyar’s warlike ancestors--is now no more, and
a new Szegedin is fast rising like a phœnix from its ashes, a finer
and better city with nobler houses, but one that will lack much of
the historical interest of the former. Active measures have already
been taken for its complete restoration, and the Dual-Monarchy is
endeavouring to raise a loan of ten millions of florins to be lent to
the inhabitants to enable them to rebuild their unfortunate capital.
Not many years ago this ill-fated district, which has so often been
the sport of nature, suffered fearfully from a severe drought which
occasioned a terrible famine, and in 1863 from the ravages of cholera.
In fact its dwellers have always existed on the confines of two
impending calamities, which might occur at any moment--absence of rain,
causing the destruction of their crops, and inundation, which might at
any time not only overwhelm the surrounding country, but render their
city a heap of ruins.
[Illustration]