THE “QUEEN OF THE ALFŐLD.”
The terrible catastrophe which overtook Szegedin in the spring of 1879
must still be within the recollection of every English person. No
surer destruction fell upon that other great City of the Plain than
that which lately visited the “Queen of the Alfőld,”--as Szegedin was
called--by an element no less omnipotent, and through whose destructive
power seven thousand houses were utterly destroyed, many more rendered
uninhabitable, and seventy thousand persons--the whole once thriving
population--rendered homeless.
[Illustration]
The floods which converted no fewer than nine hundred English square
miles of rich pasture, and tracts of land cultivated with maize, into a
turbid ocean, were caused by the bursting of the dykes.
The position of Szegedin had always been a most perilous one. Situated
in the centre of an alluvial plain, which lies even below the surface
of the river, it was impossible not to foresee that a time might, and
no doubt would, come, when the Theiss, no longer capable of being
restrained by any human barrier, would gain the mastery, and the
imprisoned waters by bursting through the artificial boundaries must
render the condition, not only of Szegedin itself, but of all the towns
and villages in its vicinity, one of extreme danger.
The greater number of the inhabitants of the unfortunate city, however,
“laughed at the idea” of such a calamity befalling them, and pointed
to the dykes of Percsora, which enclosed for thirty miles the windings
of the river in a northerly direction, and also to that other means of
defence, the dam of the Alfőld railway, which likewise afforded the
city protection from the north.
But whilst the majority of its dwellers denied the probability, like
men who close their minds to a distant danger and will not allow it
to take possession of their senses, there were others in whose hearts
there always existed a latent dread that it would not be very long
before a disaster of the kind would befal them. In the vain hope of
averting the calamity, the dykes were raised to keep pace with the
increase of the river’s bed each year, but none--not even the most
gloomy of Szegedin’s prophets, anticipated how soon Nemesis would
indeed descend upon them, or how terrible a catastrophe it would bring
when it at length overtook the city.
The river Theiss--the Tibiscus of the ancients--a broad and navigable
river, takes its rise in the Carpathian Mountains not far from the
provinces of Gallicia and Bukovina; and the inundations, which in
a greater or less degree are of annual occurrence in some part or
other of the Alfőld, are primarily due to the melting of the snow on
the higher peaks, and the wearing away of the rocks through which the
infant river passes, together with the sand it necessarily brings with
it in its progress southwards, all of which cause its bed to rise
slightly year by year. Flowing to meet the Theiss from the eastern
frontier of Hungary come the waters of the Marős--the principal river
in Transylvania, whose birth-place is in the Transylvanian Alps,
and which empties itself into the Theiss at Szegedin. It was in the
triangular space formed by the junction of these two great rivers, the
Theiss flowing due south, and the Marős due west, that the fearful
disaster occurred, the space in question being, as we have already
shown, an immense alluvial plain.
Our fellow traveller, before alluded to as a native of Szegedin, spoke
German fluently, and we had consequently no difficulty in conversing
with him.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, referring to the fall of the city, “you see me an
old man and my hair is grey, though before that time it was not so.
Scarcely more than two years have passed since it happened, yet full
twenty have been added to my life.”
His appearance truly bore out his words; he was one who looked
prematurely old, as those do on whom some overwhelming shock has
passed, and whose nervous system has no strength to rally from the
blow. He had somehow a kind of scared look, and as the harrowing memory
of those long nights and days came over him his face grew inexpressibly
sad.
“Did you lose any friend during the floods?” we asked, not liking
to cause him pain, yet at the same time unwilling to appear
unsympathising in forbearing to make the inquiry.
“Yes,” he replied after a pause, sighing deeply, “yes, I lost--a
_friend_,”--adding, “It was not only the loss of kith and
kin--which, considering the colossal nature of the catastrophe, was
comparatively small--that made shipwreck of the lives of so many of us
big, strong fellows; it was the sight of the women and the children.
Ah! there were scenes by the hundred occurring every day during that
period that were dreadful enough to turn the hair of men far younger
than I am as white as snow. Would you learn a little of the melancholy
story from an eyewitness? It will make you sad, for you English have
kind hearts as we in very truth experienced then.”--“Yes.”
“Well, it was on the fourth day of March that the danger began. The
waters which had already inundated the surrounding country, impatient
of restraint, made a wide breach in the dyke running to the north of
the river, and rushed towards the one which extended to the eastern
extremity of the town. From this moment the peril to the city became
imminent, and measures were immediately taken to provide for the safety
of other parts of the dykes, as well as to repair the ruptures already
caused. Soldiers were summoned from Temesvár, and lifeboats from
distant ports to rescue, in case of need, the threatened lives of the
inhabitants. Every man in Szegedin worked night and day to barricade
the dams, but all was vain, for after eight days’ agonising suspense,
during which the water like a greedy monster continued to rise and
swallow up the land, a fearful tempest of wind and rain, like a
visitation from the avenging powers of Heaven, broke over the condemned
city, and added to the might of the rivers.
“In the darkness of the following night, just before dawn began to
break, the Alfőld dam, the very bulwark of Szegedin, gave way also,
and the inundation of the town itself began. The waters burst in upon
us with a roar, like that of a mighty cataract. Alarm-bells sounded to
warn the citizens to flee the danger, and from that moment the scene
was one of wild confusion, for all knew then that their beloved homes
were doomed.
“As soon as daylight enabled those who manned the pontoons to see their
way through the turbid, seething volume of water, which tore through
the thoroughfares, many thousands were borne in comparative safety to
New Szegedin on the opposite side of the river, but most of the poor,
frightened, panic-stricken souls clung with tenacity to their homes in
the vain hope that the tempest might abate and the waters subside, till
they were compelled at length to take refuge on the house-tops from the
cruel death that assailed them on every side. But even here they found
no safety, for the foundations of their dwellings--sapped by the raging
current which tore up everything before it--gave way one by one, and
their houses, crumbling beneath their feet, fell with a dull crash.
“A boat having capsized, belonging to one of the rescuing parties, and
all hands having perished, I volunteered to join the band. I had lost
sight of my wife and children on that first terrible night, and knew
not where they were, or if alive. Of the latter’s safety, however,
I learnt two days after; for they had been found, and carried to a
village six miles distant. It was quite impossible in those awful days
of confusion and turmoil for families to keep together. Some lost
their reason from the fright, whilst others--children especially--got
overwhelmed and separated from their parents by the very vehemence and
pressure of the crowd.
“But as I have said I was alone, and having none to care for, I joined
those who went to the rescue with an aching heart, yet hoping that in
this way I might chance to light upon my dear ones, and maybe save
them. The shrieks of women and children were dreadful to hear above the
terrific roar of waters, the deafening noise of the falling buildings,
and the shouts of the rescuing parties as they poled their way along.
It needed a strong, clear head, and a steady hand to steer through
the floating timber and avoid the numerous objects that, collecting
as they went, heaped themselves one upon another, and formed eddies
and whirlpools strong enough to suck us under if we had not taken
care. The piteous cries for help, too, that greeted us on every side
were bewildering; sometimes we knew not to whose rescue first to go.
Nor only this. Often, when we had succeeded in getting the pontoon
alongside, and were just about to take a family on board, the swift
current bearing down upon us with tremendous force, bringing down with
it a tangled heap of household goods, with now and then a human body in
the midst, would come against it, and hurl us ten or twenty yards away.
My God! to hear the shrieks of the women then, as we were borne thus
irresistibly away, and they knew that with us their hopes of safety
vanished! The men, though, uttered not a groan, but as we left them,
folded their arms as if to confront the king of terrors with a steady
gaze, whilst others took the swooning women in their arms, and gently
laid them down beside them, and chafed their hands and feet, as if,
poor souls, it were better to bring life to them again, than to leave
them to die all unconscious as they were.
“Never can I forget one poor woman who was standing alone upon some
scaffolding which, with a child in her arms, she had managed to climb.
Carried along by the swift current we were passing down the middle of
a broad thoroughfare with fearful speed, when looking up I saw her
preparing to throw herself into the surging waters under the belief
that we should be able to take her into the boat. We had lost our rope,
however, the pontoon having been almost swamped a moment before, and
without this it would have been impossible to save her.
“‘Stay where you are,’ I shouted, ‘and wait for the next. It is your
only chance of safety.’
“Tearing the child from her bosom and uttering a despairing cry she
threw it down in the direction of the boat. ‘Then, save my child,’ she
cried, ‘or it will fall from my grasp, my strength is gone.’
“One of my comrades caught it in his arms, and taking off his jacket he
wrapped the little creature in it--it was but a mere infant--and laid
it in the bottom of the boat, half dead as it seemed from long exposure
to the cold.
“As night wore on the horrors of the situation increased tenfold.
Complete darkness reigned. There was no gas nor light of any kind to
lessen the all-pervading gloom. The waters still rose, whilst, to add
to our cup of misery already more than full, another hurricane more
terrific than the first burst over us and ceased not to rage till
morning broke. As I sit here and look back upon that awful night I
wonder how any of us survived it, so exhausted were we by hunger and
fatigue.”
“But what of the child?” we enquired, interrupting him; for we were
anxious to hear its fate.
“Washed away,” was the reply. “Our pontoon struck against a raft that
came bearing down upon us, and upon which we ourselves had to take
refuge whilst we baled the water out, for we had again been well-nigh
capsized, and when we had accomplished this we found the little
bundle--_Häufchen_, as our narrator called it--_gone_, washed
away, though we perceived it not in the din, confusion, and difficulty
consequent upon righting ourselves, for we were this time nearly made a
wreck.
“Hearing the following morning from the crew of a passing boat that
numbers of persons had fled to the woods on the previous day, and
knowing what their fate must be, we hastened to their rescue. As the
waters rose they had climbed the trees, where, exhausted by fatigue
and benumbed with cold, they were dropping off the branches one by one
like flies. Some few poor creatures with a harrowing scream appeared to
_throw_ themselves in voluntarily to put an end to their misery,
whilst others fell quietly with no sound beyond a dull, dull ‘plash’
which will haunt me to my dying day.
“We had managed to save several, and were just poling off with our
human freight, when a woman floating in the water clutched violently at
the boat.
“In an instant I realised the danger. She would drown us all, for we
were so heavily laden that the boat was scarce above the surface of
the water. Stooping I seized her hands and wrenching them off the boat
I pushed her back with all my strength. She recognised and called me
by my name, but it was _too late_, she sank, and was--may Heaven
forgive me!--_my wife_.”
He was, alas! but one out of many, who, during this our last visit to
Hungary--when men’s minds were still full of bitter recollections
connected with the catastrophe--gave us a thrilling account of the
fearful tragedies which occurred during that prolonged period of agony.
Parents lost their children and husbands their wives, and in some
instances were uncertain of their fate for weeks together, so great was
the confusion that existed long after the source of the disaster had
passed away.
As we listened to these sad tales, feeling thankful our own lot had
been cast in a more favoured land, we were gradually nearing Arád, and
it was not long ere we reached the station, when with a hearty shake of
the hand the Hungarian left us for a train that would take him on to
Szegedin.
* * * * *
A group of men were here engaged in the construction of a new line, and
as we watched them we marvelled that anything was ever completed in
this land of slow workers. Every man was smoking. Leisurely taking up
a small shovel-full of earth he deposited it on the heap; then leaning
on his implement he paused to take a whiff at his pipe to enable
him to gather the needful strength to take up another shovel-full;
after which followed another pause, and so on. These slow but strong,
broad-shouldered, and muscular Hungarian navvies would soon drive an
English engineer absolutely mad.
[Illustration]
At Arád we stay to dine, and ere we journey on again, the shadows
have begun to lengthen on the plains, and peasants are returning from
their toil. The pastures, which an hour ago were full of life, are
now almost deserted, and by the time we see the first dim outline of
the Transylvanian Alps, the sky’s deep orange has paled into citron,
citron into faint green, green into pink and violet. Each moment
the hills grow higher, bluer they rest their summits on the sky, and
evening is falling fast. A long row of stately poplars rearing their
heads aloft guard the entrance to a peaceful village, where women in
short red petticoats and blue kerchiefs round their heads are driving
home herds of long-haired goats. At the station men in large, high
lamb’s wool caps like mops come in groups to meet their friends,
greeting them with words that sound like “_Sobosh! sobosh!_” An
aged “pilgrim father” descends from the train and walks across the
platform leaning on his staff, his long white hair hanging in tangled
masses over his shoulders. Girls bring water in classical-shaped
pitchers, and hold up glasses of it to the thirsty passengers, crying
“_Frisches Wasser!_” And again starting on our way we reach the
Marős, a beautiful stream, bounded on either side by lofty mountains.
On the spur of a rocky promontory stands what appears to be an
imposing castle, but which on nearer approach proves to be one of
those fortified Burgher citadels of which we shall see so many in
Transylvania and which add so great an interest to that land. The sun
is setting behind the loftiest peak and casting its crimson reflection
into the deep and winding river, on the margin of which some fishermen,
having moored their boat, are cooking their evening meal. Away, beneath
the mountain summits, and behind us out in the solitary plains, long
belts of fires are gleaming red. Are the people burning down the
precious forests as the Wallachs are known to do in the mountains of
the Danube, or are they merely those of the thoughtful husbandmen
burning the useless stubble of last year’s maize?
In the marshes the frogs begin their concert, each tribe inhabiting one
marsh doing its best to outdo their neighbours like “loud-contending
factions;” whilst in the moist warm grasses of the surrounding plains
the locusts do the same, and we are everywhere favoured with a
deafening serenade.
About eight o’clock the following morning we reach Karlsburg, the
fortress of which stands on a prominent hill surrounded by mountains
of very singular and unquestionably volcanic origin. It is here that
the gold found in the districts of Abrudbánya and Verespatak is sent
to be coined. The mineral riches of Transylvania are both various and
abundant, gold, silver, and nearly all the less precious metals being
found in these mountains.
It is only 170 miles from Arád to Hermannstadt--our first
stopping-place in Transylvania--but it takes eighteen hours to
accomplish that distance, and we shall not reach the pleasant little
capital till to-morrow morning if we ever do. Fortunately a gentleman
with whom we travelled from a place called Radna-Lippa, and who
alighted at a lonely little village containing nothing, so far as
we could see in the moonlight, but a few wattled huts and a wayside
shrine, bestowed upon us ere he left the carriage a bottle of old Tokay
which he had brought with him for his own refection. How we blessed him
afterwards for the generous gift which alone imparted the necessary
strength to enable us to survive the tedium of the journey. Were I
but a poet and a man I would write an ode to thee, oh, thou fragrant,
topaz-coloured wine of wines, sweet, full-bodied, but never-cloying
“pick-me-up,” immortal Tokay!
At length dawn comes creeping over the mountain-tops, followed by
little crimson cloudlets winging their messages to man that night is
over, and the toils of day must soon begin. One by one the sleepy
villages awake, smoke curls upwards through the roofs of the wattled
huts, and we pass a crucifix beneath which two persons are already
kneeling. It is only in “Christian England” where men are ashamed to be
seen praying.
It is another saint’s day. Every day would seem to be one in Hungary!
“Tinkle, tinkle” go the cracked bells from the small steeples which
rise above the melancholy cemeteries filled with large square ungainly
mounds, one of the peculiarities of the Greek Church in this part
of Hungary, for we have now entered Transylvania which constitutes
its most eastern portion, “The land beyond the forest,” as its name
implies. On the low wall of a hut sits a youthful shepherd playing his
pastoral pipe--a simple little instrument made of a piece of green
stick, whilst his swine feed below on the hard dry stalks of last
year’s maize and the thistles which grow between.
[Illustration]
Beyond all is a glorious background of snow-clad Alps; till, arriving
at a junction, at which we learn we have to wait two mortal hours for
another train, we alight for breakfast, after which, lumbering on
again, we enter a barren country surrounded by immense sand-hills,
covered with stunted grass on which herds of buffalo are grazing.
The lowlands are white with deposits of salt, which lying upon the
soil greatly impairs its fertility. In some places the earth is
honey-combed with salt mines, and we crawl along at the magnificent and
exciting speed of four miles an hour. In other places the line has been
artificially raised to admit of our passing over many miles of bog;
the whole country consisting of a huge morass in which grow clumps of
pampas-grass, ten and twelve feet high. In the carriage with us is an
Austrian engineer on his way to a part of the line where attempts are
being made to build a bridge, but which as yet have been unsuccessful
on account of the difficulty experienced in laying the foundations,
the bog in the majority of places proving almost fathomless. Although
constructed by an English company, this railway is said to be the very
slowest line in Europe; but after twenty-four hours’ prolonged torture,
for our train is of course two hours behind its time, our miseries are
ended at last by its arrival at our destination.
[Illustration]