WESTWARD.
Kolozsvár, situated in the valley of the Szamos, and surrounded by
hills on every side, contains 25,000 inhabitants. Although enclosed
on all sides by a Wallach population, that of the town itself is
principally Magyar, with the exception, however, of one portion of it,
which contains a little colony of “Saxons.”
Was there ever such a clatter as we made driving down the streets of
this little Magyar capital of Transylvania? If the four hoofs of every
horse had each been a vigorously played castanet, and each paving
stone a cracker, I doubt whether we could have made more noise. If the
railway locomotives take their time in Hungary, the horses make up for
it by the pace they take the traveller--at any rate on starting. As
they gallop through the streets we startle the whole neighbourhood.
Waggoners, who, Hungarian-like, have left their teams in the middle
of the road, come rushing out of wine-shops where they are leisurely
sipping their morning’s _glässchen_ of _Slivovitz_. Frantic
mothers are seen issuing from dark doorways, gazing distractedly up
and down, in quest of their small “blessings,” who, as a rule, are
squatting quite composedly in a nice cool puddle in the centre of the
road. Pigs grunt and use unparliamentary language; whilst the genius of
a group of youthful engineers, engaged in the erection of earthworks
and fortifications at the side, is very nearly nipped for ever in the
bud by the wheels of our chariot, as, deviating slightly to the left,
we make room for a timber-waggon coming down the street.
As the four capital little horses which we have brought with us
from the “Saxon” town of Shässburg, a place midway between this
and Kronstadt, and the most spruce and _betyár_ of coachmen,
pull up at the hotel archway, a crowd of spectators gathers to see
the turn-out, and we once more hear the words “_Ángolok_” and
“_Ángolorszag_,” spoken in an undertone--which have not greeted
our ears since leaving the plains of the Magyars--proceeding from mouth
to mouth in a “stage whisper.”
It is market-day, too, and in the square opposite the hotel and beneath
the shadow of the fine old cathedral is a kaleidoscope of perpetually
shifting colour. Unlike the market at Hermannstadt, the space devoted
to the purpose is filled with booths and covered stalls, whilst to the
left is a gipsy’s tent, close to which, squatting on the ground, are
its owners, their simple wares of home manufacture displayed before
them on a piece of matting.
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_Bäuerinnen_, too, in scarlet top-boots, black skirts lined
with yellow and looped up over scarlet petticoats, sit also by
_their_ wares, whilst Koloszvár Bürger ladies, in black silk
shawls worn cross-ways over the head, stand over them and haggle, as
usual, for salads, flowers, vegetables, infantine chicken--yes! and
_snails_--the large wood species being regarded by Hungarian
epicures as an _objet de luxe_ in the gastronomic line. A
Hungarian housewife’s ordinary winter supply of these little animals
is several thousand. Here and there boys are carrying coloured candles
for sale, and two Hungarian peasants with long corkscrew curls are
bargaining for a long string of garlic, for which they eventually
pay five kreuzers--a cheap luxury! On the ground are little islands
of Transylvanian pottery and classical-shaped bowls and pitchers,
resembling a coarse kind of Majolica. There is a penny theatre, also,
the audience of which is principally composed of men; and booths
innumerable for the sale of ready-made clothes and vestments of
Hiltau frieze beautifully embroidered in green and red. We pass one
in which hang hundreds of embroidered waistcoats of the cut, colour,
and material of the costume of each neighbouring village. How amusing
it is to stand and watch the purchasers try them on, and see how vain
mankind is even when exhibited in the “Saxon” or Wallach peasant, and
how difficult to please. Here is one negotiating for a baggy coat with
large sleeves and a hood--an out-of-doors, red-letter-day garment
that would fit anybody; but he tries it on notwithstanding, and views
himself up and down to see how it hangs, then looks over his shoulder
to judge of its effect behind, and finally regards himself intently
in a glass provided for the purpose by the seller. He has already
tried on eight or nine, when he fixes at last upon one which he thinks
will do. The material is white frieze embroidered in black, and its
price--fourteen gulden--is marked on the article, but he beats the
seller down to thirteen gulden forty-seven kreuzers, and has almost
decided to buy it, when the owner of the booth takes from his store
one lined with scarlet and embroidered in green, the price of which is
thirty-three gulden. The purchaser’s spirits sink. He is now quite put
out of conceit with the unpretending black-embroidered garment and is
caught in the trap. The seller, a wily “Saxon,” induces him to put it
on, and, drawing the hood over his head, bids him look in the glass to
see how it becomes him and judge of the charming effect. Passing on to
other booths we have quite forgotten all about our Wallach purchaser,
when, returning that way in half an hour’s time, we still witnessed the
same little scene being enacted, at that moment, however, drawing to a
conclusion. Slowly taking from his purse thirty gulden which, together
with his pipe and tobacco-pouch, he kept in his topboot, the bargain
was struck, and with a somewhat dejected air, for the Wallach loves not
to part with his money, away he goes with his splendid garment tucked
under his arm.
There are booths, too, where “_Kipfer_” and delicious Hungarian
bread are sold, and gilded sweetmeats; and stalls pervaded by a strong
odour of turpentine, where repose piles of Szekler cheese, the flavour
of turpentine being imparted to it by the bark of the pine-wood in
which it is packed. These stalls are presided over by Szeklers, a
people occupying a large tract of country in the extreme east of
Transylvania on the borders of Moldavia, and whose origin for a long
time was one of the historical puzzles with which Hungary abounds. But
they are now believed to be the remnant of the Huns of Attila, who,
after the Romans in the time of Aurelian had retired from Dacia and
left the country defenceless, perpetually menaced it from the north,
and finally formed a colony where they now exist.
How it came to pass that this remnant of the great people, the Huns,
who subjugated Pannonia, got left behind, does not appear, but it
is determined beyond all controversy, that when the third Turanian
horde--the Magyars--bore down upon the country in 886, they found a
people settled in an eastern corner of Transylvania calling themselves
Szeklers, who not only spoke their own language, but possessed the same
characteristics.
Koloszvár possesses the honour of having given birth to the great
Matthias, “Matthias the Good” as he is called by the grateful
Hungarians. It was also on a mountain near here, overlooking the valley
of the Szamos, where poor Rákótzy II., the last of Transylvania’s
native princes, witnessed the defeat of his army under the overwhelming
forces of Austria. Brought up as a Jesuit, he notwithstanding fought
for religious freedom, but, on being defeated, he fled to Turkey, a
country which has afforded an asylum to so many of Hungary’s patriots,
where he died.
The Cathedral dates from the 13th century, but since its completion
it has passed through many vicissitudes and into various hands,
its chancel having been sadly mutilated and altered, to suit the
requirements of the various forms of worship which have been celebrated
within its walls. Originally Roman Catholic, it subsequently fell
into the hands of the Lutherans, who discarded its statues, pictures,
and shrines. In the 15th century its walls echoed to the doctrines of
Unitarianism under the teaching of Francis David, after which it was
given over to the Jesuits, but was soon regained by the Unitarians, who
continued to hold it until 1716, when the altar was once more adorned
with the great crucifix which had been strangely preserved through
all its varied fortunes, and the church passed into the hands of its
original possessors, the Roman Catholics, who retain it to the present
day.
There are no fewer than 50,000 Unitarians in Transylvania, and they
have erected a large brand-new church here, on which is inscribed in
imposing letters their distinctive motto, “_Soli Deo Gloria_.” The
doctrines of this sect were introduced into the country by Isabella,
daughter of the King of Poland and wife of Zápolya I., and they are
doing their utmost to extend their influence here, a deputation from
England visiting both Koloszvár and Hermannstadt every year for this
purpose. During the time we were at the former place we found it
difficult to persuade its inhabitants that the English National Church
was otherwise than “Unitarian.”
“What,” said they, “the English not ‘Unitarian’? Why, you send money to
help to support them.”
The Transylvanian capital does small credit to the province, and the
hotel at which we have put up is by far the worst we have encountered
in our travels. How many a time as I walked up and down its stairs
I wished that I wore top-boots and short petticoats like the
_Bäuerinnen_.
Not far from the hotel, and just round the corner where women sit at
stalls and sell parched Indian corn and “gipsy-roasts,” is a shop
where ready-made coffins are sold, and where a woman, standing within,
looks through the window and over her grim wares invitingly at the
bystanders, and appears quite disappointed when they do not turn in.
In the winter season many of the “magnates” reside here, and their
splendid equipages enliven the little city; but it is so dull during
our present visit, that we have no inducement to prolong our stay.
Summer is passing, and autumn, when heavy rains will render the roads
almost impassable, is stealing upon us with noiseless wheels. The
following morning, therefore, we bid adieu to the mountains, the domain
of the Wallach, the “Saxon,” and the Szekler, and journey towards
Debreczin, the very centre of Hungary, and the most Magyar portion of
all Magyarland, and the exclusive realm of the Magyar.
Once more reaching the plains, we are seized with a sort of poetic
enthusiasm akin to that which inspired Petöfi and Eötvös and Vorösmartz
in their great love for their Mother Alfőld. Again beholding its
immense breadth and length, and enwrapped in its wondrous repose, we
no longer marvel at the affection entertained for it by its people--an
affection which must grow upon all who travel long over its boundless
tracts.
There again in the horizon is the Alfőld’s faithful daughter,
“Deli-báb,” beguiling the traveller with her shifting slides of mystic
pictures, now of pale and hazy lakes, as of those from which the
morning mists are rising to greet the god of day; anon, of fair green
islands surrounded by a golden shore--silent and majestic ever. Oh!
immortal daughter of a mythic past!
There are some who call these plains monotonous. Monotonous!
_That_ they are only to those who are blind to the ever-varying
effects of light and shade; but to those who are alive to the Alfőld’s
ever-changeful moods, “day unto day uttereth speech,” and each hour
brings a new revelation.
Those who travel across the great Alfőld by the iron roads which,
linking places together, follow only that portion of it where towns
and villages are most frequent, can form no conception of the thinness
of the population nor of the infinite vastness of the plains; but as
we are borne onwards in our own carriage over these almost trackless
wastes, we realise why this region, not only in ancient times, but
even up to the seventeenth century, has been so peculiarly the theatre
of barbarian incursion. It is no doubt due in a great measure to the
geographical position of the country, but chiefly to its physical
characteristics. Those vast plains watered by the great rivers, the
Danube, the Marős, and the Theiss, offered great attractions to the
pastoral nomads of the north and north-east.
No associations such as those which attend the cultivation of the
ground amongst Aryan nations, bound them to their native soil. Freed
from all the labours of husbandry, and living either by the chase or on
the flocks and herds which grazed these steppes or prairies, they never
attached themselves to any place in particular, but roamed from one to
another as, the herbage around them exhausted, they were compelled to
migrate to other pastures. The same may to some extent be said of the
Osmanlis, to whom these plains with their rich pasture offered every
facility for camping out.
Journeying steadily onwards we pass salt marshes, with which this part
of the Alfőld abounds, with their tall, dark-green reeds, concealing
snow-white waterfowl and endless peewits, and a little farther on an
_ágas_ with the usual accompaniment of a shepherd’s hut. It is
noon and the shepherd lies fast asleep. The sheep are likewise taking
their noontide siesta. Another mile or so and we come upon a group of
happy peasants surrounded by their “_jószág_”--a few goats, sheep,
and cows, their sole possessions--dining like kings on black bread
and bacon, and drinking water from a large gourd like the people in
the Bible. Then we pass a village and drive out again into the great,
silent, solitary plains, with nothing between us and the flickering
horizon--which seems to melt into the sky--but a clump of trees. The
plains are streaked here and there with golden stretches of sand and
rich brown soil, and in other places with long miles of vivid green
showing where the husbandman has sown his grain, now rapidly ripening
unto harvest.
At two o’clock, beneath the very clump of trees we had seen from a
distance, we come to a halt for lunch, and whilst absorbed in all the
intricacies of a truffled chicken, which had been provided for us at
Kolozsvár, we hear a slight rustle in the grass behind us, and looking
round see a poor, lean, and apparently half-starved dog, which might
easily have been mistaken for a wolf, had we made his acquaintance in
the dusk of evening instead of in broad day. Dogs are so officious
in Hungary and so much in the habit, as I have said, of considering
themselves in the light of “rural police,” that we regarded this one
as a member of that canine body simply come to request us to “move
on.” F. consequently, by way of returning the compliment, threw his
stick at him. He was not to be daunted long, however, for, emboldened
by the sight of food, he soon made another advance, and this time it
was evident that his feelings were those of friendship. Whether his
instinct enabled him to detect in the expression of my face a feeling
of sympathy towards him, I cannot tell, but as he stealthily approached
us he wheedled round to my side; and there was something so human in
the beseeching way he looked, first at us and then at the viands, that
we could no longer find it in our hearts to repulse him and he was
consequently allowed to share our repast. The poor creature must have
come from a long distance too; for, look where we would, there was no
sign either of habitation or of flocks grazing, the pastures all around
us being one great and absolute void. Perhaps he had fled from the
tyranny of an unkind master; for there were scars upon his body and his
lean limbs bore witness to long fasting.
Quite at home by the time we had completed our meal, he attempted after
canine fashion to assist in the process of “washing up,” and was so
pressing in his offers of assistance that András was at length obliged
to have recourse to the driver’s long whip.
The horses harnessed, and the pic-nic hamper safely deposited in the
rumble--for we are again in our own carriage which was sent to await
our arrival at Kolozsvár--we take our seats, and move on again. But
here we are beset by an unexpected difficulty. The dog follows us,
and that notwithstanding the most strenuous efforts to send him away.
We console ourselves however by the pleasing assurance that in all
probability he will leave us at the next village, which we now descry
resting on the remote horizon. Having arrived at which comforting
conclusion we one and all subside into the usual half-somnolent state
produced by the heat and drowsy motion of the carriage as the horses
drag it slowly along, and scarcely open our eyes again for another hour
or two, when we see before us the same village in precisely the same
position, the only difference being that its houses have grown larger
and its steeples higher. At length we approach its outskirts, and a
large straggling place it is.
We had by this time forgotten all about the dog which had been the
source of so much annoyance to us on starting from our last place of
bivouac; but happening to look over the side of the carriage, there we
see him, no longer following as before at a becoming and respectful
distance, but limping along on three legs close to the very wheels.
Passing the village at last, which has been in sight for so many hours,
with its one-storied houses and gables facing the same direction;
passing its Magyar girls, with their long, many-coloured ribbons
flying out behind, on whom the incorrigible András--sitting demurely,
so far as bodily attitude is concerned, with his arms folded--smiles
sweetly from his lofty eminence on the box, we shudder as we picture to
ourselves our entry into Debrecen, accompanied by this disreputable
“hanger-on.” Once there, however, we could give him in charge of
András, and possibly by stealing away without his seeing us, we might
get rid of him altogether; with which ungenerous and inhospitable
intention, we take no further notice of him for the present.
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