THE WINE DISTRICTS OF TOKAY.
From earliest dawn a throng of human life has been pouring into the
Square outside the hotel, and the ceaseless hum beneath our window
of female voices, the quacking of geese, gobbling of turkeys, and
agonising cry of smaller birds whose legs are tied too tightly, assail
our ears in a perpetual din and confusion, very hard upon tired
pilgrims, to whom, for once, morning sleep might have been sweet.
Looking down upon that busy, hurrying hive who would think it is Sunday?
At ten o’clock the “Big Ben” of the College church begins solemnly to
toll for service, which is the signal for the bells of other churches
to do likewise, but still the people buy and sell and haggle and
bargain and depreciate. The buyer saith, “it is naught, it is naught,”
and then going his way, vaunteth himself, just as men did in the days
of Solomon; and altogether the Debreczin “_cívis_,”[1] stern
Protestant though he be, manages to combine the worship of God and
Mammon on the Sabbath-day in a way that would do credit to any Roman
Catholic country on the face of the globe.
[1] A term used to denote a Debrecziner citizen.
But now the bells stop, and entering the church in the market-place we
find that a few stragglers are already there, whilst a man standing
behind a small desk is singing lustily for his own honour and glory to
a small congregation of admirers. Presently he mounts the pulpit--his
hair is unkempt, and his dress proclaims him one of the lower
orders--and begins reading the lessons, during which people one by one
come straggling in till the church is full, and the clergyman, robed in
a costume of the Vandyck period, makes his appearance, when the real
service begins by the singing of another hymn, accompanied this time by
a rather fine organ. Singing forms a very important part of the worship
of the National Church of the Magyars, and the people sing with their
whole heart and lungs, pausing momentarily after each line to take
breath, and then beginning again with renewed vigour, embroidering the
“Plain Psalm” with little turns and quivers.
Many of the hymns sung in these Calvinistic churches were composed by
Bethlen Gábor, one of the governing princes of Transylvania, a firm
adherent to the doctrine of Calvin, who flourished about 1620, and
whose memory is much cherished by the Magyars.
[Illustration]
It was a curious sight, and somehow took one back to the times of
the “Covenanters”--the plain building, the men wearing large cloaks
fastened loosely across the chest with heavy clasps, their long white
hair hanging over their shoulders. Wonderful to look at are these
earnest, almost scowling, old Debrecziner “_cives_,” there being
scarcely one of Rembrandt’s studies which does not possess its perfect
counterpart in the assembly. What fine old pilgrim fathers leaning on
their staffs, as they sit and listen to the clergyman now lifting up
his voice in prayer to the great _Isten_--the hearer of all prayer!
The women, on the contrary, their heads and faces wrapped in large
woollen kerchiefs, are anything but picturesque. The greater number
wear handsome and very full cloaks, richly embroidered in silk of every
shade _originally_, but now assuming, by reason of many years’
wear and tear, a rich mingling of mellow tints, delightful only to
the eyes of an artist. The men sit in one part of the church and the
women in the other, and thus clothed, the latter form a very dismal
assemblage. There are some men whose long hair is held back over the
forehead by a large circular comb, and others with ringlets all round
the head like women; but these are principally men of middle age.
The Magyar, for oratorical purposes, is a most telling language, clear
sounding, rich, and melodious. Though understanding little, I enjoyed
listening to the fine enunciation of the preacher, whose manner was
very earnest and impressive.
On the conclusion of the sermon the organ pealed forth, and the
congregation, one and all lifting up their voices, united in singing
the grand old hymn--
“Ein’ feste Burg ist unser Gott.”
But the sound was deafening. In vain the organist pulled out his
_bourbon_ stop and tried hard to hold his own; the voices so
completely drowned him, that he might have been a tuning fork in the
midst of a full orchestral band, for anything we could hear of him or
his noble instrument. But the singing, though loud, was at any rate
harmonious, and in all their hymns there was a grandeur and solemnity
as well as heartiness that made one feel there must be, notwithstanding
their apparent coldness in externals, a real depth in their religion
after all.
Just as I was leaving the porch I was joined by F., who had been to the
large church attached to the College, and had likewise been greatly
impressed with the quiet and deep solemnity of the service.
Later in the day a heavy shower of rain, accompanied by thunder and
lightning, broke over the town and kept us prisoners to our rooms till
the evening, when thinking a walk in the suburbs might be pleasant, we
happened to mention our intention in passing to an old woman--a servant
of the hotel--who was standing on the staircase; whereupon, lifting up
her eyes she exclaimed--
[Illustration]
“What! The lady is going out in those boots? _Bóldog Isten!_”
Hereupon Julinka, the chambermaid, runs off to her own apartment, and
brings thence her own Sunday “tops,” entreating me to wear them--a
two-fold hint so eloquent of the state of the Debreczin roads in
rainy weather that we determined to defer our acquaintance with the
_rus in urbe_ of the “Royal Free City” until the morrow, when
we should be driving through it on our way to the wine districts. We
therefore visited instead several Calvinist places of worship in the
town itself, all of which exhibited the same baldness as those we had
seen previously, the walls being covered with whitewash, and the arches
and original character of the structures completely destroyed by these
Magyar Calvinists in their puritanical horror of anything that savoured
of the Gothic in their style of architecture.
On arrival here, our intention had been to travel hence to the
bright little city of Kashau, but meeting by accident an old Magyar
acquaintance who lived half-way between that place and Debreczin,
and who, hearing us express a desire to see one of the wine-growing
districts of Hungary, hospitably proposed to conduct us to his home not
many miles from Tokay, a proposition that was far too tempting to be
declined. A direct line of railway is now open between Debreczin and
Kashau, but as we had our own carriage, and he assured us it would only
be a day’s journey with four horses, we decided to post as usual, our
friend promising to accompany us.
The following morning, in spite of the earliness of the hour, the usual
crowd assembled at the archway of the hotel to witness our departure.
The sky, cleared by the rain of yesterday, was brilliant, the sun just
risen in all his glory from out the mist that still hovered above the
warm moist plains. The coachman, in his heavily frogged jacket, small
felt cap adorned with an eagle’s feather, and with his moustaches
twisted into a stiff curl at each end, was making, as we emerged from
the hotel, the demonstrations customary with such functionaries, and,
flogging the air with his long whip, pretended to be dispersing the
little knot of anxious spectators, who, determined to see the last of
the _Ángolok_, returned each time to the charge shrieking with
laughter.
András had evidently made great friends with the servants of the hotel;
the old woman comes out and almost weeps over him; the chambermaid,
standing shyly behind, wipes a tear from her eye with the corner of her
apron; the waiters throw themselves upon him and call him “Brother.”
Sundry nondescript menials from the back premises also present
themselves and affectionately embrace his legs as he mounts the box.
Finally, the landlady comes out, and with the prettiest speech possible
places a bouquet in the hands of the “_tekintetes asszony_”
(worshipful lady), and expresses the hope she may see her again. And
thus, our coachman gathering up the ribbons, we bid adieu to the “Royal
Free City,” and with the usual clatter tear madly through the streets
into the open country--the dog following us.
Whilst at Debreczin, András had done his best to dispose of this
miserable hanger-on, but failed in finding a home for him. He was a
sheep-dog, and as such no one seemed inclined to accept him here; but
as András assured us that, being a valuable kind of animal, we should
have no difficulty in getting rid of him as soon as we should again
find ourselves in the agricultural districts, we gave him permission to
retain him pending that happy moment.
By this time, under the nourishing influence of hotel bones and
possibly something else to boot, the poor creature wears a far less
miserable appearance. He still limps occasionally on three legs, but is
evidently fast getting the better of his injuries, from whatever cause
they may have arisen, and no longer creeps along by the side of the
carriage, but runs on in advance as our pioneer, making incursionary
forays now and then into huts by the wayside, and beginning to look
as though he thought life, after all, was not half so bad as he had
hitherto imagined. At one moment he nearly got himself into serious
trouble with other sheep-dogs whose territory he invaded, and us also
with the shepherd, whose flock he chased for fully half a mile.
The districts surrounding Debreczin are much better wooded than in
other parts of the Alfőld, there being large forests of robinia, the
sandy nature of the soil favouring the production and growth of these
graceful trees.
Our friend the Magyar who accompanied us, although living in the
very centre of Hungary, and a Hungarian to the backbone, was not
above speaking German fluently. He had travelled a good deal in
other countries besides his own, and was in all respects a highly
educated and enlightened man. In asking him how it came to pass that,
notwithstanding the acquirement of foreign languages was frequently
pursued amongst the upper classes at Pest to an extent which sometimes
excluded the study of other and more necessary branches of education,
yet at Debreczin--one of the chief seats of learning--the Magyars spoke
nothing but their own language, he replied--
“Our brave Queen Maria Theresa did her utmost to extinguish the Magyar
language by introducing German in its stead, hoping thereby to blend
all the nationalities into one. At the present time, however, the
effort of our people is to stamp out the German tongue, and cause the
Hungarian to be the only one spoken throughout the country. Debreczin
may be called with truth the seat of patriotism and Magyarism, as well
as one of learning, and there is no place in the whole country where
such strong prejudices exist. Just as the people here are exclusive in
matters of religion, so are they in language. In fact, their speaking
nothing but Magyar may be said to be in effect a mild form of political
demonstration.
“I dare say you have long ago discovered,” he continued, “whilst
travelling in my country, that we Magyars are the proudest race living,
and likewise I fear the most prejudiced. A Magyar who has not travelled
beyond his own country is deeply imbued with two ideas, one being that
the world was created for his express benefit, the other that his is
the only language that ought to be spoken. Another characteristic trait
is his dislike of all foreigners with the exception of the English,
whom he condescends to regard as an enlightened and advanced people,
who have a right to a share of his natural inheritance, and from
whom something is to be learnt. You may also have observed that the
Hungarians often speak of themselves as the ‘English of the East!’”
It was a delightful day that we spent in this Hungarian’s society. We
have had the privilege of knowing many, and our impression has always
been that a travelled, well-born, and well-educated Hungarian is one of
the most polished and perfect gentlemen in the world.
It was a splendid day, too, so far as the weather was concerned. The
rain had cooled the atmosphere, and instead of the fierce, dry heat,
which at this season of the year generally envelopes the whole region
of the Alfőld, a balmy breeze was blowing, and, reclining in the
languid luxury of our comfortable old carriage, we drank it in, and
felt strengthened and invigorated. It was like the climate of Italy
without its summer heat.
Long before the sun began to sink and throw long shadows on the plains,
we came in sight of the volcanic hill of Tokay, rising out of them
like a promontory from a vast expanse of ocean, and ere it set we had
reached our friend’s dwelling. He was expected to arrive by the 6.25
train, and his carriage had been sent to meet him at the Tokay station
five miles distant. Great, therefore, was the surprise of his wife and
daughter, who came running out at the sound of wheels, to find he had
arrived not only an hour earlier than they had anticipated, but in
the company of strangers and in a strange carriage. There was a great
barking of dogs in the great courtyard behind the house, and a general
buzz of welcome, in which we could perceive that we also were included.
A brief introduction soon made us feel perfectly at ease, and, as on
similar occasions, our arrival created no more confusion than if we
had been expected guests. Ascending the steps we entered the large,
one-storied building, and were at once ushered into the drawing-room.
A burst of joy and gladness followed our immediate entry, proceeding
from the younger members of the family, who came trooping in to welcome
their father. All kissed our hands, and then, without the slightest
appearance of forwardness, endeavoured to satisfy their very natural
curiosity as to who we were and whence we had come.
“And have you come from very far away?” inquired, in French, a
fair-haired child of about eight years old, wishing to elicit, but not
liking to ask, the direct question as to what nationality we belonged
to.
“The strangers are from _Ángol-orság_!” replied the father, in the
same language.
“_Ángol-orság_!” repeated a chorus of little voices. “Oh, how glad
I am you have come, it is always nice to have _les étrangers_
staying with us, but _les Anglais_ we have never before seen.
_Oh! quelle joie!_”
“Come, let me show you to your rooms,” exclaimed the lady of the house
presently after we had partaken of coffee.
Like so many houses in the plains, one room opened into another, and
we had consequently to pass through several, including the library
and a lady’s boudoir, before reaching those to which our hostess now
conducted us.
They were pretty rooms with cool pink and white hangings, the floor
covered with Indian matting; the open windows, which were shaded by
Venetian blinds, looking out into a garden where there were vines and
melons growing in wild luxuriance, and crowds of heartsease holding up
their expressive little faces to the light and straggling flowers in
sweet disorder, reminding one of Lothair and Lady Corisande’s garden.
To the left was a long range of stables and out-offices, rendered
picturesque by vines and other climbers which covered their walls
completely. Beyond all were the plains lying in the crimson sunset,
immersed in their drowsy peace and breadth of calm, while the air was
filled with a pleasant odour of flowers mingled with ripe fruit.
The Hungarians, particularly those who live in the country, dine early
and take supper at eight o’clock, but that meal is, however, quite
synonymous with “dinner,” and includes not only soup, but a variety of
courses. The table was laid very prettily, and adorned with flowers and
oldfashioned plate. After supper, which lasted more than an hour, we
went out into the garden at the front of the house, where was a table
on which wine and glasses were set, our host declaring we must not be
longer under his roof without tasting “Imperial Tokay.”
As we sat in the warm star-lit alley of robinias, we could see into
the drawing-room, where on a centre table a large lamp was burning.
Round it fluttered insects, and near it sat two of the elder children
reading. In a distant part of the room was the eldest daughter playing
the piano--a fragile, pensive girl with blue eyes, dressed in a
cloud of white, her hair tied back with a cherry-coloured ribbon,
and looking, as she sat with the light falling full upon her, almost
spiritual in her pale prettiness.
We soon found that our host’s family was not so numerous as we
previously imagined. He had three children only, the eldest daughter,
Őrzse, a son at school in Pest, and Irma, the little girl who had
spoken to us on our arrival. The others were nephews and nieces, who,
with their governess, were merely on a visit.
On going into the breakfast-room the following morning we find the
whole family already assembled. As we make our appearance the children
cluster round us and silently kiss our hands, a universal custom in
Hungary, where children in greeting do not kiss the cheeks, even of
their parents, but their hand, in token of deference and submission.
Our hosts were Lutherans, and the meal was preluded by those beautiful
lines from the 145th Psalm: “The eyes of all wait upon Thee and Thou
givest them their meat in due season. Thou openest Thine hand and
satisfiest the desire of every living thing.”
“I purpose driving you to one of the Hegyalia, to-day,” exclaimed
our host, as we rose from his hospitable board, at the same time
interpreting that Magyar word into French, and informing us that it
means literally “mountain slopes,” a term that is invariably used in
reference to the vine-clad hills in the neighbourhood of Tokay.
At eleven o’clock a splendid pair of horses appeared at the door; the
carriage, however, was an ordinary one of the country, with open sides,
and but a refined and improved species of the genus _Leiterwagen_.
“You have grown used to our style of locomotion by this time, I trust,”
exclaimed our host, after we had mounted, and he had taken the reins.
“This sort of thing is lighter and better suited to our country roads,
which can scarcely be dignified by the name, and that you will speedily
discover for yourselves, I fear, when we have proceeded a short
distance on our way.”
Striking off the main road, we now pass through plantations of tobacco
and buckwheat; the various shades of green as we look across the
plains being exceedingly beautiful as well as refreshing to the eye.
Yonder, in graceful outline, rise the hills, that of Tokay assuming
the appearance of a cone. This, however, we leave to the left, and
gradually near another hill, like all the rest, vine-clad from its base
to its summit, every tree and shrub having been eradicated to make room
for the cultivation of the grape.
These Hegyalia are said to have been similarly planted, even before
the Magyars entered Pannonia; but the cultivation of the vine was
subsequently greatly promoted by Hungary’s mediæval kings, who seem to
have been no less capable than other crowned heads of appreciating
that which “maketh glad the heart of man.”
During the dominion, however, in this country of the Moslem
hordes--against whose creed it is to drink any fermented liquors--the
whole district was laid waste and almost every plant uprooted; but
after their expulsion a number of Italians were called in by King
Bela IV., who not only restored the former cultivation, but improved
the species of vine, causing the wine made here to attain its present
celebrity.
We had lunch, or rather what they call dinner here, at one of the
vine-growers’ houses, and then walked up the zigzag paths through the
vineyards. The slopes of the hills, where they are steep, are cut
up into terraces. The soil is exceedingly light, and it is to this
peculiar character that the excellence and distinct quality of the
Tokay wine is attributed.
The vintage in this district does not commence until the 26th of
October, by which time it is over in other parts of Hungary. The season
is ushered in with great festivity; all the noble families of the
neighbourhood gather together, when there is a succession of balls and
fêtes which last for a fortnight.
There are three kinds of Tokay so called, the most luscious and costly
being _Essenz_, which is, however, seldom used except to give
“bouquet” to other wines. It consists entirely of juice extracted
without the agency of any external force, and simply pressed out by the
weight of the fruit itself, and also from grapes that have been allowed
to shrivel and dry upon the stalk. _Ausbruch_--by which name the
kind of Tokay best known is designated--is made by mixing the juice
of ripe grapes, which have been pressed by the ordinary mechanical
process, with a certain quantity of thick pulp, formed of the dried
fruit. The third kind--_Mászlás_, being similar to the former, the
only difference consisting in its possessing less of the flavour of the
dried fruit, a smaller quantity of pulp having been added to the juice.
In consequence of the grapes being allowed to hang so long upon the
tree, they naturally lose a great deal of their juice, and in withering
become exceedingly sweet; but the particular kind called Essenz, though
luscious, is not sickly.
The very finest of all the wines made in the districts of the
Hegyalia is manufactured at Tokay itself, and at a small place named
_Mézes-Mále_. The vineyards of these mountain slopes are said to
cover an area of 68,000 acres, and produce annually from nine to twelve
million gallons of the precious beverage; the most ready purchasers
being merchants from North Germany and Scandinavia. During our visit,
however, an American arrived and purchased 300 hogsheads.
Some of the fruit, already ripe, was hanging in rich clusters, and,
sauntering up the sunny slopes, how many we plucked and ate as we
forced our way through the narrow paths!
On our return, the gentleman at whose house we dined, insisted on our
tasting some of the vintages. The first was only three years old, the
last twenty, but one and all had a delicious bouquet. “Imperial Tokay”
is a most fascinating wine, but inclined to make one “joyful,” and it
was perhaps well that the carriage was at the door, and the horses too
impatient to be kept standing any longer, or the consequences might
have been serious.
It was evening by the time we again reached our friend’s hospitable
mansion. An early supper had been ordered, which gave us a long
evening afterwards to wander about the sweet, flower-scented alleys in
the garden, and after darkness had set in we sat in the porch listening
to music within, Örzse being a brilliant musician, having studied for
three years at the _Conservatoire_ at Paris.
Whilst here we were surprised to find how much our English literature
is appreciated and read. On the table I noticed a Magyar translation
of “Ádám Bede,” and other English authors, amongst whom, by the way,
Bulwer is almost invariably the favourite with the Hungarians.
Our host and hostess were most earnest in their efforts to induce us to
prolong our visit to an indefinite period, and the time we had already
spent in this delightful home had been so full of sunshine, that we
would gladly have availed ourselves of their proffered hospitality had
we been able.
During our stay in this charming and well-appointed household, we were
made aware of the fact that it was customary for a gipsy to form one
of the regular staff of servants in a Hungarian family. The one in
question was a pretty young woman with masses of raven hair and a clear
skin; but notwithstanding her neat dress and civilised surroundings,
we recognised her immediately. It is in truth not until one sees the
_Czigánok_ translated to an entirely new form of existence, and
under circumstances inconsistent with their ordinary lives, that one
realises how completely different they are from the rest of mankind
in form and feature. Instead of disguising, the garb of civilisation
only enhances the type and renders it the more apparent. No matter
what dress they may assume, no matter what may be their calling, no
matter whether they are dwellers in tents or houses, it is impossible
for gipsies to disguise their origin. Taken from their customary
surroundings, they become at once such an anomaly and anachronism, and
present such an instance of the absurdity of attempting to invert the
order of nature, that we feel more than ever how utterly different
they are from the rest of the human race, that there is a key to their
strange life which we do not possess--a secret freemasonry that renders
them more isolated than the veriest savages dwelling in the African
wilds--and a hidden mystery hanging over them and their origin that we
shall never comprehend. They are, indeed, a people so entirely separate
and distinct that in whatever clime or quarter of the globe they may
be met with, they are instantly recognised, for with them nearly forty
centuries of association with civilised races have not succeeded in
obliterating one single sign.
[Illustration: Old Cronies.]