DICKENS _alias_ “BOSH.”
Nothing can be more charming than the town of Tokay from a distance.
Lying snugly at the foot of the Hegyalja with its picturesque wooden
roofs peeping above the forest of willows which here grow luxuriantly,
it looks like an ideal spot where one might spend one’s days in
pastoral tranquillity, a happy valley in which even Rasselas himself
might have been contented to remain for ever.
Tokay is surrounded on one side by what appears to be a series of small
lakes; they are, however, but the inundations of the Theiss, which
here joins the Bodrog; and Tokay, notwithstanding its appearance from
a distance, is a delusion and a snare, a long and inexpressibly dirty
town whose houses are little better than hovels.
Besides the ordinary population of Hungary, Tokay is inhabited by an
ethnological medley composed of Armenians, Greeks, and Jews, the latter
being the “middle men” between the manufacturers of the wine and the
merchants who purchase it. They consequently congregate in numbers at
this place, and the Israelitish element is perhaps stronger here than
elsewhere.
Although containing a population of five thousand souls, Tokay boasts
of only one hotel--a straggling barrack-like building, with long, dark,
cut-throat passages.
“Alas!” exclaimed András as he carried our portmanteaus up to our
room--“to think that my sweet master and mistress should have to sleep
in such a den, and that in my country too. It is a bad place, full of
thieves and Jews; but they shall come to no harm, their faithful András
will watch all night. Let not my master and mistress fear.”
We have reason at any rate to thank the kind priest at our last resting
place for his present of the fowl, for the only thing we could meet
with on arrival here was _halász lé_ or “fisherman’s soup,” a
dish consisting of various kinds of fish stewed together in a gravy,
thickened with red pepper, a celebrated Szegedin dish, at which place
we had eaten it with relish two years previously; but we do not feel
inclined to partake of it here, and having ordered a small bottle of
Tokay, for which the charge was five gulden, we sallied forth to the
town, staggering under the old archway and over the rough stones like
drunken folk, not from the effects of our libations, but from the road
being full of deep holes which were hidden in sand, and of which we
did not know the existence till we found ourselves plunging headlong
into them. Crossing the street and passing at length under another
old archway that must have been built in the time of Moses, we found
ourselves standing on the banks of the river.
The Theiss here, as elsewhere, is a muddy and sluggish stream, but
there is a great deal of navigation on its waters. It contains fish in
great variety, and the sturgeon caught in this neighbourhood, whether
from the superior muddiness of the water, or from whatever cause, is
said to exceed in richness of flavour that found even in the Danube.
So great is the quantity of fish left behind on the subsiding of the
waters after an inundation, that the people of the town collect it to
feed their numerous pigs, and to manure their land.
This now wretched and mean little place has had, however, a glorious
past, and was in olden time the site of one of Attila’s royal camps,
who, barbarian though he was, united the splendour and magnificence of
the East with the luxury and licentiousness of Rome. We are told by an
ancient historian that his table was covered with goblets of silver and
gold, wrought in divers rich devices, the dress of his warriors being
embroidered with the same, whilst portions of their attire were studded
with precious stones, as also were their sandals and the trappings of
their horses. The entrance of the great chief to Tokay--then called
“the royal village”--was celebrated with great solemnity and pomp. A
numerous company of women, going forth to welcome their hero and their
king, formed themselves into long and regular files, and held aloft
a canopy of thin white muslin veils for him to pass under, whilst a
number of maidens marched before him, chanting hymns in the Scythian
language.
As we wander along the willow-fringed banks of the river, the basaltic
Hegyalja with their vine-clad slopes, against which the town is built,
rise above us.
These mountains extend for twenty miles in a northerly direction, and
are separated from the plains by the river Bodrog, which, as I have
said, falls into the Theiss at this spot.
Sauntering along, we were giving vent to our impressions of the place
and its inhabitants in the most unguarded English, when a young man,
the only respectable individual, by-the-way, we had yet seen in Tokay,
whom we observed standing on the banks of the river as we passed, came
toward us, and, taking off his hat, remarked abruptly--
“I sch-peak English.”
He wore some kind of uniform, and we began to fear we might have
offended the sensitive ear of an Austrian spy who might possibly get us
into trouble, but our minds were soon relieved by his informing us that
he liked our English literature, from which fact we judged him to be a
man of peace rather than of war.
“I like your _Boulvair_,” he continued, “but I cannot always
understand your _Bosh_.”
This seemingly uncomplimentary statement was, at first, not a little
astounding, until we remembered that Dickens is always spoken of in
Germany--and that therefore he would most probably be so in Hungary
likewise--by his _nom de plume_ of “Boz,” and that that word on
the lips of a Hungarian, if he happened to mistake the final letter
and substitute “s” for “z”--which in the Magyar language is invariably
pronounced like “sh”--would result in “Bosh.”
“I hope we have not hurt your mind by anything we have spoken about
this place and its inhabitants,” broke in F., wishing to be gracious.
“If we have I trust you will forgive us; you must have heard much that
we said.”
“You need not apologise,” he replied. “I am not a native of
Tokay,”--speaking partly in English and partly in German--“and fully
sympathise with your feelings concerning the place. There is some
excuse for its inhabitants, however; Government, which takes care to
receive the revenues, does nothing towards helping them to improve the
condition of the town, a circumstance which naturally engenders apathy
in the minds of the people themselves on the matter.”
“Probably,” we replied. “Yet it would cost them nothing to be clean;
there is plenty of water in the river here, such as it is.”
“Eh!” rejoined he, after a pause, during which he was searching in
the tablets of his memory for an English adjective, “the people are
_faul_ (idle),”--a word which, being pronounced _foul_ in its
own vernacular, was a much more suitable one in its present application
than than of “idle,” which he was desirous of expressing in English.
As we were returning to the inn, the church nearest to it rang out the
“Ave Maria,” and climbing the hill we entered the building by a side
door. All was quiet and dark inside, for the evening light came feebly
through the dusty windows. There were tapers on the altar, and a little
lamp was glimmering here and there before some shrine. Few of us can go
out of the daylight into a dimly lighted church without feeling subdued
and solemnised, whatever creed be taught within its walls; and it was
all very simple and impressive, and the contrast very great between its
hush and peace and the noise and turmoil of busy life outside, which
reached us in muffled tones, as though the sounds of earth were not
permitted to enter the abode of peace and rest, save softly and subdued.
The door opens, and an old woman comes hobbling in, and setting down
her crutches begins praying aloud; then the priest enters silently
from the sacristy, and, kneeling on the lowest step, begins reciting
in a monotonous voice, the “Rosary,” _Ave Maria_, _Gratia plena_, etc.
The old woman and ourselves form the only congregation, and even she
hobbles out again before the service is over, although it only lasted
half an hour. We, however, remained to the end, by which time it was
almost dark outside. As we reeled back to the hotel over the uneven
pavement, there were sounds of drinking and revelry in almost every
house; men singing Bacchanalian songs, or shouting at each other in
argument; whilst passing beneath one window we heard, high above other
voices, those of Jews--whose intonation we had ere this learnt to
recognise--clamouring as usual about money. Again and again the words,
“_gulden_,” “_hundert tausend_,” “_million gulden_,” “_joch_,” and
“_massen von geld_,” reached our ears.
I dare say we did the inhabitants of Tokay great injustice, for they
were doubtless harmless enough, but we took care on retiring for the
night to double-lock our door and look well to the window fastenings,
for the whole place somehow had a brigand look.
András’s room was next to ours, a fact in which _I_ at any rate
took comfort. He had prepared a light supper for us by the time we
returned, which we partook of pic-nic fashion, in our own room. Esk,
our faithful _bányá_ (dog), was left in charge of the carriage in
the _álas_ close by, and, howling terribly during the night, he
must, I fear, have disturbed the slumbers of the whole town or village,
whichever Tokay may happen to be; but beyond this, no sound broke the
stillness of the hours of darkness, and the worthy inhabitants gave us
no annoyance whatever.
The church bells awoke us at an early hour the following morning.
Looking down into the yard at the rear of the hotel, we see servants
walking to and fro, and wading through the mud right valiantly. It is
too deep even for top-boots, and they plunge into it with naked feet;
but a large dog with long brown hair stalks about gingerly, like a tame
bear, and chooses the driest places. The ducks and geese have a fine
time of it, and flourish accordingly. On one side of the yard is a shed
where the cows are kept, and having seen them milked, we lose for once
our relish for “white coffee.”
At seven o’clock, András comes to the door with the information that he
has made arrangements for us to breakfast at the station restaurant,
and recommends us to quit this _elendes dorf_ (wretched village)
as soon as we can.
Leaving our room after a hasty toilet, and proceeding along the dingy
passage, we see two dark objects ascending the stairs and “stopping the
way.” Tourists possibly; but no! they turn out to be the pet pigs of
the establishment, no doubt on their way to the _salle à manger_,
situated on the landing. They are, however, checked in their bold
career, for on catching sight of us they turn round, and with much
demonstration of annoyance, a look of injured innocence, and many a
grunt and squeak, they hastily retrace their steps.
Now, however much I may doat on a pig in its proper sphere, I do
not quite like him as a domestic animal; but tastes differ, and the
Hungarian pig, as we have already seen, is a much more civilised
quadruped than his English brother.
At eight o’clock we make our triumphal departure from Tokay, and by
dint of “sitting tight,” and holding on to the sides of the carriage,
succeed in reaching the station without broken bones. We have had
rather a hard time of it, taking it altogether, but, happily for us,
our philosophy is of that practical kind that seeks, and invariably
finds, consolation wherever a particle of it can be found. We had made
the discovery of how much human nature can endure and live, which is
a knowledge worth acquiring in this “vale of tears;” we had tasted
“Imperial Tokay” in the place where it is manufactured, and had seen
the worst of the “_honfoglalás_” (Kingdom of Hungary), which is a
thing to be proud of.
The kind Hungarian friends with whom we had been lately staying, had
made us promise, before leaving them, to pay them a visit on our
return; but wishing to go down the Save--the second largest river in
Hungary--before the setting in of the autumnal rains, we decide to send
a messenger from this place with the dog, and a note of apology for
ourselves.
And so, _bányá_ mine, we are going to label thee, “This side up,
with care,” and send thee away, but thou art going to a better home.
For the first time since we had him, Esk refrained from wagging his
shaggy tail when I spoke to him. There must have been something in my
tone of voice that boded evil; for he looked up at me with his large,
earnest eyes, and trembled from head to foot; then, putting his front
paws on my knees, he buried his head in my lap.
Poor beast, he had won our affections, and it was hard to part with
him now that the moment had come. Having given him a good breakfast,
however, and commended him to the tender mercies of the man who was
to take him to his new home, we arranged for our own journey south.
The train from Kashau was due at ten o’clock, and we decided to travel
in it as far as Schemnitz, and then cross the plains in a southerly
direction towards the capital, our carriage following us to Miscólsz in
the evening, a place at which we meant to break our journey.
As the train slid out of the station, the great basaltic rocks of the
volcanic hill of Tokay frowned down upon us with forbidding aspect,
and it remained in sight for nearly an hour, when it gradually faded
from our view, and appeared but a faint grey cloud on the verge of the
horizon.
The plains in the north of Hungary are much more fertile than in the
south, and we pass through thousands of acres of waving corn, and
pastures as smiling as those of the Bánat. There has been a great deal
of rain here, which we have partially escaped in our more northern
travels, and the roads, as we approach the towns and villages, are
such quagmires that in one place we saw a “shaker” and party of
travellers--who had evidently driven from some distant horizon to
start by our train--literally buried in the mud, which was half way up
the wheels. Whether the unfortunate occupants were able to extricate
themselves from their ridiculous position we could not tell. Under the
circumstances, it would have been impossible for them to get out and
walk. It is therefore not unreasonable to assume, in the silence of
history concerning them and their fate, that they are there still.
Wandering about the plains, in proximity to each village, are large
families of geese, the parents waddling with sedate and solemn mien as
they follow their tribe of yellow goslings. Whichever way one looks
there are geese snowing the distant pastures or swimming in the marshes.
Approaching a village, we observed a vast concourse of people gathered
together on its outskirts. A fair is being held, and the ground is
inundated to such an extent that the booths are actually standing in
water, a day or two’s rain being quite sufficient to cause it to lie on
the surface, for the soil in this district is already saturated with
moisture, in consequence of its proximity to the Theiss. Accustomed
to this state of affairs, the people of both sexes, nothing daunted,
hold up their petticoats and paddle through the water like ducks. Here
and there, in the little patches of green that, like wet islands, rise
above the water, are sellers of pottery displaying their wares, and a
_colporteur_ his tracts, whilst, standing about in groups, are
Jews, dragging their long togas in the mire, and gipsy children taking
mud baths. Away beyond the fair, with its booths and wet islands and
general slush and slipperiness, are thousands of horses, cattle, and
pigs--_pet_ pigs, affectionately watched over by buxom Magyar
females, ankle deep in water. The train stopped in full view of this
scene, for no apparent reason so far as we could ascertain, for
three-quarters of an hour, and then lumbered on again, and brought us
to Mád Zomber--what _insane_ names these Hungarian villages have!
Once more reaching the solitary plains, we pass through vast tracts
of uncultivated land, roamed by immense herds of cattle, which form
dark groups on the horizon. On, past a well, on one side of which are
a countless number of horses, and on the other of cows; but they do
not intermingle in the least. These vast herds are a never-ending
source of astonishment to the English traveller journeying through
these thinly-populated districts. Near them stand sheep-dogs, with
long hair, pointed noses, and bushy tails, like wolves. Overhead,
flights of birds are hovering in the sky. How gracefully they skim
through the translucent air! and now they soar away, and hover, rising
and falling, in the distance; whilst one or two, less rapid in their
flight, get left behind. What is the reason they cry so piteously?
See that large bird yonder, following in their wake with outstretched
neck! It is a falcon in hot pursuit. It overtakes the one most distant
from the rest, seizes it in its cruel grip, and they fall to earth
together, the victim and its prey. A tall crane plumes itself on the
border of a marsh. A windmill in the distance throws its big arms about
languidly in the sultry breeze, and we reach districts cultivated with
maize, tobacco, hemp, poppies, and flax, the flowers of the three
latter creating with the golden shade of the ripe grain, an exquisite
modulation of colour. Every now and then we see in the distance
swelling tumuli, commonly called “_Kún halom_” (Cuman-hill),
believed by some to contain the tombs of military chieftains of ancient
times; by others to be Turkish mounds (_török domb_). The learned,
however, attribute to them a still more ancient origin even than
the former, and declare that they are the remains of the artificial
boundary made by the Romans not only to define the borders of their
empire, but also to protect themselves from the incursions of the
warlike barbarians of the surrounding countries.
There is evidence that a similar frontier-line extended from Pest to
the south-east, towards the mountains of Transylvania, and the green
mounds which we here meet with at regular intervals are the places on
which the watch-towers stood that protected the frontier-line. Beneath
some of these mounds the dykes on the outside are still visible, which
are called by the peasantry _Ördög árka_ (devil’s ditch).
[Illustration]