ÓBUDA.
Fair-time is by no means the most pleasant at which to visit the
capital, and we were right glad to learn one morning soon after our
arrival that it was over. Oh, the dust and muddle and hurry-skurry of
the whole business of packing up! But even that too is almost over
now. The booths have disappeared; the pedlars have shouldered their
wares, and the acrobats their bundles; the young ladies in pink tights
have resumed their top-boots; the Mesdames Jarley have packed up
their wax-works, and the decapitated bodies of Bem, Kossuth, Matthias
Corvinus, and Joan of Arc, stripped of their finery and with their
heads carefully stowed away elsewhere, are lying in boxes filled with
straw, and jogging along the road in dreary fellowship. All are gone
off to the next fair. Nor will they have long to rest on their laurels,
for there are two thousand fairs in Hungary every year. Little is left
to remind us of the existence of this one but sundry heaps of dust and
straw mingled with scraps of paper of various colours which the wind
has benevolently blown under doorways and into safe snug corners, and
all things have shaken down and resumed their wonted complexion in
bright, beautiful Pest. Persons come and go as usual. In the markets,
vendors of _Tisch-wein_ and hot macaroni soup assert their former
sway, and Magyar women, once more left alone, shine forth in solitary
glory, in all the convolutions of their short but voluminous petticoats.
[Illustration]
It is amusing to linger about the square and regard the “common
objects,” sturdy Magyar matrons bargaining over their purchases, as
they stand at the stalls on which repose whole yards of bread and miles
of sausage, or see them turning over the contents of the vegetable
baskets guarded by female rustics, sitting under huge umbrellas.
Equipped in their top-boots which extend above the knee, and which are
well greased to resist the manifold vicissitudes of Hungarian roads,
these Magyar females resemble groups of Amazons, rather than peaceful
house-wives.
_A propos_ of these Magyar sisters of ours I never could determine
at all satisfactorily to my own mind whether the enormous rotundity of
hip is due to a peculiar type of human form, or to extraneous matter
in the shape of pads or pillows. I incline to the latter theory, but I
seldom saw a full-blown specimen of the _genus_ without wishing
to solve the mystery. As they go marching home with their purchases,
one cannot help thinking what admirable weapons the long, narrow,
crusty loaves would make which they carry under their arms; these
and three quarters of a yard of sausage--an edible made of raw meat,
well flavoured with garlic, and so compressed as to assume almost the
hardness and heaviness of iron--might furnish implements of warfare
for an army; and appear to be exactly the kind of weapons with which
the ancient inhabitants of Eastern Hungary defended themselves against
the Romans in A.D. 103 as seen in the sculptures on Trajan’s
Column at Rome.
Steamers ply constantly throughout the day between Pest and Ofen, as
well as Promontorium and other towns and villages in the neighbourhood
of Pest, and few things are more interesting than to stand on the long
steps of the quays and watch their arrival and departure. Here stand
or sit groups of men and women waiting for the steamers to take them
to their respective destinations, and I never grew tired of sketching
them, for they occasionally formed themselves into groups that were
perfectly statuesque. I never knew people--to make use of artistic
phraseology--who “composed” so well.
Embarking on these boats may sometimes be seen not only Bosnians,
Servians, and natives of the Sublime Porte; but occasionally an
Albanian in gay and martial attire with a sabre at his side and pistol
in his girdle, and now and then a Dervish. Indeed at no hour of the day
are these splendid quays devoid of interest; whilst lying close into
the shore are gaily painted fishing-boats looking like exaggerated
Dutch toys.
Sitting on one of the benches at the place of embarkation for
Promontorium, enveloped from head to foot in his long black cloak,
we often observed an exiled Pole--a refugee from that part of his
hapless country upon which Russia has set her iron grasp. He never
spoke, but sat moodily watching the river flowing by, his thoughts
evidently far away, and was verily the saddest spectacle we saw the
whole time we were at Pest. There are a number of Polish refugees
in this charming little capital, and it is easy to recognise them,
their downcast but resigned look, more eloquent far than any spoken
demonstration of sorrow, plainly indicating who and what they were.
Taciturn always, it was seldom we could engage them in conversation,
but if fortunate enough to do so, their incessant themes were loss of
nationality and love of country. “Unpaternal” as are most continental
Governments in their treatment of political refugees, Austro-Hungary is
a very favourite place of exile with the Poles; nor is this altogether
strange, for the Hungarians naturally sympathise with the Poles as
a people situated in some measure similarly to themselves, besides
which it is said that the Austrian Government is far more indulgent to
political refugees than the Prussian. Probably Austria is influenced
in some degree--as well she may--by the remembrance of the assistance
Poland once afforded her in the hour of her greatest need, when in 1683
she was almost overwhelmed by 300,000 Turks and Tartars who had already
made a breach in her walls.
Every night as we retired to our room in Hôtel Dolovics we observed,
resting on a door-mat on the same floor as that on which our own room
was situated, a solitary boot. What silent pathos was there in it! It
was a small boot too, a woman’s, and its loneliness haunted me somehow,
and kept me awake thinking of it. I did not feel half so much for the
wearer as for the lonely thing itself, which in the solitude of its
_sole_ seemed even more than human. We never saw the wearer,
though we watched long and patiently; at last, one night, we found it
gone. It had moved off our stage, and was once more on its lonely walk
through life. Upon inquiring of the manager of the hotel, who occupied
a gloomy little office glazed in at the top of the stairs, he satisfied
our curiosity by informing us that it belonged to a lady residing in
the north of Hungary, whose leg had been amputated in childhood in
consequence of injuries sustained from grape-shot, at the commencement
of the bombardment of the city in 1849, during the war between the
Imperial troops and the Revolutionists--a struggle which resulted in
the gallant Magyars making themselves masters of the Citadel of Buda,
on whose ramparts, after a three-weeks’ heavily-sustained combat on
both sides, the Hungarian flag floated over the city.
During the troublous annals of their history the Magyars have
invariably displayed dashing heroism, noble self-sacrifice, and loving
devotion to their country, but in no instance, perhaps, so notably
as in the struggles of 1848–9, when, although numbering as a nation
only six millions and a quarter, they fought for their independence
against the combined forces of Russia and Austria, and notwithstanding
the immense resources at their foes’ command, succeeded for a while
in not only asserting their national independence, but in quelling at
the same time the insurrection of their own subjects the Wallachians,
Slavonians, and “Saxons” of Transylvania.
In the square at Buda there stands a cross erected in memory of
General Henzi and his Croatian compatriots who, fighting on the side
of the Imperialists, fell during that sanguinary conflict. Pest
suffered severely on this occasion, and its wretched inhabitants,
who had so often been driven away by the inundations--a foe scarcely
less terrible--now fled in terror by thousands and tens of thousands
from the shells which--the Austrians once more in possession of the
fortress--were directed towards the city by one hundred pieces of
ordnance stationed on the heights of Buda.
The Hungarians are scarcely likely, I should say, to unite in another
struggle for their national independence, unless they are indifferent
to the fate of their magnificent city, for, since the last revolution
when they succeeded in becoming masters for a while of their citadel,
the Austrian Government has taken warning and erected fortifications
on the summit of the Blocksberg which command not only the city but
the fortress itself. The Hungarians speak of these fortifications with
contempt, but this, I fancy, is a piece of very natural bravado, for
the position of these ramparts not only renders them invulnerable in
themselves, but the capital thus menaced could not possibly hold its
own against a bombardment from the heights which command it on all
sides.
I was sitting on the banks of the Danube one morning, opposite the
Blocksberg, peacefully sketching the boats on the river, when I was
startled by a voice behind me saying in German:
“I will thank you for your card.”
I had been conscious for some time past that I was not alone, but,
thinking I was merely surrounded by the usual curious spectators,
I went on quietly with my occupation; but now turning round I see
standing beside me a soldier in the Austrian uniform.
“For what purpose do you wish my card?” I demanded.
“You are taking the plan of our new fortress yonder,” was the reply.
[Illustration]
“Well, and what if I am?”
“You must have some object in doing so. What may it be?”
“I do not like to see it there,” I replied, just to hear what he would
say. “It is an ugly object, and I would like to have it knocked down.”
He coloured deeply, and again demanded my card, or name and address.
“_Jó Isten!_” here broke in an old woman piously, setting down
her basket, and elevating her hands and eyes the better to give full
expression to her feelings,--“as though we hadn’t trouble enough in
’48! the _Nagyságos Asszony_ (foreign lady) must needs take the
measure of the fortress;” whilst a child squatting down beside me set
up a piteous howl. One of the spruce young waiters from the _café_
at the corner of the Petőfi tér also came out to see what could be
the matter, together with a cook, and sundry other menials from other
establishments hard by, all of whom, taking their stations on the steps
in front of me, appeared to think I was gifted with the power of seeing
through opaque substances, till I was finally hemmed in by a hot and
eager crowd, all anxious to hear the upshot of the parley.
Beginning to fear I might have gone too far in thus venturing to
jest with an Austrian soldier, on such an awful subject as the
fortifications of the Imperial Government, I endeavoured to pour oil on
the troubled waters by at once declaring my nationality, and informing
him that I was an English lady.
“You speak German too well to be English,” he retorted curtly. “Show me
your passport, _Madame_.”
“I do not usually carry it about with me,” I replied meekly; “but if
you do not mind waiting a few moments till I have finished sketching
these boats, you can, if you will, accompany me to my hotel, where I
can show it you, or, if you prefer it, you can come with me to the
British Consulate, which is nearer. My nationality is known there, for
the Vice-Consul signed a document for us this very morning.”
He waited patiently and civilly whilst I coolly put the finishing
touches to my sketch, when, having packed up, we walked off together.
Before we had proceeded very far, however, I saw F. coming down the
Pfarr Kirche Platz, on his way to meet me. As may be imagined he was
greatly astonished to see me in the company of an Austrian gendarme;
but fortunately having our passport with him, he was able at once to
convince my interrogator as to my nationality, who, after inscribing
our names in his pocket-book, made a polite bow, and went on his way.
During our stay at this pleasant city, we often made excursions up and
down the river, scarcely a day passing without our going by steamer to
Óbuda or Alt Ofen, the latter being the German appellation for this
straggling town or village, which being literally interpreted means
“Old Stove,” a name given to it probably on account of the hot springs
which since time immemorial have existed here, or else from there
having formerly been numerous lime-kilns in the neighbourhood. Of much
more ancient origin than even Buda itself, it somehow had a strange and
weird sort of fascination for us, such an odd old place as it is, so
still, so silent, everything in it so arid and parched, that it looked
as though it had been baking for centuries past in its own oven! Surely
time must have passed it by with folded wing, for, as we wander through
its almost deserted thoroughfares, the very atmosphere seems to tell
of a long-forgotten past. Yet, silent as it now is, these hills must
at one time have resounded to the murmur of many voices, as well as to
bright music and revelry, for Alt Ofen was once, as we have seen, a
city of kings.
Recent excavations bear witness to the fact that a city formerly stood
here capable of containing two hundred thousand inhabitants, a number
equalling the population of Buda and Pest together at the present time.
It was known to the Romans as Aquincum, and there exist in the vicinity
many interesting Roman remains, amongst which is an aqueduct, one mile
and a half long, whose pillars are still partially standing, together
with a Roman amphitheatre larger than that of Pompeii, containing
numerous Roman inscriptions, proving that a temple of Nemesis once
existed in its immediate vicinity. A bust of the goddess has also been
discovered, together with one of Jupiter, whilst in the amphitheatre
itself, some of the stone benches are not only inscribed with numbers,
but with the names of the persons to whom the seats belonged. But
our days began to be numbered, and the time sped only too swiftly,
as we loitered now on the banks of the river, now in the beautiful
Margarethen Island or Stadtwäldchen, eating ices in the _kiosks_,
till at length the time not only drew near but the last day of our
visit had actually arrived, and an excursion to the Kaiserbad was all
that was left for us.
It is not easy to tear oneself away from this interesting place,
with all its historical associations and elements of novelty to
the stranger; for there is an individuality about it which renders
it unlike every other city in the world. The Hungarians, too, with
their singular pedigree, how different they are in themselves from
the dwellers of all other cities in Europe! and what warm and kindly
natures they possess! Verily, all things conspire to render Pest a
charming place of sojourn.