THE WITCHES’ CARNIVAL.
Of all the pleasure resorts in the neighbourhood of Pest, none is so
great a favourite as the Kaiserbad, on account of its mineral springs,
which are recommended as a cure for almost every ill to which frail
humanity is prone. To the passing stranger, however, who only sees
the outward aspect of the frequenters of these baths, and knows not
the inward miseries they suffer, the only malady the majority of them
would seem to possess, as he watches them regaling themselves at the
restaurant, and notes with what marvellous rapidity one viand after
another is made to disappear, is that of insatiable hunger.
As we sit in the pleasant gardens the flowering trees and shrubs waft
their perfume over us, and in the tepid pool the lotus, which opened
wide its fan-like leaves to catch the noon-day sun, now spreads them
wider still as they drink in gratefully the falling dews.
The neighbourhood of the Kaiserbad is not only interesting as
containing one of the old Turkish baths, but also on account of the
belief held by Hungarian archæologists that it was originally founded
by the Romans. Above the gardens is a small octangular building
surmounted by a cupola, the tomb of Sheikh Gül Baba, a Mussulman
Saint, who died nearly two hundred years ago, and whose resting place
is protected from Christian desecration by a special clause in the
Treaty of Karlowitz of 1699. Hither come once a year a number of
pilgrim dervishes to pay homage to the “holy shrine.”
To the Turks also is due the true Egyptian Lotus which grows here, for
they brought it from the Nile and placed it in a pool formed by the hot
springs, where, protected from the effects of the cold atmosphere by
the high temperature of the water, it blooms freely as at Grosswardein.
Not an inch of soil here but has been the scene of some sanguinary
struggle between the Christian and the Turk. Never was resistance more
desperate than that made by the latter, nor triumph of the Christian
arms more complete.
During this siege, one of the most memorable in history, and which
continued for three months without any cessation, under the leadership
of the Duke of Lorraine, many English officers joined the Imperial
forces, together with volunteers from almost every nation in Europe,
all firmly bent on expelling the Ottoman foe. Every Hungarian who could
wield a sword went forth to the conflict, till the Turks, compelled
at length to surrender, fled across the Danube and were engulphed by
thousands in that mighty stream.
The moon had risen by the time we left the gardens of the Kaiserbad and
found ourselves in the quiet streets of Buda. In the quaint old square,
fantastic shadows, thrown by the gabled houses, lay sharply defined
upon the dusty ground. In the small square windows, burning red,
gleamed here and there a solitary light, contrasting strangely with the
silvery moonlight; whilst above, the palpitating stars shone pale from
out their purple deeps, and looked down upon the ruined amphitheatre
with its rugged lines.
On the Danube, boats and barges moored along its margin lay black upon
its surface, and now and then heaved and tossed as a passing steamer,
displacing the water, made them rock, and knock against each other.
All else was as still as in the dead of night. At long intervals a
foot-passenger came walking by, but with the usual greeting he, too,
passed on his way, and soon became lost to view in the gloomy shadow of
the hill.
Leaving Buda and the regal palace with its terraced gardens and
majestic flights of steps behind, we soon reach the suspension bridge,
and find the stream of busy life still flowing there. Carriages are
thundering through the tunnel beneath the Schlossberg to and from the
station, and people passing and repassing the bridge on their homeward
way. We, however, drawn thither by a mysterious fascination, are about
to climb the Blocksberg, for this, according to German fable, is the
night when witches dance upon its heights.
Scrambling up the steep, rough road through the Raitzenstadt, with
its funny little houses and white gables, like the tents of an army
(a quarter inhabited exclusively by Servians), we pass a ghastly
“calvary,” and soon arrive at the summit of the mountain.
The view of Pest and the surrounding country never appears so beautiful
as from the heights of the Blocksberg on a moonlight night. The noble
city lying peacefully, beneath, the rigid lines of its solid blocks of
masonry and tall black cupolas cutting sharp into the sapphire sky,
the deep brown shadows where the streets run parallel, the brilliant
lights of the restaurants and cafés illumining the opposite houses with
almost prismatic hues, the broad Danube rolling onwards its majestic
waves till it loses itself in the pale and misty distance, the wooded
islands sleeping calmly on its surface, and the lamps upon the bridge,
linking together as with a chain of diamonds the ancient and modern
cities into one; all form a scene to go home and dream about.
[Illustration]
It was from this well-chosen spot, which commands both sides of the
Danube, that Görgei, the military leader of the insurrectionary party,
with his forty thousand troops and battery of artillery from Kömorn
shelled the fortress of Buda, then in the hands of the Imperialists,
and succeeded after a prolonged siege of twenty-one days in hoisting on
its ramparts the standard of Hungarian liberty.
The outer walls of the bastion have a very imposing aspect,
being pierced at every few steps with holes for cannon, which
seem perpetually to menace the inhabitants of the twin-cities
lying so peacefully beneath. Wherever one gazes from below, these
fortifications, crowning the mountain, form the most conspicuous
object, reminding the Hungarians, not only of their signal defeat,
but also of what they have to expect should they ever again attempt
to regain their national independence. I must confess, that with my
sympathies ever on the side of the Hungarians, these fortifications
were, to me, a most objectionable spectacle. For although the powers
of governing the Hungarian kingdom are now equally divided between the
two nations, so long as the sovereign power is vested in the House of
Hapsburg, the term “dual-monarchy” will in many respects continue to be
a miserable misnomer.
As a portion of the Austrian empire, Hungary, however, is not badly
off, and there are those who think her people have reason to be
grateful to Austria for its clemency after the insurrection of ’48–9.
It is, however, only natural that the Hungarians should wish their
vast and beautiful country to be again governed by a king of its own,
instead of one of an alien race. They complain, and very naturally
too, of the liquidation of the Austrian national debt, for which the
Hungarian Ministry, to a certain extent, became responsible in 1867,
but which debt includes many millions which were raised abroad for the
purpose of enabling the Austrian Government to subjugate them.
The Magyars are wont to attribute to Austria every ill from which
they suffer. Amongst the higher classes, however, as may naturally be
supposed, there is greater toleration in matters political; but, on
speaking of the “dual-monarchy” to a Magyar merchant, with whom we were
once travelling, he said--summing up all in that melancholy inflexion
of voice which is so characteristic of the Hungarians--“Ah, well! we
are married to a wife we do not like, but we must bear with her, for
divorce is impossible.”
It is, however, only fair to say that the Hungarians invariably speak
of the Emperor of Austria in terms of great respect, and it is to be
regretted that Prince Rudolf, the heir to the throne, is not as popular
as his royal father.
It was a fortunate stroke of policy, that of Deák’s advising Francis
Joseph to allow himself to be crowned King of Hungary at Pest in 1876.
He knew well the feelings of his countrymen, and that that alone would
enable the Emperor to find his way into the hearts of the Hungarian
people, who would never recognise him as their true king until he had,
like their early monarchs, been crowned with the sacred diadem of St.
Stephen.
How singular and dazzling a pageant must have been the royal procession
to “Coronation Hill,” formed as it was of the representatives of
the various nationalities all dressed in their ancient costumes.
How splendid those of the Delegates in their _mentes_ and
_dolmans_ of rich blue or ruby velvet, trimmed with sable and
ermine! The nobles, clad in silver coats of mail and mantles of
leopard’s skin, fastened across the chest with magnificent diamond
clasps, their caps adorned with waving plumes, and the trappings of
their chargers, like those of Attila of old, adorned with precious
stones. Following the King came the archbishops and Prince Primate
on horseback, arrayed in their gorgeous vestments and gold mitres,
bearing in their hands their gem-bespangled croziers. Reaching the
mound, formed of earth brought from the various provinces of the
kingdom, the King, giving spurs to his horse, dashed up the eminence,
the sacred crown upon his head, and robed in the coronation mantle
of light blue silk, embroidered by Gisela, the wife of St. Stephen,
a garment which, kept under safe guardianship with the crown in the
Castle of Buda, is never repaired except by royal hands. Facing the
four quarters of the globe he waved his sword in each direction in
accordance with the custom of Hungary’s ancient kings and in token that
he would defend the country from foes from whatever side they might
come.
The Empress is greatly beloved. She speaks their language thoroughly,
is beautiful, and flatters their vanity--one of the weak points in the
Magyar character--not only by professing a fondness for them, but by
spending a portion of every year in the palace of Gödöllő, near Pest.
On the other hand, I have occasionally heard the Empress’s delight in
field-sports deprecated in no measured terms. It is said that they are
the only subjects upon which she ever converses at Court, which some of
the Hungarians regard as not only unfeminine, but _mauvais ton_.
* * * * *
As we saunter round the bastions of the Blocksberg, all is so silent
that the rumble of carriages still crossing the bridge reaches us even
on these dizzy heights. Beyond the city the full, round moon, shining
upon some stretch of fresh green herbage or ripening corn, transforms
it into pale tints of chrysoprase, the mighty Alfőld stretching away in
one unbroken level to Belgrade. Dark clouds, however, are rising from
the south, and a cool refreshing breeze is springing up from the same
direction.
At length, stationing ourselves under the lee of the northern ramparts
for shelter, we were both immersed in deep thought, when we were
startled by an Austrian soldier on patrol, who, appearing suddenly and
mysteriously from out the shadow of the great walls near which we were
loitering, demanded in a loud and peremptory tone, in German--
“_Wer geht da?_” (Who goes there?)
“We are only English travellers, admiring the prospect,” we replied in
the same language.
“You have been a long time about it,” continued he, sarcastically; “and
I should think you must have made yourselves acquainted with it by this
time;” adding after a few moments’ pause, “You have been hovering about
here for the last hour and a half at the very least.”
“Probably,” I replied, “for we have come to see the witches dance
to-night. You need not be afraid of our laying a train to blow up these
precious fortifications of yours; we have no dynamite with us.”
“I will thank you for your cards,” was the only rejoinder.
Instead of complying with his request, however, F. withdrew from his
pocket our passport, which since my little encounter on the quai he
invariably carries with him, and which evidently made on this officious
and sensitive offshoot of the Austrian Government such an impression,
with its veritable British lion and unicorn easily distinguishable in
the clear moonlight, that with a polite bow he exclaimed--
“_Passieren Sie!_”
Soon after this little episode, whilst continuing our stroll, a sudden
change came over the spirit of the scene. The clouds we had observed
rising from the south awhile ago, but which as we stood behind the
northern ramparts we had failed to see approaching us with rapid
strides, had now silently stolen upon us and obscured the moon’s
disk. The wind, too, increased rapidly, and began to blow against the
bastions with reports like that of musketry. It was a weird spot, this
black and silent mountain summit, as the dense clouds scudded past.
“We are in for a storm!” cried F., throwing the end of his cigar away.
“Perhaps this is the witches’ herald. If they don’t turn out on such a
night as this, all I can say is they ought.”
“Yes; here they come,” he added, with a laugh; “or, at any rate, their
broomsticks,”--as the wind, suddenly blowing almost to a hurricane,
caught up a cluster of stalks of Indian corn that had been lying on the
ground, and hurled them high in air.
As we turned our faces homewards with all speed, the thunder began to
peal, and, approaching the _Raitzenstadt_, a signboard, which had
become loosened from its fastening, suddenly flapping against the wall
of a cavernous doorway with a great noise, made us start. Reaching a
small warehouse, we entered it for shelter.
The storm was destined to be of short duration, for, deviating slightly
from its course, it travelled towards the mountains of Buda, the
thunder reverberating grandly, till the hills, answering each other
with sounds like the roar of artillery, seemed to be the scene of a
bombardment. The clouds, too, swept past, following the storm, and as
we issued from the _Raitzenstadt_, the heavens were again clear,
and the wind had laid itself down exhausted.