old Bohemia, and the type of thought found there is duplicated in all
the Bohemian centres that I visited; everywhere there is a battle
between free thought and Catholicism, and many a household is divided
between the _Svornost_ and the _Catholic_, yet I have good reason to
believe that this infidelity is only a desire for a more liberal type of
religion, only a strong reaction and not a permanent thing, and I found
signs of weakening at every point. The little village of New Prague in
southwestern Minnesota is a good example. It is the centre of a large
Bohemian agricultural community, and has the reputation of being a
“tough” town and quite a nest of infidelity. I found it a clean and
prosperous place of 1,500 inhabitants, outwardly neater and better cared
for than the ordinary Western village. It has a clean and
wholesome-looking hotel, a little Protestant church and a big Catholic
church, and the usual variety of stores. I was surprised to find the
hotel without the customary bar, and to my question about it the
hotel-keeper replied, “I have no use for bars; I ain’t no drinking man
and I don’t want nobody else to drink.”
The editor of the New Prague _Times_ had been pointed out to me as the
chief infidel, yet I found him an interested reader of _The Outlook_ and
kindred literature, and a rather fine type of the liberal Christian.
Indeed, while, of course, the Chicago _Svornost_ and its kind find a
great many readers, I came to the conclusion that with the infidels were
classed all those who refused to go to confession, or had helped to
secure a fine edifice for the public school. From the banker, the
physician, the druggist, and the photographer, I received additional
proof that my conjecture was correct, and the only one who had little to
say in praise of these people and much in blame was the village priest,
a true type of the Austrian Catholic, who would rule with an iron hand
if he could, and who misses the strong support of government. Typical of
him was the answer to my question as to his touch with the people in
comparison with that of the Austrian priest at home. “You know in
Austria the State pays us, and we don’t need to come in close touch with
the people, but here it is different; here the people pay, and that
alone brings us in closer touch.”
My impression of New Prague is that it is neither “tough” nor infidel;
it is true that it has saloons and too many of them, that the
Continental Sabbath is the type of its rest-day, but in outward decency
and in the degree of intelligence among its professional and business
men, it rivals any other town of its size with which I am acquainted. It
is surrounded by Irish and American settlements, the first of which it
surpasses in order and decency, and is not far from the other in
enterprise and an unexpressed desire to establish the kingdom of God
upon the earth.
Unfortunately the saloon holds an abnormally large place in the social
life of the Bohemians, and beer works its havoc among them socially and
politically. The lodges, of which there are legion, are above or beneath
saloons, and all societies down to the building and loan associations
are in close touch with them. It is the pride of Bohemian Chicago that
two of its greatest breweries are in the hands of its countrymen, and
brewers and saloon-keepers control much of the Bohemian vote. I asked
one of the politicians whether that element was active in politics, and
he replied, “Oh, yes; we have five aldermen and the city clerk.” The
fact is that they have given Chicago a poor class of officials and have
placed their worst infidels in the city council and on the school board.
There is not a little avowed Anarchy among them, and a great deal more
of Marxian Socialism, one of the daily papers advocating the latter
political faith. Just as there is much dangerous half-knowledge on
religious subjects, so there is on politics, and the worst and yet the
most eloquent arguments I have heard on Socialism, have been by these
agitators.
Though the Bohemian is very pugnacious, he is easily led, or rather
easily influenced, and in times of political excitement I should say
that he would need a great deal of watching. He is much more tenacious
of his language and customs than the German, and I have found children
of the third generation who spoke English like foreigners. An appeal to
his history, to the achievements of his people, awakens in him a great
deal of pride, which he easily implants into the hearts of his children.
This does not make him a worse American, and in the Bohemian heart
George Washington soon has his place by the side of John Huss, and ere
long is “first” with these new countrymen.
The Bohemian is intelligent enough to know what he escaped in Austria,
and thus values his opportunities in America. Undoubtedly too often he
confuses liberty with license, but in this he is not a sinner above
others. His greatest sin is his materialism, and he stunts every part of
his finer nature to own a house and to have a bank account. Children are
robbed of their youth and of the opportunity to obtain a higher
education by this hunger after money, and parental authority among the
Bohemians has all the rigour of the Austrian absolutism which they have
transplanted, but which they cannot maintain very long, for young
Bohemia is quickly infected by young America, and a small-sized
revolution is soon started in every household. It is then that the first
generation thinks its bitterest thoughts about this country and its
baleful influence upon the young. In fact, the second generation is
rather profligate in “sowing its wild oats,” which are reaped in the
police courts in the shape of fines for drunkenness, disorderly conduct,
and assault and battery.
The Bohemian is among the best of our immigrants, and yet may easily be
the worst, for when I have watched him in political riots in Prague and
Pilsen, or during strikes in our own country I have found him easily
inflamed, bitter and relentless in his hate, and destructive in his wild
passion. He has lacked sane leaders in his own country, as he lacks
well-balanced leaders in this. The settlement and missionary workers in
Chicago find him rather hard material to deal with, for he is
unapproachable, not easily handled, and repels them by his suspicious
nature and outward unloveliness, although he is better than he seems,
and not quite so good as he thinks himself to be, for humility is not
one of his virtues. He develops best where he has the best example, and
upon the farms of Minnesota and Nebraska he is second only to the
German, whose close neighbour he is and with whom he lives in peace,
strange as it may seem. The Bohemian is here to stay, and scarcely any
of those who come will ever stand again upon St. Charles bridge, and
watch their native Moldava as it winds itself along the ancient
battlements of “Golden Prague,” as they love to call their capital.
America is their home, “for better or for worse”; they love it
passionately; and yet one who knows their history, every page of it
aflame with war, need not wonder that they turn often to their past and
dwell on it, lingering there with fond regret.
Some years ago, while I was in Prague, Antonin Dvorák, the composer,
celebrated his sixtieth birthday, and the National Opera-house was the
scene of a gala performance and a great demonstration in his honour.
They gave his national dances in the form of a grand ballet, and to the
notes of those wild and melancholy strains of the mazurka, the kolo, and
the krakovyan, came all the Slavic tribes in their picturesque garb,
and all were greeted by thunderous applause as they planted their
national banners. At last came a stranger from across the sea, and in
his hand was a flag, the Stars and Stripes, while to greet him came
Bohemia, with Bohemia’s colours waving in her hands; and these two
received the greatest applause of that memorable evening.
These two are in the heart of this stranger. Faithful to the old, he
will ever be loyal to the new. How to be loyal to this flag in times of
peace; at the ballot-box, on the streets of Cleveland during a strike,
as a citizen and alderman in Chicago, is the great lesson which he needs
to learn, and we need to learn it with him. He will remain a Bohemian
longest in the agricultural districts of Minnesota and Nebraska, where
he holds tenaciously to the speech of his forefathers; but, in spite of
that, I consider him a better American than his brother in the city. He
needs to find here a Christianity which will satisfy his spiritual
nature and which will become the law of his life, a religion which binds
him and yet will make him truly free; and that we all need to find.
Above all, he has to resist the temptation to make bread out of stone,
to use all his powers to make a living and none of them to make a life;
and that is a temptation which we must all learn to resist, for neither
men nor nations can “live by bread alone.”
XVI
LITTLE HUNGARY
The initiated New Yorker knows half a dozen restaurants at the edge of
the great Ghetto, where eating and drinking are a pleasure bought for a
modest price, and where the fragrance of fine cigars mingles with that
of better wine, and good fellowship reigns supreme. Some of these
restaurants are splendidly furnished, and cater to the lucrative trade
of those Americans who have had a taste of the social life of Southern
Europe and who like to lapse into its mild sins every once in a while.
One of these places, now so fashionable that the real Hungarian rarely
darkens its doors, where the popping of champagne corks is heard in the
early morning hours, and where the oyster and lobster have almost
entirely supplanted the native Gulyas,--is one of the pioneers among
them, and in its early days served as a boarding house for the Hungarian
Jews who, for one reason or another, had exiled themselves from the gay
boulevards of Budapest. Here they tried to find consolation in food
cooked Magyar fashion, and in playing for a few hours at “Clabrias,”
their social game of cards, which could also occasionally degenerate
into gambling. The keeper of the place whose Semitic name of Cohen had
been changed into the Magyar, Koronyi, recovered the fortune which he
had lost in the Old Country, but in spite of the fact that his bank
account grew larger every day, he still kept the boarding house as he
had always kept it, with his wife as the cook and himself as the waiter.
In stentorian voice he would call out: “Harom Lövös” (three soups) or
“Harom Gulyas” (three Hungarian stews). Into the kitchen and out of it
he would rush with full and empty plates, in evident enjoyment of his
hard task.
The reputation of the place travelled as far as Broadway, and great was
the day when rich clothing merchants came to eat his twenty-five cent
dinner with evident relish; but still greater the day when their Gentile
customers were brought thither to taste of the fleshpots of “Little
Hungary.”
With increased speed he would run to the kitchen calling: “Harom Lövös,”
returning with three plates of soup upon his outstretched arm,
unburdened by a coat sleeve; and his bank account grew and his children
also.
Two sons, boys still, helped the father call out the orders, until they
came to a realization of the dignity of the business and the size of
their father’s bank account. It was a sorry day for Simon Koronyi when
bills of fare appeared upon his tables. They were there only after a
bitter struggle which cost him many a sleepless night. With the bills of
fare came waitresses, leaving the old man no occupation but to stand
silently, and receive the quarters which were heaped in great piles in
the till, while he grew daily more silent and morose.
The sons had caught the enterprising spirit of this country; they bought
a lot on a street a few blocks nearer Broadway and built a house with a
suggestion of Hungary in its style. The dining-room was frescoed in
Hungarian scenes, with mottoes in the Magyar tongue, and was soon
transformed into a fashionable resort.
Simon Koronyi, the founder of “Little Hungary,” moved into the house
reluctantly. Stormy scenes followed the introduction of American dishes
into the bill of fare, and when as a last straw a cash register appeared
on the counter, the old man’s heart almost broke. Hesitatingly, his
gentle old fingers moved over the keys of the machine, but he was pushed
rudely aside by the hurrying hand of his younger son. Thus dishonoured
in the sight of his guests, Simon Koronyi, tottering like a drunken man,
went to his apartments up-stairs, and there remained until the “Chevra
Kedisha,” the Jewish Funeral Society, carried him to his last resting
place.
* * * * *
A few blocks north of these fashionable “Little Hungarys,” the real
Hungary begins, and hither come the “Magyars” as the ruling race in
Hungary is called. If you call them Slavs they will reject it as an
insult.
The Magyar has not the slightest relation to the Slavs, unless it be
that of ruling a portion of them with a rather iron hand, and hating all
of them proportionately. The Magyar’s closest relation is to the Finns
on the north and to the Turks in the east of Europe, and he is classed
anthropologically as a Ugro-Finn. In his development he has leaned
closely to the west, having a Germanic culture while still retaining a
somewhat untamed Asiatic nature, which manifests itself in nothing worse
than a love of fast horses, fiery wine, and the wild music with which
the gypsy bewitches him, and draws the loose change out of the pockets
of his tight-fitting trousers.
In that strange conglomerate of races and nationalities called the
Austro-Hungarian Empire, the Magyar has gained a dominant influence, and
although numerically among the smallest, he has gained for himself the
greatest privileges, and practically dictates the policy of the Empire.
Upon those rich plains by the Danube and the Theis, he has been a
plowman who enjoyed the fruits of his toil as long as the marauding Turk
would let him, furnishing wheat and corn for the rest of Europe, and
gaining not a little wealth since his arch-enemy has been driven back
into peace. What he has made of his country in the last forty years of
internal and external peace, how he has created for himself a capital
which surpasses Vienna, and built factories and railroads unrivalled
anywhere, forms a glorious page in the history of Europe.
From this comparatively wealthy country; from its freedom, its broad
prairies and its picturesque village life, there have come to America
one hundred thousand men and women who are hard to wean from this Magyar
land, but who, like all others, finally lose themselves in the national
life, bringing into it fewer vices and more virtues than we ever connect
with the Hungarian as he is superficially known among us. In Little
Hungary rosy-cheeked maidens with bare arms akimbo, stand in many a
doorway while their swains court them on the street as they were in the
habit of doing at home. Nearly every second house advertises “Sor-Bor”
or “Palenka” for sale--the wine, beer, and whiskey to which the Magyar
is devoted; everywhere one hears the sound of the cymbal, that
unpromising instrument which looks more like a kitchen utensil than
anything else, but out of which the gypsy hammers sweet music. Little
Hungary has but a small domain in New York; it ends abruptly with more
restaurants in which gulyas, the favourite stew of the Magyar, lures
the appetite; close by is Little Bohemia, and finally the big Germany
which overshadows every other nationality.
The Hungary of New York, however, is only a stopping place,--is more
Jewish than Magyar, and consequently does not promise a good field for
observation. In Cleveland some twenty thousand Magyars live together
round about those giant steel mills which send their black smoke like a
pall over that much alive but very dirty city. Although street after
street is occupied solely by them, I have not seen a house that shows
neglect, and the battle with Cleveland dirt is waged fiercely here,
judging by the clean doorsteps, window-panes, and white curtains which I
saw at nearly every house. A large Catholic church, with its parochial
school dedicated to St. Elizabeth, the Hungarian queen, shows that the
Magyar does not neglect his religion. There are also a Greek Catholic
church and a flourishing Protestant congregation. A weekly newspaper
keeps the Hungarians in touch with one another and with the homeland,
although it does not represent the Magyar spirit either by its contents
or through the personality of its editor, who has no influence among his
countrymen. I looked in vain for a Hungarian political “boss,” for no
party can claim these people exclusively. Social Democracy has made
great gains among them, which is due in no small measure to the fact
that they come from a comparatively wealthy country, from conditions
which are not unbearable, and from something of ease and comfort; and
so, finding the work in the iron-mills hard and grinding, they soon grow
dissatisfied, which means--Social Democracy. A sort of pessimistic
philosophy is developed, and the happy Hungarians grow melancholy,
dejected, and homesick. They cling with rare tenacity to the fatherland,
in which they have a just pride, and whenever the opportunity offers
itself they show how much they love it. The erection of a monument to
Louis Kossuth by men and women of the labouring classes, the enthusiasm
with which it was dedicated, the festivities which recalled by speech,
song, and dress the greatness of the man whose memory they honoured,
speak much for their idealistic and loyal love of country.
Of all foreigners the Hungarians are among the most tolerant towards the
Jews, who live in large numbers in Hungary, while Hungarian Jews in
Cleveland love to be known as Magyars and are treated as such by their
fellow countrymen. The Magyar’s good nature is also shown by his
treatment of the gypsies, who have followed him in large numbers to
America, and are really a sort of parasite, being supported by the
easy-going and pleasure-loving Magyars, who dance the czardas to the
fiery notes of fiddles and cymbals whose owners finally possess the
largest portion of their patron’s wages.
The Hungarian gypsy boy, who is supposed to choose between the violin
and the penny, must in most cases take the two, for in Hungary as in
America he is both musician and thief with equal adeptness. One gypsy in
Cleveland keeps a saloon which is a combination of the Hungarian
“czarda” (inn) and its American namesake, the saloon, and it combines
the evils of both institutions. The regular bar is supplemented by
rickety chairs and tables and a clear space for the dancing floor,
without which the Hungarian czarda does not exist. On Saturday night,
the soot of the week washed away, the Hungarian is found here in all his
native glory. His moustache, twisted to the fineness of a needle-point,
is his most prominent national characteristic, unless it be his small,
shining eyes which barely escape looking out into the world from
Mongolian openings. A small head and prominent cheek-bones are also
characteristic, while the colour of the hair is dark brown and black,
the blond being almost unknown. He differentiates himself from his
neighbour the Slav by his agility of both temper and limbs, and to see
him dance a czardas, to hear him sing it and the gypsy play it, is as
good as seeing that other acrobatic performance, a circus. When the
gypsy inn-keeper knows that his guests have pay-day money in their
pockets, he has ready a band of gypsies, who look shabby enough, and
very unpromising from an artistic standpoint; the leader, who plays the
first violin, tunes it with remarkable care and tenderness, the second
violin scrapes a few hoarse notes after him, the bass-viol comes in
grudgingly, and the cymbal-player exercises his fingers by beating
cotton-wrapped sticks over the strings of his strange instrument. One
patriotic youth, who has had just enough liquid fire poured into him,
now lifts his voice and sings a song of the puszta (the Hungarian
prairie), of the horses and cattle which graze upon it, and of the buxom
maiden who draws water from the village well. Slowly, pathetically,
almost painfully melancholy, the notes ring out as if the singer were
bewailing some great loss, the musicians follow upon their instruments
as sorrowful mourners follow a hearse; but all at once the measure
becomes brisk and the notes jubilant, the singer and the musicians are
caught as by a fever, faster and faster the bows fly over the strings,
the cymbal is beaten furiously, and the bass-viol seems in a roaring
rage.
[Illustration: HO FOR THE PRAIRIE!
From Roumania to the sheep farms of the west is a long journey. Those
who make it, form a most useful element in the development of the
country.]
Sunday morning finds the dancers sobered and reverent on the way to
church, most of them going to the Roman Catholic church, in which a
zealous priest blesses, but is not blessed by them. Seldom have I found
among foreigners such frank criticism of the priest and yet such
loyalty to the Church. The Hungarian Catholic is not narrow; he is much
more liberal than the Slav or the German Austrian, and a bigoted priest
may hold him to the Church but will not win him to himself. It is always
hard to judge of a priest or preacher from the reports of disgruntled
members of his flock, but the Catholics seldom speak ill of their
shepherd unless there is much hard truth to tell. The following, which I
heard from trustworthy sources, is characteristic. At a meeting of one
of the lodges the motion was made to have a mass said on a certain
memorial day; the priest arose to second the motion, and said, “We have
two kinds of mass, the five-dollar and the ten-dollar one, and I would
not advise you to have the cheap one.” True or untrue, the fact remains
that this priest has built a fine church and a magnificent parochial
school. He is a good financier, and I doubt not that he is such for the
glory of his Church and not for his own enrichment; I can testify to the
fact that he has done much good, that he has quieted much turbulence,
that he is not a friend of strong drink, and that he is a narrow but
exceedingly careful shepherd of his flock.
The Greek Catholic priest in Cleveland was driven from the church by his
independent parishioners, who found him not only a good financier, but
a bad man, a “peddler in holy goods,” as they called him, who was ready
to dispense his blessing to man and beast for money, large or small, or
for a drink more often large than small. The Protestant church is
shepherded by a young man from the Oberlin Theological Seminary, who is
in touch with the American life and its interpretation of the Christian
Church and ministry.
The Protestant Hungarian is, as a rule, better educated, morally on a
higher level, and in America more quickly assimilated, than his Catholic
brother. In Hungary this has well-defined causes. First, splendidly
equipped Protestant ministers, not a few of them graduates of English
and Scotch universities and imbued by the Puritan spirit of those
countries. Second, a Protestant theology of the Calvinistic type, which,
harsh and hard as it is, makes everywhere strong men and women, and
which in Hungary distinguishes the Calvinistic communities from the
Catholic by a severer philosophy of life and a much more moral conduct.
The third cause may in the eyes of some persons be the most real one.
Wherever a religious community is in the minority and is or has been
severely persecuted, it becomes thrifty and highly moral. Whatever the
reason, the fact exists and is a pleasant one to chronicle.