Early, ere the dawn, the strangers at the Hortobagy inn started on their
way.
This inn, though only a "csarda," or wayside house of call, was no
owl-haunted, tumble-down, reed-thatched place, such as the painter had
imagined, but a respectable brick building, with a shingle roof,
comfortable rooms, and a capital kitchen and cellar quite worthy of any
town. Below the flower garden, the Hortobagy river wound silently along,
between banks fringed with reeds and willows. Not far from the inn, the
high road crossed it on a substantial stone bridge of nine arches.
Debreczin folk maintain that the solidity of this bridge is due to the
masons having used milk to slake their lime; jealous people say that
they employed wine made from Hortobagy grapes, and that this drew it
together.
The object of the early start was aesthetic as well as practical. The
painter looked forward to seeing a sunrise on the puszta, a sight which
no one, who has not viewed it with his own eyes, can form the slightest
idea of. The practical reason was that the cattle to be sold could only
be separated from the herd in the early morning. In spring, most of them
have little calves, and at dawn, when these are not sucking, the
herdsmen going in among the herd, catch those whose mothers have been
selected and take them away. The mothers then follow of their own
accord. A stranger would be gored to death by these wild creatures, who
have never seen anyone but their own drovers, but to them they are quite
accustomed.
So the strangers set off for those wild parts of the plain, where even
the puszta dwellers need a guide, in a couple of light carriages. The
two coachmen, however, knew the district, and needed no pilot. They
therefore left the cowboy, who had been sent as guide, to amuse himself
at the inn, he promising to overtake them before they reached the herd.
The artist was a famous landscape painter from Vienna, who often came to
Hungary for the sake of his work, and who spoke the tongue of the
people. The other Viennese was manager of the stables to the Moravian
landowner, Count Engelshort. It would, perhaps, have been wiser to have
sent some farmer who knew about cattle, for a lover of horses has little
mind left for anything else. But he had this advantage over the rest of
the staff, that he knew Hungarian, for when a lieutenant of Dragoons he
had long been stationed in Hungary, where the fair ladies had taught him
to speak it. Two of the Count's drovers had been told off to escort
him--strong, sturdy fellows, each armed with a revolver. As for the
gentlemen from Debreczin, one was the chief constable, the other the
worthy citizen from whose herd the twenty-four stock cows and their bull
were to be selected.
Now, at the time of starting, the waning moon and the brightest of the
stars were still visible, while over in the east dawn was already
breaking.
The townsman, a typical Magyar, explained to the painter how the star
above them was called "the wanderer's lamp," and how the "poor lads," or
"betyars," looking up at it, would sigh, "God help us," and so escape
detection when stealing cattle. This quite enchanted the painter.
"What a Shakespearian idea," he said.
He grew more and more impressed with the endless vision of puszta, when,
an hour later, their galloping steeds brought them where nothing could
be seen save sky above and grass below, where there was not a bird or
frog-eating stork to relieve the marvellous monotony.
"What tones! What tints! What harmony in the contrasts!"
"It's all well enough," said the farmer, "till the mosquitoes and the
horse-flies come."
"And that fresh, velvety turf, against those dark pools!"
"Those puddles there? 'Tocsogo' as we call them."
Meanwhile, high above, sounded the sweet song of the lark.
"Ah, those larks; how wonderful, how splendid!"
"They're thin enough now, but wait till the wheat ripens," replied the
farmer.
Slowly the light grew, the purple of the sky melted into gold; the
morning star, herald of the sun, already twinkled above the now visible
horizon, and a rainbow-like iridescence played over the dewy grass,
keeping pace with the movements of the dark figures. The horses, four to
each carriage, flew over the pathless green meadow-land, till,
presently, something began to show dark on the horizon--a plantation,
the first acacias on the hitherto treeless puszta, and some bluish
knolls.
"Those are the Tartar hills of Zam," explained the Debreczin farmer to
his companions. "There stood some village destroyed by the Tartars. The
ruins of the church still peep out of the grass, and the dogs, when they
dig holes, scrape out human bones."
"And there, what sort of a Golgotha is that?"
"That," said the farmer, "is no Golgotha, but the three poles of the
cattle wells. We are close to the herd."
They halted at the acacias, and there agreed to await the doctor who was
to come jogging along from the Mata puszta, in his one-horse trap.
Meanwhile the painter made notes in his sketch-book, falling from
ecstasy to ecstasy. "What subjects! What motives!" In vain his
companions urged him to draw a fine solitary acacia, rather than a group
of nasty old thistles! At last appeared the doctor and his gig, coming
up from a slanting direction, but he did not stop, only shouted "Good
morning" from the box, and then, "Hurry, hurry! before the daylight
comes!" So after a long enough drive they reached "the great herd." This
is the pride of the Hortobagy puszta--one thousand five hundred cattle
all in one mass. Now all lay silent, but whether sleeping or not, who
could tell? No one has ever seen cattle with closed eyes and heads
resting on the ground, and to them Hamlet's soliloquy, "To sleep,
perchance to dream," in no wise applies.
"What a picture!" cried the painter, enchanted. "A forest of uplifted
horns, and there in the middle the old bull himself with his sooty head
and his wrinkled neck. The jet black litter surrounded by green pasture,
the grey mist in the background, and, far away, the light of a
shepherd's fire! This must be perpetuated!"
Thereupon he sprang from the carriage, saying, "Please follow the
others. I see the shelter, and will meet you there." So, taking his
paint-box and camp-stool, and laying his sketch-book on his knees, he
began rapidly jotting down the scene, while the carriage with the farmer
drove on.
All at once, the two watch dogs of the herd, observing this strange
figure on the puszta, rushed towards him, barking loudly. It was,
however, not the painter's way to be frightened. The dogs, moreover,
with their white coats and black noses, fell into the scheme of colour.
Nor did they attack the man, peacefully squatting there, but when quite
close to him, stood still. "What could he be?" Sitting down, they poked
out their heads inquisitively at the sketch-book. "What was this?" The
painter pursued the joke, for he daubed the cheek of the one with green,
and the other with pink; and these attentions they seemed to find
flattering, but when they by-and-by saw each other's pink or green face,
they fancied it was that of a strange dog, and took to fighting.
Luckily the "taligas," or wheel-barrow boy, came up at that moment. The
taligas is the youngest boy on the place, and his duty is to follow the
cattle with his wheel-barrow, and scrape up the "poor man's peat" which
they leave on the meadow. This serves as fuel on the puszta, and its
smoke is alike grateful to the nose of man and beast.
The taligas rushed his barrow between the fighting dogs, separated and
pursued them, shouting, "Get away there!" For the puszta watch-dog does
not fear the stick, but of the wheel-barrow he is in terror.
The taligas was a very smart little lad, in his blue shirt and linen
breeches worked with scarlet. He delivered the message entrusted to him
by the gentlemen, very clearly. It was "that the painter should join
them at the shelter, where there was much to sketch." But the striking
picture of the herd was not yet completed.
"Can you run me along in your barrow?" asked the painter, "for this
silver piece?"
"Oh, sir!" said the lad, "I've wheeled a much heavier calf than you!
Please step in, sir."
So utilising this clever idea, the painter gained both his ends. He got
to the "karam," seated in the barrow, and managed to finish his
characteristic sketch by the way.
Meanwhile the others had left their carriages, and were introducing the
Vienna cattle buyer to the herdsman in charge. This man was an
exceptionally fine example of the Hungarian puszta-dweller. A tall,
strong fellow, with hair beginning to turn grey, and a curled and waxed
moustache. His face was bronzed from exposure to hard weather, and his
eyebrows drawn together from constant gazing into the sun.
By "Karam" is understood on the puszta that whole arrangement which
serves as shelter against wind and storm for both man and beast. Wind is
the great enemy. Rain, heat, and cold the herdsman ignores. He turns
his fur-lined cloak inside out, pulls down his cap, and faces it, but
against wind he needs protection, for wind is a great power on the
plains. Should the whirlwind catch the herd on the pastures, it will,
unless there be some wood to check them, drive them straight to the
Theiss. So the shelter is formed of a planking of thick boards, with
three extended wings into the corners of which the cattle can withdraw.
The herdsmen's dwelling is a little hut, its walls plastered like a
swallow's nest. It is not meant for sleeping in, there is not room
enough, but is only a place where the men keep their furs and their
"bank." This is just a small calf's skin with the feet left on, and a
lock in place of the head. It holds their tobacco, red pepper, even
their papers. Round the walls hang their cloaks, the embroidered "szur"
for summer, for winter the fur-lined bunda. These are the herdsman's
coverings, and in them he sleeps beneath God's sky. Only the overseer
reposes under the projecting eaves, on a wooden bench for bedstead,
above his head the shelf with the big round loaves, and the tub that
holds the week's provisions. His wife, who lives in the town, brings
them every Sunday afternoon.
Before the hut stands a small circular erection woven out of reeds, with
a brick-paved flooring and no roof. This is the kitchen, the "vasalo,"
and here the herdsman's stew, "gulyashus" and meal porridge are cooked
in a big pot hung on a forked stick. The taligas does the cooking. A row
of long-handled tin spoons are stuck in the reed wall.
"But where did the gentlemen leave the cowboy?" asked the overseer.
"He had some small account to settle with the innkeeper's daughter,"
answered the farmer. His name was Sajgato.
"Well, if he comes home drunk the betyar!"
"Betyar," interrupted the painter, delighted at hearing the word. "Is
our cowboy a betyar?"
"I only used the expression as a compliment," the overseer explained.
"Ah!" sighed the painter, "I should so like to see a _real_ betyar, to
put him in my sketch-book!"
"Well, the gentleman won't find one here, we don't care for thieves. If
one comes roaming around we soon kick him out."
"So there are no betyars left on the Hortobagy puszta?"
"There's no saying! Certainly there are plenty of thieves among the
shepherds, and some of the swineherds turn brigands, and it does
sometimes happen that when a csikos gets silly and loses his head, he
sinks to a vagabond betyar, but no one can ever remember a cowboy having
taken to robbery."
"How is that?"
"Because the cowboy works among quiet, sensible beasts. He never sits
drinking with shepherds and swineherds."
"Then the cowherd is the aristocrat of the puszta?" remarked the manager
of the stables.
"That's it, exactly. Just as counts and barons are among grand folk, so
are csikos and cowboys among the other herdsmen."
"So there is no equality on the puszta?"
"As long as men are on the earth, there will never be equality," said
the overseer. "He who is born a gentleman will remain one, even in a
peasant's coat. He will never steal his neighbour's cow or horse, even
if he find it straying, but will drive it back to its owner. But whether
he won't try a little cheating at the market, that I am not prepared to
say."
"For gentlemen to take in each other at the horse fair is, however,
quite an aristocratic custom!"
"Still more so at the cattle market, so I would recommend you to use
your eyeglass while you are with us, for when once you have driven off
your cattle I am no longer responsible."
"Thanks for the warning," said the manager.
Here the doctor interrupted the discussion.
"Come out, gentlemen," he cried, "in front of the kitchen, and see the
sunrise."
The painter rushed forward, and began to sketch, but soon fell into
utter despair.
"Why, this is absurd! What colour! dark blue ground, violet mist on the
horizon, above it orange sky, and over that a long streak of rosy cloud.
What, a purple glory announces the coming of the sun! A glowing fire is
rising above the sharply defined horizon! Just like a burning pyramid,
now like red hot iron! Yet not so dazzling that one cannot look at it
with the naked eye. Now look, do! The sun is five-sided, the upper part
grows egg-shaped! The lower contracts, the top flattens out, now it is
quite like a mushroom! No, no, a Roman urn. This is absurd, it can't be
painted. Now there comes a thin cloud which turns it into a blindfolded
cupid, or a bearded deputy. No! If I painted the sun five-sided and with
a moustache they would shut me up in an asylum."
The painter threw down his brushes.
"These Hungarians," he said, "must always have something out of the
common. Here they are giving us a sunrise which is a reality, but at the
same time an impossibility. That is not as it should be."
The doctor began to explain that this was only an optical delusion, like
the _fata morgana_, and was due to the refraction of the rays through
the differently heated strata of the atmosphere.
"All the same it is impossible," said the painter. "Why, I can't believe
what I see."
But the sun did not leave him in wonder much longer. Hitherto, the whole
display had been but a dazzling effect of mirage, and when the real orb
rose with floods of light, the human eye could no longer gaze at it with
impunity. Then the rosy heavens suddenly brightened into gold, and the
line of the horizon appeared to melt into the sky.
At the first flash of sunlight the whole sleeping camp stirred. The
forest of horns of fifteen hundred cattle moved. The old bull shook the
bell at his neck, and at its sound uprose the puszta chorus. One
thousand five hundred cattle began to low.
"Splendid! Good Lord," exclaimed the painter ecstatically. "This is a
Wagner chorus! Oboes, hunting horns, kettledrums! What an overture! What
a scene! It is a finale from the Goetterdaemmerung!"
"Yes, yes," said Mr. Sajgato. "But now they are going to the well. Every
cow is calling her calf, that is why they are lowing."
Three herdsmen ran to the well--the beam of which testified to the skill
of the carpenter--and setting the three buckets in motion, emptied the
water into the large drinking trough--fatiguing work which has to be
done three times a day.
"Would it not be simpler to use some mechanism worked by horse-power?"
inquired the German gentleman of the overseer.
"We have such a machine," he replied, "but the cowboy would rather wear
out his own hands than frighten his horse with it."
Meanwhile a fourth cowboy had been occupied in picking out those cows
which belonged to Mr. Sajgato, and in removing their calves, which he
drove into the corral, the mothers following them meekly into the fenced
enclosure.
"These are mine," said Mr. Sajgato.
"But how can the herdsman tell among a thousand cattle which belong to
Mr. Sajgato?" asked the manager of the stables. "How do you know one
from the other?"
The overseer cast a compassionate glance over his shoulder at the
questioner.
"Has the gentleman ever seen two cows just alike?"
"To my eyes they are all alike."
"But not to the herdsman's," said the overseer.
The manager, however, professed himself perfectly satisfied with the
selected cattle.
The barrow-boy now came up, and announced that from the look-out tree he
had seen the other cowherd coming up at a gallop.
"Running his horse!" growled the overseer. "Just let him show his face
here. I'll thrash him till he forgets even his own name."
"But you won't really strike him?"
"No, for whoever beats a cowherd will have to kill him before he cures
him in that way, and he's my favourite lad too! I brought him up and
christened him. He is my godson, the rascal!"
"Yet you part with him? He is taking the herd to Moravia!"
"Yes," said the overseer. "Just because I have a leaning towards the
boy. I don't like the way he is going on--head over ears in love with
that pale-faced girl at the Hortobagy inn. 'Tis a bad business. The girl
has a sweetheart already. A csikos, who is away soldiering; and if he
comes home on leave and the lads meet, it will be like two angry bulls
who mean business. Much better that he should go away and take to some
pretty little Annie up there, and forget all about his yellow rose."
In the meantime the veterinary had examined every beast separately, and
had made out a certificate for each. Then the taligas marked the buyer's
initials in vermilion on their hides--for all the herdsmen can write.
The clattering hoofs of the horse which carried the cowboy could now be
heard. His sleepiness had vanished with the sharp ride, and the morning
air had cleared his head. He sprang smartly from the saddle, at some
distance from the corral, and came up leading his horse by the bridle.
"You rag-tag and bobtail!" called out the overseer from the front of the
enclosure. "Where the devil have you been?"
Not a word said the lad, but slipped the saddle and bridle off his
horse. It was white with foam, and taking a corner of his coat he rubbed
its chest, wiped it down, and fastened on the halter.
"Where were you? by Pontius Pilate's copper angel! Coming an hour behind
the gentry you should have brought with you. Eh, scoundrel?"
Still the lad was silent, fiddled with the horse, and hung saddle and
bridle on the rack.
The overseer's face grew purple. He screamed the louder, "Will you
answer me, or shall I have to bore a hole in your ears?"
Then the cowboy spoke. "You know, master, that I am deaf and dumb."
"Damn the day you were born!" cried the overseer.
"Do you think I invented that story that you should mock me? Don't you
see the sun is up?"
"Well, is it my fault that the sun is up?"
The others began to laugh, while the overseer's wrath increased.
"Take care, you blackguard, better not attempt to trifle with me, for if
I once lay hands on you, I'll mangle you like unbleached linen."
"I'll be there too, you bet!"
"Indeed you won't, rascal," exclaimed the overseer, who himself could
not help laughing. "There! talk to him in German any of you who can!"
The manager of the stables thereupon thought he might have a talk with
the herdsman in German.
"You're a fine strong fellow!" he said, "I wonder they didn't make an
Hussar of you. Why did they not enlist you? What defect could they
find?"
The cowboy made a wry grimace, for peasant lads do not much care for
those sort of questions.
"I think they did not take me for a soldier," he answered, "because
there are two holes in my nose."
"There, you see, he can't talk sense!" exclaimed the overseer. "Clear
out, you betyar, to the watering--not there! What did I tell you? Are
you tipsy? Can't you see the cows are all corralled, and who is to
bring out the bull?"
It takes a man, and no mere stripling, to take a bull out of the herd,
and this Ferko Lacza was a master of the art. With sweet words and
caresses, such as he might use to a pet lamb, he coaxed out the beast
which belonged to Mr. Sajgato, and led him in front of the gentlemen. A
splendid animal he was too; massive head, sharp horns, and great
black-ringed eyes. There he stood, allowing the cowboy to scratch his
shaggy forehead, and licking his hand with his rough, rasping tongue.
"And the beast has only seen the third grass," said its owner. The
herdsmen reckon the age of their cattle according to the grass, that is
the summers they have lived through.
Meanwhile the painter did not let slip the opportunity of making a
sketch of the great horned beast and its companion. "The cowboy must
stand just like that with his hand on the horns." The lad, however, was
not used to posing, and it injured his dignity.
When their models are restless, artists often try and amuse them with
conversation.
"Tell me," asked the painter--the others were inspecting the cows--"is
it true that you herdsmen can cheat about your cattle at the market?"
"Why, yes. The master has this very moment taken in the gentleman with
the bull. He made it out to be three years old, and see, there is not an
eye tooth left in its head!" He opened the animal's mouth as he spoke to
prove the fact of the deception.
The painter's sense of honour was even keener than his passion for art.
He immediately stopped painting. "I have finished," he said, and hastily
closing his sketch-book, he departed in search of his friends, who were
standing among the chosen cattle in the enclosure. Then he revealed the
great secret. The manager of the stables was horror-struck. Opening the
mouths of two or three cows, he called out:
"Look here, overseer! You warned us that cattle sellers like to 'green'
their customers, but I won't be done like this. Everyone of these cows
is so old that there is not an eye tooth left in its head."
The overseer stroked his moustache, and answered with a broad grin,
"Yes, I know that joke; it came out in last year's calendar. The General
who was cheated in the Franco-Prussian War through not knowing that
cattle have no eye teeth."
"Haven't they?" asked the manager in surprise, and when the doctor
assured him that it was so, he said petulantly, "Well, how should I know
about a cow's mouth? I am no cattle dentist. All my work has lain among
horses!" But he must needs vent his anger on somebody, so he flew upon
the painter for having led him into such a trap. "How could you?" he
demanded. The painter, however, was too much of a gentleman to betray
the cowboy, who had first taken him in. At last the taligas put an end
to the dispute by respectfully announcing that breakfast was waiting.
The taligas is cook on the puszta. All this time he had been preparing
the herdsman's breakfast of "tesztas kasa," or meal porridge. Now,
bringing out the pot, he set it on a three-legged stool. The guests sat
round it, and to each he handed a long tin spoon with which to help
himself. "Excellent," pronounced the gentlemen, and when they had eaten,
the overseer and the herdsmen devoured what remained. The scrapings of
the pot fell to the taligas. Meanwhile, Mr. Sajgato was in the kitchen
preparing the "Hungarian coffee," which all who have been on the puszta
know so well. "Hungarian coffee" is red wine heated up with brown sugar,
cinnamon, and cloves. It tastes most delicious after such an early
outing on the plains.
Then the taligas took the pot, rinsed it, filled it with water, and hung
it over the fire. The gulyas stew would be ready when the gentlemen
returned from their walk. They would then taste something really good!
Ferko Lacza showed the company round, pointing out to the strangers all
the sights of the puszta, such as the wind shelter and the railed-in
burying place for cattle.
"In the good old days," he explained, "if a beast died, we just left it
where it fell, and the vultures came in flocks and picked it clean. Now,
since this new order has come out, we have to inform the vet over at the
Mata Farm, who comes and inspects it, writes down what it died of, and
bids us bury it without fail. But we are sorry to see so much good meat
wasted, so we manage to take a chunk or two, which we cut up small,
cook, and spread out in the sun to dry. This we stuff into our bags, and
whenever we want gulyas, why we throw as many dried handfuls of meat
into the pot as there are men to eat it."
The painter looked the cowboy hard in the face, then turned to his
master.
"Does this worthy herdsman of yours ever happen to speak the truth,
overseer?"
"Very rarely, but this time he has, for once in his life."
"Then thank you very much for your delightful gulyas."
"Oh don't be alarmed!" said the overseer, "there's nothing bad about it.
Since God laid out the flat Hortobagy, that has always been the custom.
Look at those lads, can you desire healthier or stronger fellows? Yet
they have all grown up on carrion. The learned professors may talk as
much as they like, it doesn't hurt us Hungarians."
The manager, however, listening to this revelation, strictly forbade his
Moravian drovers to touch the dish.
"Though who knows," said the painter, "whether the old humbug has not
invented the whole story to scare us from the feast, and then have a
good laugh at us!"
"We'll see," rejoined his comrade, "whether the vet eats it or not, for
he must know all about it."
And now came the mirage, that seems like the realisation of a fairy
dream.
Along the horizon lay a quivering sea, where high waves chased each
other from east to west, the real hills standing out as little islands
in their midst, and the stumpy acacias magnified into vast forests.
Oxen, grazing in the distance, were transformed into a street of
palaces. Boats which appeared to cross the ocean turned out on reaching
the shore to be nothing but some far off horses. The fantastic deception
is always at its height directly after sunrise, when whole villages are
often raised into the air, and brought so close that, with a glass, the
carts in their streets can be distinguished, their towers and houses
being all mirrored upside down on the billowy fairy sea. During cloudy
weather, however, they remain below the horizon.
"Let the Germans copy this," exclaimed Mr. Sajgato to the admiring
group, while the painter tore his hair in despair.
"Why am I compelled to see things I can't put on canvas? What _is_
this?"
"Why the mirage," said the overseer.
"And what is the mirage?"
"The mirage is the mirage of the Hortobagy."
But Ferko Lacza knew more than his master.
"The mirage is God's miracle," he told them, "sent to keep us poor
herdsmen from growing weary of the long day on the puszta."
Finally the painter turned to the doctor for an explanation. "I know
even less," said he. "I have read Flammarion's book on the atmosphere,
where he speaks of the Fata Morgana as seen on the African deserts, the
coasts of the Arctic ocean, on the Orinoco, and in Sicily, also Humboldt
and Bompland's descriptions. But learned men know nothing of the
Hortobagy mirage, though it may be seen every hot summer's day from
sunrise to sundown. Thus are Hungary's wonderful natural phenomena
utterly ignored by the scientific world."
It did the doctor good to pour out the bitterness of his heart before
the strangers, but he had no time to admire the marvels of nature, being
obliged to hurry back to his animal hospital and pharmacy at Mata. So,
bidding adieu to both his old and new friends, he jumped into his gig,
and jogged away over the plain.
The herd was already scattered far out on the puszta, the cowboys
driving it forward. The grass near at hand is more luscious, but in
spring the cattle graze far afield, so that when summer scorches the
distant pastures, the nearer still remain for them. Very touching was
the farewell between the main herd and their companions in the
enclosure--like a chorus of Druids and Valkyre.
The head of the stables had meanwhile been occupied with the financial
side of the business and in arranging the line of march. In crisp brand
new hundred florin notes he paid Mr. Sajgato, who stuffed them into his
pocket so carelessly, that the manager thought it not superfluous to
remind him to look after his money on the puszta. Whereupon the proud
citizen of Debreczin answered phlegmatically,
"Sir, I have been plundered and deceived during the course of my
existence, but never by robbers or rogues. They were always 'honourable
gentlemen,' who knew how to thieve and cheat!"
The overseer likewise received his fee. "If," said the old herdsman, "I
might--out of pure friendliness--give you a word of advice, I would
recommend you, as you have bought the cows, to take the calves as well."
"What, we don't want a crowd of noisy brutes! Why should we take carts
for them?"
"They will go on their own feet."
"Yes, and hinder us at every step, by stopping the cows to drink.
Besides, the duke's chief reason for buying this herd, is, as I know,
not to experiment with pure Hungarian cattle, but to cross them with his
Spanish breed."
"Of course that is quite another thing," said the overseer.
There now remained nothing else to do but to start the new bought herd.
The manager gave the herdsman his credentials, and the chief constable
handed him his pass. These documents, together with the cattle
certificates, he put into his bag. Then he tied the bell round the
bull's neck, knotted his cloak round its horns, and bidding everyone
good day, sprang into the saddle. The overseer brought him his knapsack,
filled with bacon, bread, and garlic, enough for the week that they
would take to reach Miskolcz. Then he described the whole route to him.
How they must first go by Polgar, because of the mud at Csege, caused by
the spring rains, and sleep on the way in the little wood. They would
cross the Theiss by the ferry-boat, but should the water be high, it
would be better to wait there, and give hay to the beasts rather than
risk an accident.
Then he impressed on his godson the necessity of so behaving in a
foreign country that Debreczin need never blush for him. "He must obey
his employers, hold his high spirits in check, never forget Hungarian,
nor abandon his faith, but keep all the Church feasts, and not squander
his earnings. If he married he must take care of his wife, and give his
children Hungarian names, and when he had time he might write a line to
his godfather, who would willingly pay the postage."
Then, with a godfather's blessing, he left the young fellow to set out
on his journey.
Now the two Moravian drovers had undertaken the task of driving the
herd, when free from the enclosure, in the desired direction, but
naturally the beasts, as soon as they were set at liberty, rushed about
on all sides, and when the drovers attempted to force them, turned, and
prepared to run at them. Then they again made for the corral and their
calves.
"Go and help those poor Christians!" said the overseer to the herdsman.
"Better crack the whip among them," suggested the painter.
"The devil take your whip," growled the overseer; "do you want them to
run to the four ends of the earth? These are no horses!"
"I said they ought to be tied together in pairs by their horns," cried
the manager.
"All right, just leave it to me."
With that the cowherd whistled, and a little sheep-dog jumped from the
karam, and barking loudly, scampered after the disordered herd, dashed
round the scattered animals, snapped at the heels of the lazy ones, and
in less than two minutes had brought the whole drove into a well-ordered
military file, marching behind the bull with the bell.
Then the cowherd also bounded after them, crying "Hi, Rosa! Csako!
Kese!" He knew the name of everyone of the twenty-four, and they obeyed.
As for the bull, it was called "Buszke"--"Proud one."
Thus, under this leadership, the herd moved quietly off over the wide
plain. For long the gentlemen gazed after it, till it arrived at the
brink of the quivering fairy sea. Then suddenly each beast grew
gigantic, more like a mammoth than a cow, jet black in colour, and with
legs growing to a fearful length, until at last there appeared to be
attached to them a second cow, moving along with the other, only upside
down. Herdsmen, dog, drovers, all followed them head downwards.
The painter sank back on the grass, his arms and legs extended.
"Well, if I tell this at the Art Club in Vienna, they will kick me out
at the door."
"A bad sign," said Mr. Sajgato, shaking his head. "It's well the money
is in my pocket."
"Yes, the cattle are not home yet," muttered the overseer.
"What I wonder at," observed the manager, "is why some enterprising
individual has not taken the whole show on lease."
"Ah!" said Mr. Sajgato with proud stolidity. "No doubt they would take
it to Vienna if they could. But Debreczin won't give it up."