There are as yet no institutions in our country for those unhappy
beings in whose minds the "image and likeness" to their Divine
original has been destroyed. Hence every town and village in Hungary
has its lunatic or idiot, familiar to everybody, from the child to the
old man, who often remembers him from _his_ childhood--for such
unhappy persons generally live a long time.
They are looked upon as public orphans by the people, and are allowed
to wander about as their innocent inclinations may suggest; seeking
wild-flowers in the lonely woods, singing through the streets, lying
abroad in the sun, or roaming by moonlight; and none wish to deprive
them of the blessed free air, to check their strange gibberish, or
their love for the pathless woods and the mysterious moon. They are
sure to find good souls, who feed them when they are hungry, and
clothe them when they are in want, or give them shelter at the close
of day, to continue their ceaseless pilgrimage next morning. And when
the power of darkness comes, and they run through the streets, or
shout up at the windows, they are merely greeted with "jo bolond"
(good fool), or some such familiar expression; but none try to silence
or confine them, for it is known that silence and confinement are
torment to a fatuous person.
Some are born thus--perhaps _they_ are happy; but for those whose
countenances were once as bright and intelligent as any other, what
chords have been rent asunder in the heart, what sudden revolution has
overturned the mind, that the soul should no longer know itself! Some
retain a few words from the memory of the past, and those who hear the
strange sentence only shake their heads, and exclaim, "Poor fool!"
little knowing what a world of grief, what a tale of ruined hope and
withered life, lies concealed in these few unintelligible words!
A few years ago, I spent some time in the county of Csongrad,[28] a
very beautiful and populous district, where I had many opportunities
of mixing with the peasants and farmers of the country. In this
district the farmers, however wealthy, bear the name of peasant, and
still retain their simple costume, the linen _kontos_,[29] and the
_brenda_.[30]
[Footnote 28: In the east of Hungary.]
[Footnote 29: _Kontos_, short Hungarian coat.]
[Footnote 30: _Brenda_, the cloak bordered with fur.]
At the house of one of these worthy peasants in particular, I was a
frequent visitor; his simple but vigorous mind, and the wit and
pertinence of his remarks, often entertained me. I partook of his
hospitality at all their family _fêtes_--the vintage, kukoricza
gathering,[31] and birthdays; and indeed the good people would have
taken it amiss had I remained behind.
[Footnote 31: "Kukoricza gathering," the cutting of the maize or
Indian corn--a great _fête_ in Hungary, like the vintage.]
On one occasion I happened to enter as they were baking, and was
received in the kitchen, where the wife, a rosy-faced, buxom young
woman, was standing beside the stove superintending the motions of
five or six servants, though she herself was more busy than any, with
her own hands kneading the loaves, and tossing them on the
baking-shovel. The husband stood there too, under pretence of lighting
his pipe, but in reality for no other purpose than to tease his wife,
who, during the important affair, scolded everybody who did not move
as quickly as she did, which became her very well.
Already ten large bannocks, fried with goose fat, and enriched with
preserved plums, lay smoking on the hearth; these the good woman,
immediately on my entrance, began arranging in her best dishes, and
offered to me with a welcome smile, her husband assuring me that she
had baked them herself, and adding something about a certain wine
which was particularly good to drink after them.
In the midst of all this work, during which Mistress Kata several
times applied the long handle of the baking tongs to the shoulders of
such as did not bestir themselves quickly enough to please her, the
door was softly pushed open, and the figure of a very old and
shrivelled woman appeared on the threshold; at first she only put in
her head, and looked around with a ghastly and vacant smile, caressing
the dogs, which ran up to her, and speaking to them as if they were
the dearest friends she had in the house; she then slowly advanced
into the room, pausing every now and then, as if waiting to be
invited, and again taking courage to proceed.
Nobody seemed to notice her except myself; they were either too much
engaged, or the fearful-looking creature who advanced towards them was
too familiar a sight to strike them as she did me, who saw her for the
first time.
Her figure was so bent and shrivelled that she did not appear to be
more than four feet high; her head was uncovered, and a mass of
perfectly white hair hung in a long plait down her back, as young
girls used to wear it. The face was furrowed by a thousand wrinkles,
and the vacant and half-closed eyes seemed ever gazing on the same
spot, while her lips were distended in a continual unearthly smile,
while every now and then she made an idiotic motion with her head; her
petticoat and apron were composed of bright-coloured rags sewed
together; in one hand she carried a large bunch of wild-flowers and
weeds, and in the other two billets of wood.
On seeing a stranger, she endeavoured, with an odd and embarrassed
_naïveté_, to conceal her face behind her large nosegay; and,
shuffling up to Mistress Kata, who had just placed her last loaf on
the baking-shovel, she tapped her on the shoulder with the flowers,
exclaiming, with a weird laugh, "Hühü! Mistress Aunt, here I am, you
see!"
"That's right, Marcsa," said Mistress Kata; "I was just expecting
you,--don't you see?"
"Hühü!--I have brought you some beautiful flowers to plant; then I
heard you were baking, and I have brought wood," and she placed the
billets in Mistress Kate's arms.
"Now, you see, if you had not brought me this, we could not have kept
up the fire. Well, will you have a bannock?"
"Hühü! that I will," said the old woman, stretching out her shrivelled
arms.
"There, now--eat it," said Mistress Kata, handing her a large cake.
"But you must eat it before me."
"Hühü! I will take it to Joska bacsi!"
"Joska bacsi doesn't want it. Joska bacsi has sent to say that you are
to eat it yourself."
"Really! did he say that?" asked the old woman; and then, with a deep
sigh, she began to swallow the bannock. She did not bite it, not
having wherewithal, but pushed the pieces into her mouth and swallowed
them, heaving a deep sigh at every mouthful; and, when she thought
nobody was observing her, she hastily concealed the remainder in her
apron, and looked round in great glee at having succeeded so cleverly.
"What will she do with the piece she has hidden?" I asked Mistress
Kata.
"She keeps it, poor fool, for Joska bacsi!"
On hearing Joska bacsi mentioned, the old woman looked eagerly up, and
asked, "What does Joska bacsi say?"
"He says you must count how many poppy-seeds[32] there are in that
plate," said one of the maids, laughing.
[Footnote 32: Poppy-seeds are much used in Hungary, in bread,
puddings, cakes, &c.,--a favourite ingredient worked up into crust for
different pastries.]
The old woman rose without a word, and, approaching the plate, began
eagerly counting the seeds grain by grain.
"Why do you trifle with her?" said I, pitying the poor, witless
creature; while Mistress Kata came forward and took hold of her arm.
"Leave it alone, good Marcsa; Erzsi is telling a story--that was not
what Joska bacsi said."
But the poor idiot would not leave off counting till Kata said,
pointing to me, and making a sign that I should acquiesce, "Look here,
Marcsa; this gentleman has just come from Joska bacsi, and he has
brought a message from him that you should go home and remain quiet,
and not wander so much about the Theiss--did he not, sir?"
I of course assented, on which the idiot shuffled joyfully up to me,
and, taking my hand, looked long into my face with her fearful, vacant
eyes, and then said coaxingly, "Hühü! I do think he is almost as
beautiful a lad as my own Joska bacsi!"
This was very flattering, though I would have been better pleased had
this hapless creature not gazed upon me thus, with her fixed and
witless eyes, and hastily taking a piece of silver out of my pocket, I
offered it to her.
Idiots are always fond of money, and as soon as I had put the coin
into her hand, she immediately wished everybody good-night, and set
off in great haste.
"Well, there's something more for Joska bacsi," said Mistress Kata,
laughing.
"How--how?" I eagerly asked, my curiosity being much excited.
"She will throw it into the Theiss where the water is deepest.
Whatever she gets that she can give to Joska bacsi, all goes into the
Theiss!"
"And who is this Joska bacsi?"
"Nobody at all: dear heart! such a creature never existed on earth. It
is only a fancy, such as all idiots have."
"And was she always mad?"
At these words an old peasant, who had been sitting in the
chimney-corner, and silently observing us, exclaimed, "No, sir, that
she was not."
"Well, I have never seen her otherwise, since I remember anything,"
said Mistress Kata.
"You are not yet thirty years old, Mistress, and this happened long
before your birth."
"Do you know something about her, then?" I asked, turning with
interest to the old man.
"He know, indeed!" said Mistress Kata scornfully; "he just likes to
tell stories, when he can find a fool who will listen to him. But
don't be taken in, young gentleman, take my word for it."
I paid no attention, however, to Mistress Kata's warning, and
questioned the old man further: "Perhaps it was love that drove this
poor woman mad?"
"Love, indeed!--what nonsense!" cried Mistress Kata; "as if a peasant
would go mad for love! Bless your soul! only great folks can do
that--peasants have something else to do."
"And were you not yourself madly in love with me, eh?" interrupted her
husband, putting his arm round her waist.
"Get along!" cried his wife, striking his hand and blushing to the
eyes; "I'd like to know for what?"
The old peasant meanwhile pulled my cloak, and whispered, "I don't
like speaking here, sir, for they only laugh at me; but if you would
like to hear, come this evening. I will be standing in the porch, and
there I can tell you. It is a sad story enough, and may interest you
to hear it."
Mistress Kata reverted frequently to the subject, exclaiming ever and
anon, as the bread baked, and she took each loaf out of the oven and
turned up its shining crust, "Well, that is an idea!--go mad for love
of you, forsooth, as if you were worth going mad for!"
I did not forget my evening tryst, and found the old man in the porch.
I greeted him with "Adjon Isten,"[33] and placed myself beside him on
the bench.
[Footnote 33: _Adjon Isten_, God give--an abbreviation for, God give
good day, &c.]
The old man returned my salutation, and, emptying his pipe, began
striking fire with a flint. "Permit me, sir, to light my pipe again;
for I cannot now think much unless I see the smoke before me;" then,
drawing his cap far over his brow, he began his tale:--
"Nobody remembers anything about it now, for full sixty years have
passed since it happened; I was myself a barefooted boy, and it is
only a wonder that I have not forgotten it too. That poor idiot whom
you saw there, that wrinkled old creature, was then a beautiful young
girl, and that Joska bacsi of whom she always speaks was--my own
brother! There was not a handsomer pair among all the peasants than
those two; I have seen many a rising generation since, but never any
like them! Our parents were mutually sponsors. Marcsa's mother held my
brother and me at our baptism, and my mother held Marcsa. We played
together, we went to school together, and to the Lord's Table on
Easter Sunday. Hej! that was a good priest who christened and
catechized us; he has been long since preaching in heaven; and the
worthy chanter who instructed us too, is up striking time among the
angels!
"The lad and the young girl had been so attached from their childhood,
that they never dreamed they could live otherwise than together. Our
mother always called Marcsa her little daughter-in-law; and when she
and my brother were each nineteen years old, their parents decided
that if God pleased to preserve us all till the next Carnival, they
should be married. My brother often entreated them not to wait till
the Carnival, 'for who knows,' he said, 'what may happen before then?'
and with reason did his heart misgive him, poor fellow! for at the
vintage Marcsa's father and ours went to the cellars to make the wine,
and the deadly air[34] struck them--we found them both dead!
[Footnote 34: The wine-cellars, which every peasant possesses, are not
in their cottages, but out in their vineyards; it frequently happens
that there is a malaria in the vaults, which is certain death to any
who remain in them above a certain time.]
"The mourning was very great in both houses--the two fathers cut off
at one stroke; but in Marcsa's house the distress was still greater
than in ours, for the old man, having been sacristan, had been
intrusted with certain sums, of which two hundred florins were missing
after his death. Where he had put them, or what had become of them,
was never known, for death had struck him too suddenly. The reverend
gentlemen who examined the accounts had so much consideration for the
poor widow, that they did not bring the affair to light, and even
promised to wait a whole year, during which time the family must
endeavour to make up the sum, as after that period it could no longer
be kept secret.
"Our mother was much distressed when she heard of this affair, and
there was no more said of the carnival wedding: she was a poor but an
honest woman, and how could she allow her son to marry the daughter of
a man in whose hands the public money had been lost, and whose goods
would probably be sold at the end of a year to repay the scandalous
debt? The young lovers cried and lamented loudly, but it was all in
vain; my mother said if the sum should be restored within a year she
would receive the girl, but never otherwise. She prohibited my brother
from holding personal intercourse with Marcsa during that entire
period; and in order that he might keep his word the more easily, she
bound him apprentice to a Theiss miller, and then--the water parted
them.
"Meanwhile, Marcsa's mother very soon died of grief and care, and
the girl was left alone. But love wrought wonders in her; and when
the poor girl had not a creature in the world to help her, she came
over to our mother and said: 'You will not allow your son to marry
me unless my father's debt be replaced--good, I have still a whole
year, and I will work day and night; I will endure hunger,
fatigue--everything, but I will earn the money.'
"And then she began to put her promise into execution.
"Oh, sir! you do not know what a great sum two hundred florins is for
a poor peasant, who has to earn it all by hard and honest labour, the
work of his hands and the sweat of his brow, and to collect it penny
by penny.
"From this day forward, the good girl was scarcely ever seen away from
her work. All through the winter, she sat for ever at her wheel,
spinning a yarn like silk, which she wove herself; there was no linen
like hers in the village, as I have heard the old folks say. She
looked after the poultry in the morning, and carried the fowls and
eggs herself to market. There was a little bit of a garden behind the
house, where she kept flowers and vegetables; and earned more by it
than many who had four times as much ground. In summer she joined the
reapers, and all that she got for her work she turned into
money--fruit, or poultry, or little sucking pigs. Throughout that
blessed year, sir, nobody ever saw smoke arise from her chimney: a bit
of dry bread was all her daily sustenance; and yet the Lord took such
good care of her, that not only her beauty did not diminish, but she
looked as healthy and as rosy as if she were living on milk and
butter. Love kept the spirit in her, poor girl!
"My brother was not allowed to go to her, but I was the messenger
between them. Often, in the fine summer evenings, when I was down at
the mill with my brother, he would take his flute and play those
beautiful melodies, which none could do better than he; and the girls
on the other side, who were filling their pitchers in the stream, or
standing with their white feet in the water, washing linen, would hear
the air, and join in the chorus. But my brother only heard one voice,
and that was the sweetest and the saddest I ever listened to, and
brought tears into the eyes of every one who heard it: you could have
recognised her voice among a thousand.
"Sometimes his master gave my brother leave of absence for an hour or
two, and those were happy days for Joska: he would send me to bid
Marcsa come down in the evening toward the Willow Island. This was a
little sandbank covered with willow-trees, about three or four fathoms
from the shore. Hither would my brother also come in his little boat,
while his true-love sat opposite to him upon the shore, and there
would they converse till morning across the stream--thus satisfying
their own hearts, and obeying my mother's orders. They met, and yet
were separated.
"On this footing things remained until the vintage. Marcsa was
considered not only the prettiest, but the best girl in the village.
The new wine was not yet clear, when one morning the good girl came
into my mother's, and counted out two hundred florins on the large oak
table--all in good huszasok,[35] not one small piece was wanting--and
begged my mother to take them with her to the reverend gentlemen, who
gave a sealed receipt for the amount. None but ourselves ever knew
that it was all our pretty Marcsa's hard earnings.
[Footnote 35: _Huszas_--a silver piece containing twenty kreutzers,
worth eightpence.]
"On returning, my mother took Marcsa home with her, and plaited her
long hair with pretty rainbow-coloured ribbons, put a string of
garnets round her neck, and a pair of fine shoes on her little feet;
and all gaily dressed, she took her--none of us knew whither.
"I followed them, however, to the Theiss, when my mother bade me go
and ask the ferryman to take us across to the mill, where my brother
was serving; and we all three sat down in the boat.
"Even now I think I see the beautiful girl: it seems as it were but
yesterday that she sat in the boat before me by my mother's side,
blushing modestly, her sparkling eyes cast down. Her heart told her
whither we were going.
"My brother recognised us from a distance, and seeing that we were
rowing towards him, and his beloved sitting by his mother's side and
on her right hand, he rushed joyfully down to his boat, and pushing it
off, leaped in and rowed to meet us.
"When he came up to us, and he and his bride raised their eyes towards
each other, the poor things scarcely knew what they were about for
joy--they looked as if they could have flown, to rush the sooner into
one another's arms. Joska guided his boat alongside of ours that we
might step in, and coming to the bow, he stretched out his arms to
Marcsa, who trembled like the delibab[36] with joy and emotion.
[Footnote 36: The mirage, or _Fata Morgana_, frequently seen on the
puszta, and which sometimes appears to tremble like a reflection in a
troubled stream. The traveller is sometimes deceived by seeing a
village or castle before him, which trembles and vanishes by degrees
as he approaches.]
"At that moment the boat overbalanced, and my brother suddenly fell
between the two boats, and disappeared from our sight.
"The unhappy bride, who had stretched out her arms to the bridegroom
for whom she had endured so much and worked so hard, uttered a fearful
cry, and threw herself after him into the Theiss.
"My poor mother and I wrung our hands, and called for help, which
brought out the millers from the other side, who hastened down to
their boats, and put off towards us: in a short time they took up
Marcsa, whose wide dress floated on the surface; but they could not
find my brother, and we never saw anything more of him from that hour,
except his wreathed bonnet[37] floating on the water.
[Footnote 37: The Hungarian peasants in some districts wear small
pointed hats, in form like the Tyrolian, always adorned with a wreath
of flowers.]
"Three days afterwards, my mother was struck with apoplexy, and the
poor bride lay insensible in a violent fever. For six weeks she
continued more dead than alive; and when at last she was able to rise,
her beauty was all gone--you could scarcely have recognised her as the
same person.
"For some time we only remarked that she was very sad and thoughtful,
and would sit all day without speaking a word; but by and bye, to our
astonishment, she would go down to the river, and when the miller's
boys came over in their boats, would ask, 'What news from Joska
bacsi?'
"At first we thought this was still only the effect of fever,--for
during her illness she had raved incessantly of Joska; but as time
wore on, and she was always doing stranger things, our eyes began to
open to the melancholy truth. One day she went home, and telling us
she was going to arrange her house, that it might be in order when
Joska bacsi came, she began turning up all the chairs and tables,
whitewashed the house, killed her little poultry one after the other,
and then began cooking and baking to prepare for the wedding. All at
once, however, she became quite distracted: knew no person by name,
would speak aloud in the church, and pray and sing along the roads;
she would do no work, and was indeed quite incapable--entangled all
her yarn, saying she would get more money for it if in that condition,
and set out empty egg-shells for market. At last, the wandering mania
came upon her. One evening she disappeared from her house; and after
searching everywhere for five days, we found her among high reeds by
the river's side--her face disfigured, and her clothes all torn. Since
that time, the poor creature has remained insane. Her beauty had
passed away like the wind, and in four years she was the broken-down
old woman you now see her, and that was full sixty years ago.
"Every one has now forgotten the event, for few are living who
witnessed it; and the oldest man remembers her since his childhood as
Crazy Marcsa, who minds neither cold nor hunger, fasts for days
together and eats whatever is placed before her, collects every gaudy
rag and sews it on her dress, calls old and young _nene_ (elder
sister), and asks but one question--'What news from Joska bacsi?'
"The folks laugh at her, but none know that her bridegroom lies below
the Tisza water; and the merry girls in the spinning-rooms have little
thought, when they make fun of Marcsa, that the wrinkled and fearful
old creature was once as gay and smiling--ay, and prettier far than
any of themselves. Such is life, good sir!"
The old man emptied his pipe: it was getting late. I thanked him for
the tale, and pressing his hand, returned slowly and thoughtfully
home.
"Strange, that a peasant should go mad for love! Only great folks can
do that!"
I heard another case, in Bekes, of an idiot who was to all appearance
a very quiet and industrious man. One could scarcely perceive any
symptoms of insanity about him; but if the name Gyuri (George) were
uttered in his hearing, he would start up--whether he was eating or
working, or from whatever his employment might be--dash down his spoon
or his saw, and run without stopping till he fell down from utter
exhaustion.
Mischievous boys would sometimes make him run thus for their senseless
amusement; at other times, the name, unguardedly dropped, would send
him rushing to and fro: but otherwise, he was the quietest, gentlest
creature in the world, and one might converse with him as with any
other person.