THE KLAUSENBURG CARNIVAL.
Readers of the foregoing pages will have had occasion to remark that,
except when diversified by fire or bloodshed, life at Hermanstadt was
_not_ a lively one; therefore an invitation which I received during my
second winter in Transylvania to spend some weeks at Klausenburg during
the carnival season was very welcome. It was a decided relief to get
away from the vulgar monotony of those antiquated flirtations which in
Hermanstadt did duty for society, and to be reminded of things one was
in danger of forgetting—of fresh young faces, light pretty dresses,
and real dancing.
Nor was I disappointed in what I saw during my fortnight’s stay at
Klausenburg: pretty dresses in plenty; prettier faces, for the girls
of the place are justly celebrated for their good looks; and as for
dancing—why, I do not think I ever knew before what it was to see
real, heartfelt, impassioned, indefatigable dancing. An account of the
three last carnival days, as I spent them at Klausenburg, will convey
some notion of what is there understood by the word dancing.
We had arrived late on the evening of the Saturday preceding
Ash-Wednesday, therefore only the gentlemen of the party, unwilling to
lose a single instant of their precious holiday-time, rushed off to a
large public ball or _redoute_.
The following evening—Carnival Sunday—assembled the whole society
in the _salons_ of the military commander, Baron V——, whose guest I
was at the time. There were from thirty to thirty-six dancing couples,
and the first thing to strike a stranger on entering the room was,
that not a single plain face was to be seen among them. Almost all the
young girls were pretty, some of them remarkably so; dark beauties
mostly, with a wealth of black plaits, glorious eyes, and creamy
complexions, and with the small hand and high-curved instep which
characterize Hungarian ladies. The faintest suspicion of a dark shade
on the upper lip was not without charm in some cases; and when viewed
against a strong light, many of the well-cut profiles had a soft, downy
appearance, which decidedly enhanced their _piquante_ effect. Side by
side with these, however, were one or two faces fair enough to have
graced any English ball-room.
What pleased me here to see was, that the married women, as a matter
of course, leave the dancing-field to the young girls, and do not
attempt, by display of an outrageous luxury in dress, to concentrate
attention on themselves: the particular type of exquisite _élégante_
never missing from a French or Polish _salon_ has no place here. This
is surely as it should be and as nature intended; pleasure, dancing,
flirtation are for the young and the unmarried, and those who have had
their turn should be content to stand aside and look on henceforth;
but when, as is too often the case, it comes to be a trial of strength
between matrons and maidens as to which shall capture the best partners
and carry off the greatest number of trophies, the result can only be
an unnatural and distorted state of society.
What Edinburgh society was to London some fifty years ago, so does
Klausenburg stand to-day with regard to Pesth. As nearly all the
people here are connected by ties of blood as well as of friendship,
something of the privacy of a family circle marks their intercourse;
and while lacking none of the refining touches of modern civilization,
a breath of patriarchal _sans gêne_ pervades the atmosphere.
The weak side of Klausenburg society at present is a minority of
gentlemen, as of late years many members of distinguished families
have got to prefer the wider range of excitement offered by a season
at Buda-Pesth to the more restricted circle of a purely Transylvanian
society which satisfied their fathers and grandfathers. On this
occasion, however, there was no lack of dancers, for the young hussars
who had come with us from Hermanstadt efficiently filled up the social
gaps, restoring the balance of sex in the most satisfactory manner.
What interested me most in the ball-room was to watch the expression of
the Tzigane musicians crowded together in a door-way; their black eyes
rolling restlessly from side to side, nothing escapes their notice, and
they are evidently far better informed of every flirtation, mistake,
coolness, or quarrel in the wind, than the most vigilant chaperon.
Of course here, as at every Hungarian ball, the principal feature was
the csardas; and it was curious to see how, at the very first notes of
this dance, the young people all precipitated themselves to the end of
the room where the musicians were placed, jostling one another in their
anxiety each to get nearest to the music. To an uninitiated stranger it
looks most peculiar to see this knot of dancers all pressed together
like herrings in a barrel in one small corner, while fully two-thirds
of a spacious ball-room are standing empty; but the Hungarians declare
that the Tziganes only play the csardas with spirit when they see the
dancers at close quarters, treading on their very toes and brushing up
against the violins. Sometimes the band-master, unable to control his
excitement, breaks loose from the niche or door-way assigned to the
band, and, advancing into the room, becomes himself the centre of the
whirling knot of dancers.
Whenever the csardas comes to an end there is a violent clapping of
hands to make the music resume. Hungarians are absolutely insatiable in
this respect, and, however long the dance has lasted, there will always
be eager cries for more and more and more.
The cotillon, which was kept up till seven in the morning, was
much prettier than any I remember to have seen danced before, for
Hungarians are as superior to Germans or Englishwomen in point of grace
as they are to Poles in the matter of animation—and they executed all
the usual figures demanding the introduction of a cushion, a mirror,
a fan, India-rubber balls, etc., in a manner equally removed from
boisterous romping as from languid affectation.
The following evening (Monday) the society reassembled at the pleasant
and hospitable house of Mme. de Z——, whose dark-eyed daughters take
a foremost rank among Transylvanian beauties. In order to have some
strength remaining for what was still to come, dancing was on this
occasion reduced to the modest allowance of six hours, the gypsies
being compulsorily sent away soon after three o’clock, in order to
force the young people to take some rest.
On Tuesday we all met again at the Casino for the bachelor’s ball,
given by the gentlemen of the place, and where, with the exception of
supper and occasional snatches of refreshment, dancing was kept up
uninterruptedly till near eight o’clock next morning. At the conclusion
of the cotillon each lady received from her partner a pretty white and
silver fan, on which her initials were engraved—a souvenir which I
have much pleasure in preserving, in remembrance of the happy days I
passed at Klausenburg.
An old traditional dance, which they here call _Écossaise_ (but which
in reality is simply a _pot-pourri_ of several English country-dances),
is danced at Klausenburg after midnight on Shrove-Tuesday, or rather
Ash-Wednesday morning.[76] This dance having been somewhat neglected of
late years, the young people blundered sorely over some of the figures,
and the dance would have lapsed into hopeless chaos had not the former
generation gallantly thrown themselves into the breach. Respectable
fathers of grown-up daughters, and white-haired grandmothers, now
started to their feet, instinctively roused to action by vivid
recollections of their own youth; and such is the power of memory that
soon they were footing it with the nimblest dancers, going through each
figure with unerring precision, and executing the complicated steps
with an accuracy and grace which did honor to the dancing-masters of
half a century ago.
One of these figures was the old one of cat and mouse, in which the
girl, protected by a ring of dancers, tries to escape the pursuit of
her partner, who seeks to break through the line of defenders—the
moment when the cat seizes its prey being always marked by the
band-master causing his violin to give a piteous squeak, imitating to
perfection the agonized death-shriek of a captured mouse.
It is _de rigueur_ that the last dance on Ash-Wednesday morning should
be executed by daylight. This was about seven o’clock, when, the lights
being extinguished and the shutters flung open, the gypsies threw all
their remaining energies into a last furious, breathless galop—a
weirder, wilder scene than I ever witnessed in a ball-room, to look
at this frenziedly whirling mass of figures, but dimly to be descried
in the scarcely breaking dawn—gray and misty-looking as ghosts risen
from the grave to celebrate their nightly revels, and who, warned by
the cock’s crow of approaching daybreak, are treading their last mazes
with a fast and furious glee; while the wild strains of the Tzigane
band, rendered yet more fantastic by the addition of a monstrous drum
(expressly introduced for the purpose of adding to the turmoil), might
well have been borrowed from an infernal orchestra.
When the galop came to an end at last, from sheer want of breath on
the part of both players and dancers, daylight was streaming into the
room, disclosing a crowd of torn dresses, crushed flowers, and flushed
and haggard faces, worn with the dissipation of the previous hours—a
characteristic sight, but not a beautiful one by any means. Each one
now rushed to the tea-room to receive the cups of fresh steaming _kraut
suppe_, served here at the conclusion of every ball. It is made of a
species of pickled cabbage, and has a sharp acid flavor, most grateful
to a jaded palate, and supposed to be supreme in restoring equilibrium
to overtaxed digestions.
While the ladies were resting till their carriages were announced,
the gentlemen began to light their cigars, and the Tziganes, having
recovered strength, resumed their bows; but what they now played was no
longer dance music, but wild, fitful strains and melancholy national
airs, addressed now to one, now to another of the listeners grouped
about.
In other Continental towns dancing is brought to an end on
Ash-Wednesday morning, and most people would suppose that having danced
for three nights running, even the youngest of the young would be
glad to take some rest at last. Not so at Klausenburg: nobody is ever
tired here or has need of rest, as far as I can make out; and it is a
special feature of the place that precisely Ash-Wednesday should be the
day of all others when gayety runs the wildest. The older generation,
indeed, lament that dancing is no longer what it used to be; for in
their time the Shrove-Tuesday party used never to break up till the
Thursday morning, dancing being kept up the whole Wednesday and the
following night, people merely retiring in batches for an hour or so at
a time to repair the damages to their toilets.
Such desperate dissipation has now been modified, in so far as the
party, separating towards 8 or 9 A.M., only meet again at 6 P.M.,
first to dine and then to dance. I could not get any one to explain to
me the reason of this Ash-Wednesday dissipation, which I have never
come across in any other place. Most of those I asked could assign no
reasons at all, except that it had always been the custom there as
long as any one could remember; but one version I heard was that in
1848 the Austrian Government took into its head to forbid dancing in
Lent. “So, naturally, after that we had to make a point of dancing
just on Ash-Wednesday to show our independence,” said my informant.
The delicate flavor of forbidden fruit, which, no doubt, adds so much
to the sweetness of these Ash-Wednesday parties, is kept up by the
Klausenburg clergy, who, after having for years vainly attempted to put
a stop to this regularly recurring Lenten profanation, now contents
itself with a nominal protest each year against the revellers. Thus,
as often as the day comes round, a black-robed figure, sent hither
to preach sackcloth and ashes, makes his appearance on the ball-room
premises; but, more harmless than he looks, his bark is worse than his
bite, and he interferes with no one’s enjoyment. He does not indite
maledictions in letters of fire on the wall; neither does he act the
part of Banquo’s ghost at the banquet. Probably he has in former years
too often acted this part in vain, so finds it wiser now to compromise
the matter by accepting a modest sum as alms for his church, and
abandoning the sinners to their own devices.
In place of the limp and crushed tulles and tarlatans of the previous
night, the young girls had now appeared mostly in pretty muslin and
fresh summer toilets adorned with natural flowers. Some of them looked
rather pale, as well they might after their previous efforts; but at
the first notes of the csardas every trace of fatigue was gone as if by
magic, and not for worlds would any one of them have consented to sit
through a single dance. “Of course I am tired,” said a young girl to
me, very seriously, “but you see it is quite impossible to sit still
when you hear the csardas playing; even if you are dying you must get
up and dance.”
For my part, I confess that the mere effort of looking on this fourth
night was positive exhaustion. Long after midnight they were still
dancing away like creatures possessed—dancing as though they never
meant to stop, and as though their very souls’ salvation depended on
not standing still for a single moment. My brain began to reel, and
feeling that worn-out Nature could do no more, I made the best of
my way to carriage and bed, pursued by nightmares of a never-ending
csardas.
After Ash-Wednesday Klausenburg society settled down to a somewhat
calmer routine of amusement, consisting in skating, theatre-going,
visiting, and parties.
There is a pleasing elasticity about Klausenburg visiting arrangements,
people there restricting themselves to no particular hour, and no
precise costume for going to see their acquaintances; so that ladies
bound for the theatre or a party may often be seen paying two or three
visits _en route_, not at all embarrassed by such trifles as short
sleeves or flowers in the hair.
About two parties a day seemed to be the usual allowance here in Lent.
Some of these reunions, beginning at five o’clock, were accompanied by
cold coffee, ham sausages, and cakes; others, commencing at nine in the
evening, were connected with tea and supper, so that frequently the
self-same party might be said to begin in one house and terminate in
another.
The gypsies were everywhere and anywhere to be seen, for most of these
social gatherings end in dancing, and without the Tzigane no pleasure
is considered complete. Pougracz, the present director of the Tzigane
band at Klausenburg, has, so to say, grown up in society, his father
having filled the post before him, and he himself, a man well on in
middle-age—with such a delightfully shrewd, good-natured, rascally
old face—has played for another generation of dancers, fathers and
mothers of the young people who now fill the ball-room. There are other
Tzigane bands as good, but his is the only one “in society,” and it
is most amusing to note the half-impudent familiarity of his manner
towards both gentlemen and ladies who have grown up to the sound of
his fiddle. It is positive agony to him to witness bad dancing, and he
was wont to complain most bitterly of one gentleman to whom nature had
denied an ear for music (a rare defect in any Hungarian). “None of you
young people dance particularly well nowadays,” he remarked, with frank
criticism, “but among you there is one who makes me positively ill to
look at. If I were not to play _at_ him and send my violin into his
feet, he would never be able to get round at all.”
On another occasion, when the figures of the _Écossaise_ threatened to
melt away into hopeless confusion, Pougracz angrily turned round and
apostrophized a married lady who was sitting near me. “How can you sit
there and see them making such a mess of it all?” he said. “It is not
so long ago that you were dancing yourself as to have forgotten all
about it, so go and make order among them!”
The pretty old-fashioned custom of serenades being still here en
_vogue_, sometimes on a dark winter’s night, between two and three
o’clock, one may hear the Tzigane band strike up under the window of
some fêted beauty, playing her favorite air or _nota_. The serenade
may either have been arranged by a special admirer, or merely by a
good friend of the family. Often, too, several young men will arrange
to bring serenades to all the young ladies of their acquaintance,
going from one house to another. The lady thus serenaded does not show
herself at the window, but if the attention be agreeable to her, she
places a lighted candle in the casement in token that the serenade is
accepted.
Such acceptance is, however, by no means compromising, no serious
construction being necessarily put upon what may simply be intended as
a friendly attention.
There is something decidedly refreshing about such frank ovations
nowadays, when the lords of creation have become so extremely chary
of their precious attentions towards the fair sex. To offer a nosegay
to a girl is in some places so fraught with ominous meaning as to be
considered equivalent to a marriage proposal, and exquisite young
dandies are apt to feel themselves seriously compromised by the gift of
a single rose-bud.
Only, the Klausenburg roses have no such treacherous thorns, it seems;
and methinks society must surely be healthy in a place where any
gentleman may, without laying himself open to the charge of lunacy,
wake up a whole street at 3 A.M. by instigating a musical row beneath
the window of a young lady acquaintance.
FOOTNOTES:
[76] I failed to obtain any reliable information as to when and how
this dance had been here imported, but it seems to have been in use for
a good many generations past.