[Illustration: VALLEY OF THE FÜNF-SEEN.
FRONTISPIECE, Vol. I.]
“MAGYARLAND;”
BEING THE NARRATIVE OF OUR TRAVELS THROUGH THE HIGHLANDS
AND LOWLANDS OF HUNGARY.
BY
A FELLOW OF THE CARPATHIAN SOCIETY,
AUTHOR OF ‘THE INDIAN ALPS.’
[Illustration]
IN TWO VOLUMES.--VOL. I.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS.
LONDON:
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE, & RIVINGTON,
CROWN BUILDINGS, 188 FLEET STREET.
1881.
[_All Rights reserved._]
LONDON:
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.
Dedicated
TO
ALL WHO LOVE MOUNTAINS
BY
ONE WHO WORSHIPS THEM.
CONTENTS OF VOL. I.
CHAPTER I.
PAGE
INTRODUCTORY 3
CHAPTER II.
THE PUSZTA 17
CHAPTER III.
A CAUTION TO SNAILS 30
CHAPTER IV.
GIPSY MUSIC 44
CHAPTER V.
WE ARE MET BY OUR GUIDE 55
CHAPTER VI.
DÉLI-BÁB 66
CHAPTER VII.
THE AGÁS OR HUNGARIAN WELL 78
CHAPTER VIII.
DAWN IN THE ALFŐLD 92
CHAPTER IX.
THE RACE 104
CHAPTER X.
PEST 122
CHAPTER XI.
THE VOLKSGARTEN 136
CHAPTER XII.
THE ICE-CAVES 154
CHAPTER XIII.
A STORM IN THE MOUNTAINS 169
CHAPTER XIV.
SLOVAKS AND RUSNIAKS 184
CHAPTER XV.
THE SNOWY TÁTRA 196
CHAPTER XVI.
GOBLINS OF THE MIST 208
CHAPTER XVII.
THE MOUNTAIN HOME 222
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE GIPSY CAMP 239
CHAPTER XIX.
THE RED CONVENT 252
CHAPTER XX.
ZAKOPANE 265
CHAPTER XXI.
THE CHAMOIS HUNTER 277
CHAPTER XXII.
ZIGZAGGING 289
CHAPTER XXIII.
YETTA 298
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE MOUNTAIN FUNERAL 311
CHAPTER XXV.
ANDRÁS IN DIFFICULTIES 325
CHAPTER XXVI.
AFLOAT! 340
CHAPTER XXVII.
A MOONLIGHT MEDLEY 353
CHAPTER XXVIII.
SHOOTING THE CATARACTS 366
[Illustration]
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
VOL. I.
FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS.
VALLEY OF THE FÜNF-SEEN _Frontispiece_
THE ICE-CAVES OF DOBSINA _Facing page_ 155
SMALL ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
A YOUNG HUNGARIAN NOBLE viii
VIEW ON THE GULF OF VENICE 16
SLOVENE GIRL 17
SHEPHERD AND SHEEP ON THE PLAINS 26
BRIGANDS 29
OLD HUNGARIAN PEASANT 30
PEASANTS IN COUNTRY CART 32
GOING TO CHURCH 34
“LITTLE NELL” 41
“CARRIAGES MEET THE TRAINS!” 43
TRAVELLERS BIVOUACKING FOR THE NIGHT 51
MAGYAR COSTUMES 54
OUR GUIDE 56
A HUNGARIAN VILLAGE 58
GIPSY-TENT 65
THE THRESHOLD OF ALFŐLD 72
DÉLI-BÁB (A MIRAGE) 76
SHEPHERD’S HUT AND WELL 91
PEASANTS AT A WELL 95
COTTAGE DOORWAY 103
A RAINY DAY 105
OUR GUIDE’S WIFE 111
JÖZSEF 121
CHURCH STEEPLE AT PEST 122
A TRUE MAGYAR 133
OUR CHAMBER-MAID 135
BOAT-HOUSE IN THE VOLKSGARTEN 143
A MAGYAR LADY 147
UNDER THE ROBINIAS 153
THE “CORRIDOR” IN THE ICE-CAVES 154
THE SPITZENSTEIN 157
WOMEN WASHING IN A STREAM 165
FETCHING THE MILK 168
AN INN KITCHEN 176
DOWN THE MOUNTAIN-SIDE 181
A CORNER IN THE INN PARLOUR 183
AMONGST THE SLOVAKS AND RUSNIAKS AT WERNÁR 188
“THE LAST SWEET THING IN HATS” 190
A YOUTHFUL SLOVAK IN TEARS 195
VILLA SONTAGH 202
TÁTRA-FŰRED 204
A RUSNIAK BROTHER! 207
GOBLINS OF THE MIST 208
ZIGZAGGING 211
“MINSH’S” FLIGHT 221
THE LOMNITZER-SPITZE 236
A CARPATHIAN CART 238
KESMARK 242
OLD MAGYAR WOMAN 251
THE RED CONVENT 254
BY THE WAY-SIDE 256
THE “ROYAL HUNGARIAN MAIL” 264
PEAKS OF THE NORTHERN TÁTRA 269
LAKE IN THE MOUNTAINS 276
THE HERR GRAF 277
TÁTRA STAFF 290
A MOUNTAIN “GOTTESACKER” 305
WAY-SIDE SHRINE 310
SLOVAK SYMPATHY 319
COVERED CART CONTAINING ZIPSER PEASANTS 324
MORE “GENTLE SLOVAKS” 332
GREETING 339
MERCHANDISE BOAT ON THE DANUBE 340
A SWINE-HERD’S HUT 346
THE SCULLERY-MAID OF S. S. SZECHENYI 352
OUR DANUBIAN JEANNETTE 361
A SLAVONIAN BOAT 365
CASTLE OF GOLUMBACZ 370
THE BOSNIAN BRETHREN 374
A HUNGARIAN COUNTRY INN 379
“MAGYARLAND.”
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTORY.
The sun has sunk to rest in the warm bosom of the plains, and the
porphyry hills of Buda stand out blue against the sky. In the long
green avenue of robinias which line the quay, the flowers, drooping
from the fervid heat of noontide, now unfold their perfumed petals and
scent the evening air. Zephyrs, Oriental in their softness, come borne
towards us over the Southern waves of the Danube, while from the gilded
balconies of the houses along the shore are heard the melodious ring
of voices and merry laughter, where the Magyar ladies sit to enjoy the
cool breeze. Above the streets and squares of Pest, the black-and-gold
cupolas glistening in the ruddy gleam of expiring day look like
sentinels flashing emblazoned sabres.
What bright and pleasant recollections rise before us of the beautiful
city as, in fancy, we visit it again and see its noble palaces that
skirt the banks of the river casting the long reflections of their
white façades in the deep waters beneath!
Immediately opposite Pest, separated by the monarch of European
rivers, lies Buda, linked to its sister-city by the most splendid
suspension bridge the world yet boasts.
Passing once more in fancy the grim lions that guard its entrance and
crossing over to the other side, what stirring memories come crowding
into the mind! What changes have come over this ancient city of kings
since Imperial Rome sat proudly enthroned within its confines, and in
her days of pomp and power erected this amphitheatre, enduring type
of her greatness and her brutality! How varied and mighty have been
thy fortunes, proud Secambria, since thy proconsuls celebrated in this
arena their cruel fêtes!
As the twilight falls, the busy hum and shouts of men, borne across
the river, shape themselves in our present mood to the clamour of a
barbarian camp. We catch the rumble of heavy chariots, and the tramp
and neighing of their chargers, and we hear the triumphal strains of
martial music that proclaim the overthrow of Rome and the erection of
Attila’s iron throne.
But the shadows deepen--and who are these, the pitiless heathen, that
come sweeping up with the mists on the river, till they too reach the
shores of the Danube and Buda’s embattled walls? _Hark!_ It is
Arpád and his chieftains from the North, who celebrate in their turn,
on the ruins of Attila’s palaces, with the music of lyres and the clash
of cymbals, the Magyars’ conquest of Pannonia!
Slowly the moon rises, and lo! “a change comes o’er the spirit of our
dream.” Turning our eyes to the citadel, crowned with its palaces as
with a diadem, we catch the flicker of the Crescent above the gateways,
see fluttering from the walls the pennon of the Moslem victors, and
hear from the towers of the Christian churches, now minarets, the
watchman’s chant, “For Allah is great, and there is no God but He.”
Yet once more memory holds up its magic crystal, and, as the moon
floats in placid triumph in the sky and the solemn stars stand ranged
about her, there grows over the scene yet another change. The flicker
of the Crescent pales and dies. The green pennon of Islam droops and
disappears. For the conquering shadow of the Cross has fallen again
upon the sleeping city, and, instead of the cadence of the watchman’s
voice, there is borne upon the night air now, the pious music of
Christian vesper-bells.
Truly, a wondrous history!
* * * * *
It was a lovely morning on which we stepped into the train that bore
us in earnest and for the third time towards the land of the Magyar,
a thoroughly old-fashioned May morning. The East wind had at length
taken itself off to its own quarter, and the sun shone as benignly
as if it actually meant to stay. It was just one of those rare days
when a person of sanguine temperament might have been justified in
entertaining a certain amount of confidence in the stability even of
English weather. Nature had thrown off her dingy winter mantle, and
clothed herself in a garb of fairest green. Everything seemed to say,
“Summer is come! Summer is come!” The lark said it as he soared high in
the azure depths: the blue-bell said it as she hung her head languidly
in the high grasses in quest of shade: the bees said it as the perfume
of the wild flowers called them to drink of their honey: the breeze
said it as it fanned the slender stems of the ragged-robins in the
hedgerows, and made billows of the emerald corn: the old gentleman
said it who sat opposite, and who, puffing like a steam-engine himself,
arrived upon the platform just as the train was about to start.
What matter to us how the wind howl to-morrow, or the returning frost
nip the newly-awakened spring-flowers? We are away, away! New costumes,
new scenes, snow-capped mountains, foaming torrents, placid lakes, all
chase each other through the brain in rapid succession like a perpetual
dissolving view. At this distance no _contretemps_ enter into
our philosophy; no ferocious Hungarian officials who mistake us for
Russian spies; no keen-sighted _douaniers_ who look us through and
through, as they demand whether we have anything to declare, awakening
serious qualms of conscience concerning just that one little contraband
something concealed in a mysterious corner of our belongings which we
have determined _not_ to declare; no days when we dine with Duke
Humphrey and go supperless to bed. None of these things damp our ardour
as we are borne through the smiling pastures of the West.
“The channel’s as calm as a fish-pond,” remarked the fat stewardess
on our arrival on board the steamer. “And there’s scarce the leastest
swell on.” But--_exeunt_ passengers the following morning,
woe-begone, dishevelled, wan, but hopeful.
On, past the quay, where the “merry fish-wives” cluster round the
vessels, and bend under the weight of their large full creels. Through
the quaint suburbs of the old Norman town, where more merry fish-wives
sit surrounded by conical baskets full of red mullet, which at a short
distance look like exaggerated pottles of ripe strawberries.
On, on, for we tarry nowhere, till we reach the fair capital of “La
belle France.”
Here we linger for a day to call on a Hungarian merchant. He had
promised to give us letters of introduction to some friends of his,
who were landed proprietors in the north and south-east of Hungary,
and which we believed would be very useful to us in that _terra
incognita_. For such the greater portion of Magyarland still is to
the ordinary tourist in spite of M. Tissot, for his interesting travels
were strictly confined to Croatia, and the extreme west of the country.
The common and direct route to Hungary, and the one by which we entered
it on our two previous visits, is _viâ_ Munich and Vienna. But
partly because we pined to breathe once more the balmy breezes of
sunny Italy and bask in the smiles of her people if for ever so short
a period, and partly because, unless compelled to do so, we rarely
follow the conventional routes laid down in guide-books, we decided
to go through Venice, and make that place our starting point to the
“polyglot” country whither we were bound; a decision that greatly
astonished a little Frenchman whom we saw in the merchant’s office in
question.
“You should go to Munich,” said he, “and thence to Vienna, to reach
Hungary.”
“Why?” we demanded.
“Oh! that is the regular route.”
“Yes! but we do not care to go by the regular route,” we replied; “we
wish to see Hungary in its byways as well as in its highways.”
With a shrug of the shoulders, and an elevation of the eyebrows, as
much as to say he hoped we should find the travelling to our liking,
and muttering to himself “_que les Anglais sont originals_!” he
turned away.
Here another voice broke in, proceeding from a tall bony man, whose
form, half hidden behind the sheets of _Galignani_, we had
scarcely observed.
“There are no _diligences_, and no carriages in Hungary worth
mentioning _as such_,” he exclaimed, and then subsided behind his
newspaper again.
He pronounced the French word _diligence_ as we pronounce our own
familiar noun, and his speech betrayed his Transatlantic origin.
“Most _Messieurs les voyageurs_,” rejoined the Frenchman,
returning to the charge, and evidently unwilling to surrender his point
to another--“Most _Messieurs les voyageurs_ rest satisfied with a
visit to Pest.”
“_Vous avez raisong, mussoo_,” replied the American, without
moving a muscle of his face, his eyes still fixed on the pages of his
newspaper,--“Natur’ made Hungary a first-class country, but they’ve
got a mode of locomotion there that whips all creation; as to railways
they’ve none to speak of, and where you do find ’em the pace at which
the lumbering old machines crawl along is a caution even to snails. If
you want to do the Danube”--this time addressing himself to us--“take
my advice and go _down_ stream; you’ll do it in half the time:
and if you’re thinking of doing the Carpathians, what I say is,
_don’t_; you’ll soon get tired of cross-country work in Hungary, I
can tell you, and as to the language----”
Happily at this juncture the conversation was brought to an abrupt
conclusion by the entrance of the merchant himself, who had been absent
on our arrival, but who now gave us the letters of introduction of
which we stood in need, assuring us we should receive much hospitality
and kindness from the gentlemen to whom they were addressed, together
with assistance on our travels, should any be required.
A brief examination, before leaving England, of Bradshaw’s Continental
map had shown us that railway communication is now open the whole way
from Venice to Pest, a distance in an almost direct line of five or six
hundred miles. But the pages of that useful guide proved “too many” for
us in their bewildering complications, and we were obliged to postpone
the all-important question of “how to get there” till our arrival at
Venice.
Arrived at that place, however, the question seemed as far from being
solved as ever. The local railway guide conducted us as far as Udine, a
comparatively short distance on our way, and then left us stranded high
and dry on a shore of uncertainty. This being the case, we hail from
the window of our hotel a passing gondola, and float off to the railway
terminus to ascertain the matter for ourselves.
The hot weather had scarcely begun, and the wooden covers, with their
black hearse-like fittings, had not been removed to give place to the
bright-coloured awnings. As we glide through the sombre and silent
ducts, walled in by ancient palaces which frown down upon us on either
side, and skim over the glassy surface of the Grand Canal, the rocking
motion of our dismal craft produces within us a vague and dreamy
sensation; other black gondolas are following in our wake, the bell
of a distant church is tolling, and being English, and taking “our
pleasures sadly,” we feel we must be on our way to our own funeral,
till we are jerked into consciousness and life again by the grating of
the prow on the mainland close to the terminus itself.
The ticket office is of course closed, and there is not the shadow
of an official to be seen anywhere. But wandering along to the great
platform in the dim hope of finding some one there who can help us, we
are at length cheered by the sight of a person in the garb of a railway
official of some sort coming towards us from the farther end. His
footsteps echo dismally in the vaulted space, and for utter loneliness
in his surroundings he might have been “the last man.”
Could he inform us what time the train left for Pest? we eagerly
inquired as he approached us.
“Pest! Pest!” he exclaimed, looking bewildered--he could scarcely have
been more so had we inquired the way to the moon.
“The capital of Hungary,” we suggested.
“Yes! yes!” he knew it was in Hungary somewhere; but here his stock
of geographical knowledge came to an end, at any rate so far as that
particular branch of the subject was concerned, and, with a bow and
polite wave of the hat, he passed on his way, leaving us more benighted
than before.
Whilst ruminating what next to do, we heard a quick step behind us, and
he again appeared.
“_Perdono, Signore!_ It strikes me that you must go hence to
Vienna, and you will then have no difficulty in reaching Pest.”
Now to travel due north to Vienna, when Hungary lay in an easterly
direction, was quite beyond the endurance of any enlightened
travellers, particularly that of such experienced and enterprising ones
as ourselves. It was not to be contemplated for a moment, but as we
strolled back to our gondola, we began to wonder whether after all we
had not for once been mistaken in deviating from the orthodox route and
in creating one for ourselves.
On mentioning the source of our disappointment to our swarthy Charon, a
bright idea seizes him.
“_Ma ecco!_ Why will not his _Eccellenza_ go to the _Signor
Inspettore_ himself? He lives up those steps yonder”--pointing to a
house close by.
Why not indeed? Acting on our brave gondolier’s suggestion, we go at
once in quest of him.
The _Signor Inspettore_ was fortunately at home, and greeted us
with the pleasant smile and ready courtesy which one invariably meets
with in the people of this land. We were, however, once more doomed to
failure. He knew everything apparently but that which we had come to
learn; he certainly did _not_ know the way to Pest, but bidding us
wait, he retired to an inner chamber, whence he soon returned bearing
under his arm an enormous map, his radiant countenance proclaiming that
he had at last solved the difficulty.
“_Perdono, Signore!_ I have ascertained. You must go hence to
Nabrisina. There you will have to wait two hours, when another train
will take you on through Cormöns to the Hungarian frontier.” And by the
way he spoke of Cormöns one would have supposed it to be the extreme
limits of civilisation.
“Not many strangers travel this way to Hungary,” added he.
“But do not _your_ people sometimes travel?” we inquired.
“_Ma no!_” was the reply, given in that sharp, incisive tone in which
every Italian pronounces that latter monosyllable. “We do not often
travel, and to Hungary never. _Basta!_ the climate of Hungary _e una
clima da Diavolo_;” adding with a shrug of the shoulders--the full
significance of which we duly appreciated--“_Perdono, Signore!_ Only
the _English_ go there.”
The moon had risen a full round orb as, the object of our quest
accomplished, we once more stepped into our gondola and, gliding away,
soon formed one of the many black specks crossing her silvery pathway
on the great Lagoon.
The brilliantly-lighted shops in the colonnades of the Piazza di San
Marco remind us that we have still something to do before we are
fully equipped for our Hungarian travels. We had, as I have said,
seen Hungary on two previous occasions; seen it, that is, in its
highways. This time we meant to see it in its byways also; for which
purpose it was necessary that we should equip ourselves for that
cross-country travelling of which the American had hinted such dark
things. Experience, too, that stern schoolmaster, likewise taught
us the desirability of rendering ourselves independent, as far as
possible, of the accommodation to be met with at small out-of-the-way
inns. For these, however full of promise externally, are inwardly,
except in rare instances, replete with disappointment; and black bread,
_kukoricza_, bacon, and “_paprika hendl_”--a national dish,
in which a fowl that, in blissful unconsciousness of the immediate
future, has been picking up the crumbs that fell from the traveller’s
table as he partook of his first course, may, at his last, appear in
the form of a hasty stew, thickened with red pepper--are the only
things to be found wherewith to fortify the inner man.
In addition, therefore, to a case of hermetically-sealed provisions
brought with us from England, we here invested in a number of small
items in the culinary line necessary for our anticipated wayside
bivouacs, including a singular contrivance for easy cooking, whereby
the mysterious operation of roasting meat in a species of saucepan is
accomplished; the vessel in question being called a _cazarola_.
Besides these, there was yet one other item we had to provide ourselves
with; namely, some dozen yards of stout rope, a very necessary adjunct
to cross-country travel in Hungary.
For the necessities of the outer man we were already well provided
by the possession of a large _bunda_--a relic of our former
travels. This magnificent garment of Hungarian invention is a glorious
institution, than which in the whole sartorial art there is none so
grandly adapted to its purpose, or to the climate of the country,
where the changes are exceedingly rapid. The chill which immediately
follows the setting of the sun often causes the temperature to sink
20° Réaumur in the short space of two hours, and without this garment
the traveller will very probably fall a victim to the Hungarian fever
occasioned by the exhalation from the marshes. In fact, as the Venetian
station-master delicately hinted, Hungary, like England, may be said to
have “no climate, only weather.”
The majestic Alfőld, or plains of Hungary--the European Pampas as they
have been called--though hardly as boundless as the ocean, are scarcely
less fickle: now soft and tender under a calm and cloudless sky as they
slumber in the dreamy haze of sunny noontide, now all glorious in the
resplendent hues of the out-goings and in-comings of Day; anon fierce
and tumultuous, as a violent wind sweeps over them, which, meeting with
no obstacle whereon to spend its fury, whirls shrieking in frantic
circles like an angry demon, tosses the trembling and resistless
hillocks of sand into billows, or, with a hissing noise, lashes them
into fragments like ocean spray. Here also, in summer, as on the great
African desert, the traveller crossing the sandy wastes is often misled
by the delusive mirage. In the distance a lake, or village, or lonely
_csárda_ (tavern) lures him on, and causes him to lose his way.
No landscape, however, is so impressive as that afforded by these
plains--plains so vast that they appear to embrace the Infinite; where
the sun at setting seems to sink into the very bosom of the earth, and
the stars burn red to the verge of the horizon. Who can describe the
awful grandeur and stillness that reigns over this boundless region,
as Night comes hastening on, bringing with it the stars, to hang like
silver lamps in the sapphire deeps; or the beauty of the heavenly arch
when the “milky way” is stretched across the zenith like a spangled
veil, and the planets burn with such a steady light that they seem to
cast a path of glory athwart the plains beneath?
Fitful as the climate is, there are however, happily for the traveller,
two months in the year when he may almost depend upon fine weather,
viz. May and June. The long winter’s frost and snow have at length by
that time passed away; the intense heat of July and August has not yet
begun, nor the autumnal rains which render the Hungarian roads (bad
enough at the best of seasons) absolutely impassable.
After two more deliriously happy days at Venice, spent in loitering
about its colonnades, sitting in the beautiful Piazza di San Marco
listening to the strains of the military bands and sometimes floating
over the glassy surface of the canals, we bid adieu to the “Bride of
the Sea.”
In the railway carriage with us were two priests whom we had met at the
hotel “Due Torri” at Verona, and who were, they informed us, to be our
fellow-travellers as far as Udine. There was also a lady from Carniola
on her way to Laibach, whose head was covered with a kind of Spanish
mantilla and who spoke Slovenic, a dialect of the Wendish.
As soon as the train had fairly started, the priests, taking off their
broad-brimmed beaver hats and exchanging them for more comfortable
skull-caps, began reading their breviaries, following the contents with
a motion of the lips, but without utterance of the faintest sound.
We now pass through an undulating country rich in cultivation, and
olives and mulberry-trees take the place of vines. Our route leads us
through the classic land of Illyria, a name rendered immortal by the
poems of Virgil and Dante. After leaving Izonzo, we reach the ancient
town of Monfalcone, situated within a few miles of the once famous city
of Aquileia, where the Emperor Augustus often resided--a mere village
now, but containing, in the time of the Romans, a population of 100,000
souls.
The train soon begins to ascend one of those barren and rugged hills
which form the north-eastern boundary of the Adriatic Sea. Here all
vegetation ceases except that of stunted herbage, and as far as eye can
reach nothing is visible but rocky and conical hills.
As the engine labours up the steep gradient the blue waters of the
Adriatic suddenly burst upon the view. To the left stretch the marshy
plains which, extending over a vast area, constitute the “Littorale,”
or northern shores. Away, in the distance, rise the purple mountains
of Istria, whilst below, embosomed in green hills, lies Trieste. The
scene is calm, beautiful, and majestic in the evening light, recalling
many a sad association connected with the life of the author of the
“_Divina Commedia_,” as well as many an episode of early lore.
[Illustration]