GIPSY MUSIC.
“Magyars! Magyars!” I once heard a lady exclaim, who was not quite so
well up in the science of ethnology as she might have been in these
enlightened days, and who evidently confounded them in a nebulous kind
of way with the natives of Madagascar or some other out-of-the-way
island in the Indian or South Pacific Ocean--“a very interesting
people, I dare say, but as to myself I never could feel interested in
those poor savage Blacks!”
What then is the origin of these men of the house and lineage of
Arpád--this non-Aryan people whom Voltaire describes as _une
nation fière et généreuse, le fléau de ses tyrans et l’appui de ses
souverains_, and who, constituting the only Turanian race that has
ever been recognised as forming a portion of the great European family,
are well worthy of careful study, yet of whom the majority of persons
know so little, and some nothing at all?
They are the descendants of a Finnish people, who, emigrating
southwards through the passes of the Carpathians from their home in the
far North, approached Hungary in 886.
The word “Magyar” (pronounced Mad-yar), however, is of very ancient
origin, and has baffled the wisest philological heads to determine
its precise meaning. It was supposed in the Middle Ages to have been
derived from Magog, son of Japhet, the popular superstition of that
period recognising in these “pitiless heathen,” as they were called,
“the Gog and Magog who were to precede the approaching end of the
world.” Modern historians, however, have attributed to it various
other origins, the most recent affirming that the word signifies
“confederate.” But whatever may be its derivation, Max Müller, by
the unerring guide of language, has traced the original seat of this
interesting people to the Ural mountains which stretch upwards to the
Arctic ocean; and pointing out the close affinity the Magyar tongue
bears to the idiom of the Finnish race spoken east of the Volga,
declares that the Magyars form the fourth branch of the Finnish
stock, viz. the Ugric; and in his ‘Science of Language’ he gives
striking examples of the similarity and connection which exist in the
grammatical structure of the Magyar and the Ugro-Finnish dialects,
particularly in the conjugation of verbs, which have aptly been called
the “bones and sinews” of a language; and there is little doubt that
the Magyars are none other than the same race that, under a different
name, were called in the fourth century “Ugrogs.”
Hungary--the “_beata Ungaria_” of Dante--has been peopled since
the beginning of the Christian era, as we have already seen, by three
distinct and separate colonies of barbarians, whose birthplace was
in the regions of the frozen North. Here, led by Attila, the Huns
established themselves between the third and fourth centuries, and
hither a century or two later came the Avars, belonging to the same
northern race, each destined to accomplish its _rôle_ in the
history of nations, to rise to its meridian and then decline, till
finally overwhelmed by other warlike barbarians similar to themselves.
Lastly--though these have shared a better fate--came the Magyars, the
great conquering army with Arpád at its head, in whom the Ugro-Finnish
type once more reappeared in all its pristine energy, the same that
is believed to have existed in the bands of Attila: a nomad people
who, though also composed of savage hordes, became by their daring
and warlike propensities the scourge of Aryan Christendom, and were
destined not only to become a great empire and take their place amongst
the civilised nations of Western Europe, but, by their arms raised
against the enemies to its peace, to be in after-ages its surest
bulwark of defence against Mahomedan aggression.
A little red steeple, and a sea of mud through which the stranger has
to plough his way to the shore of the lake, under the full apprehension
that each succeeding step must cause him to disappear in its apparently
bottomless depths, introduce us to the village of Sió-Fok, situated on
a small river into which the Platten-See falls, and which, by means
of canals, is made to drain many of the marshes of the surrounding
country; the Sió, which winds away in a southerly direction, being in
fact one of those nine streams that are supposed to flow underground
and communicate with the Danube.
As soon as we have embarked, the steamer--which, lying amongst tall
reeds and willows, was almost hidden till we came alongside her--breaks
from her moorings and goes bounding away into the beryl waters of the
lake. Skimming over its glassy surface, we pass scores of wild fowl as
white as snow, which, not the least disconcerted at our near approach,
stand gravely pluming themselves on the low sandy islands just
appearing above the water, or watch with the keen eyes of anglers for
the fish that the wash of the steamer may chance to lay at their feet.
The Platten-See is at its narrowest here, and the steamer takes us
across to Fűred in rather less than an hour, where, after travelling
over the nearly desolate plains, we seem to have arrived all at once at
the very centre of civilisation.
Fűred itself lies at the foot of a range of volcanic hills, and is much
resorted to by the Hungarians on account of its mineral springs. In the
summer months the little place is crowded, and it is then difficult,
if not altogether impossible, to find accommodation at either of the
hotels or boarding-houses unless rooms have previously been secured.
Should the traveller have failed to do this, he can have recourse to
Arács, a neighbouring village, where “casuals,” “for a consideration,”
can generally be “taken in and done for.” The season, however, had as
yet not quite set in, so that we entertained no fears concerning our
shelter for the night.
Arrived at the opposite shore, we are met by porters who quarrel over
us; two lay hold of our portmanteau, one at each end, while a third
seizes it affectionately round the centre. They scramble for each
article as it is disgorged from the steamer. Walking-sticks, umbrellas,
dressing-bag, binoculars, are all alike severally snatched from our
grasp. The landlord of the hotel to which we are bound also meets us,
and, foreseeing in our persons a long line of prospective tourists,
almost embraces us on the spot. Scanning us from the crown of the head
to the sole of the foot, to ascertain whether there is another mortal
thing left to be carried, he at length espies a small sketching-block
under my arm, on which a precious unfinished picture is reposing, and
lays violent hands upon it. A struggle ensues for its possession,
during which, holding on to my treasure as for dear life, I come off
panting, but victorious.
Calmness once restored, we proceed in hurried procession to the hotel,
where waiters rush out upon us and repeat the ceremony. They help
us up the steps, they insist officiously on brushing the dust off
our travel-stained garments, they almost pat us on the back in their
great joy at the arrival of--what we afterwards found ourselves to
be--the first real live tourists of the season. Overwhelmed with this
consideration, their feelings do not permit of their leaving us for an
instant. They follow us up the stairs, where, as our footsteps echo
through the empty passages, they are joined by other domestics, who
appear suddenly and mysteriously from unseen and hidden apartments.
The landlord, the waiters, the porters, the cook, the chambermaid, the
slavey from the shades--who arrives upon the scene, beaming but out of
breath, just at the last moment--one and all either precede or follow
us into the very precincts of the guest-chamber.
On descending to the _salle à manger_, we find covers laid
for four persons at a side table, whilst in the middle stand other
tables, round which, closely placed together, are chairs, arranged in
readiness for the visitors whose advent is now daily expected; and as
we sit awaiting the arrival of our repast, Fancy, in the stillness of
the great chamber, conjures up the spirits of its future occupants,
and peoples it with cheerful guests, till the walls resound with
merriment and laughter. Pretty, piquante Magyar women and girls;
Hungarian officers in stiff backs and much-padded uniforms; Hungarian
civilians--heavy fathers in ponderous braidings and more ponderous
manners; German and Hungarian Jews and Jewesses--all are once more
before us just as we saw them gathered in this festive hall three long
years ago.
At this juncture of our imaginings, a merry laugh and light steps
herald the arrival of two ladies, who, advancing to our table, take
seats beside us. The long aquiline nose and protruding upper lip
proclaim them at once to belong to the family of Israel.
The external characteristics of this people are not so strongly marked
here as in many other countries, but it is nevertheless impossible to
mistake them. In Hungary alone they number upwards of 1,100,000, and,
like the gipsies, are met with at every turn. The ladies above referred
to--mother and daughter, I imagine, from the likeness they bore to each
other--were both strikingly handsome. Indeed, whether belonging to Jew
or Gentile, it is seldom one sees a plain woman in this happy country.
They were from Presburg, they informed us, and had arrived soon after
ourselves. Fortunately they could both speak German, or our limited
knowledge of the Magyar language would have rendered conversation
impossible.
The repast that was at length placed before us was both good and
abundant, with the exception of the renowned Fogas (_Perca
lucioperca_), a fish for which the lake is justly celebrated, and
which--O ye epicures!--was garnished with shavings of raw onions.
Now, I hope we are not delicate to a fault in the matter of food,
provided its ingredients be not unclean, and we have more than once
partaken--unwittingly, it is true, but not without relish--of a dainty
viand afterwards discovered to have been minced snails fried in butter
and bread-crumbs, which, if you “make believe” very hard indeed, tastes
like scalloped oysters; but boiled fish and onions, cooked or uncooked,
I hold to be an outrage on the gastronomic art quite unpardonable in
any civilised nation.
The familiar French proverb, however, was never more strikingly
exemplified than in this particular instance, for both our fair
companions partook of the--to us--unsavoury combination, and were still
enjoying their _bonne bouche_ when, leaving them, we strolled out
in the evening air.
* * * * *
It is a lovely evening, and the setting sun, a ball of fire, floods all
nature in a sea of glory. Away in the marshes, the lakelets are kindled
into a harmonious mingling of vermilion and bronze, save where they
reflect the pale soft azure of the zenith. Then as the fiery god sinks
at last--as he appears to do--into the very bosom of the earth, what
transcendent effects of light break like magic over earth and sky! What
exquisite gradations of colour! What infinite depths of saffron and
rose and violet stretch upwards, till they fade in the liquid purple of
the arc above!
Watch now the long lines of rich warm colour as they gradually stretch
across the darkling landscape! Here and there some darker object still,
a clump of trees or gipsy encampment, stands out black against the
paler colouring of the “off-scape.” What is that dark mass yonder? The
clear atmosphere, aided by our field-glass, at once declares it to be
a party of travellers bivouacking for the night, reminding one of an
Eastern caravan.
What a statuesque group they make against the amber sky, and what a
subject for an artist! Men standing in their long fur-lined mantles,
others crouched on the ground making a fire or unpacking provisions
for their evening meal; by their side lie numerous gourds and leathern
bottles, just such as Hagar carried in the wilderness: while the rich
colouring of their garments mellowed in the dying light, and the long
shadows thrown across the golden sward, assist in forming a most
picturesque combination.
[Illustration]
In these vast plains _csárdák_ (inns)--a name no doubt derived
from _csárdás_, the national dance, which is performed more
frequently perhaps in these little places of doubtful resort than
anywhere else--are few and far between, but the Hungarians happily
are by no means dependent on them for shelter. That wonderful garment
the _bunda_, with which every man is provided, renders him
invulnerable alike to heat and cold, forming as it does his house, his
bed, his protection both from the scorching summer sun and from the
intense frosts and bitter, cutting blasts that in winter scour the
region of the plains. During the latter season the fur is worn inside,
the garment being reversed when the hot weather sets in. “My son,
forget not thy bread in winter, nor thy _bunda_ in summer,” is
consequently a familiar and appropriate Magyar maxim.
How strange, silent, and at the same time majestic, is the Alfőld at
this hour; and how full of sentiment and repose, as twilight gently
falling softens its lines and furrows, as slumber does a wrinkled,
careworn face, smoothing all in a wondrous breadth of calm!
A cold aguish mist now rising warns us to return. Looking behind us,
the sapphire hills loom sombre against the evening sky. The stars peep
forth timidly, and reflect themselves in the shadows of the lake. In
the window of a villa along the shore a solitary light burns red, a
little boat is making for the shore, and the far-off sound of music
breaks the stillness with pathetic cadence.
On nearing our hotel we find that it proceeds from a gipsy band,
which, according to time-honoured custom, has come to serenade the new
arrivals. The instruments consist in the present instance of three
violins, a violoncello, double-bass, clarionet, and cymbals, and we
hear once more those passionate strains, so full of pathos and beauty,
which have lived in our memory ever since we first heard them at Pest
four years ago.
The Magyars have a perfect passion for this gipsy music, and there
is nothing that appeals so powerfully to their emotions, whether of
joy or sorrow. These singular musicians are as a rule well-taught,
and can play almost any music, greatly preferring, however, their own
compositions. Their music consequently is highly characteristic. It is
the language of their lives and strange surroundings; a wild, weird,
banshee music; now all joy and sparkle, like sunshine on the plains;
now sullen, sad and pathetic by turns, like the wail of a crushed
and oppressed people--an echo, it is said, of the minstrelsy of the
_hegedősök_ Hungarian bards, but sounding to our ears like the
more distant echo of that exceeding bitter cry uttered long centuries
ago by their forefathers under Egyptian bondage, and borne over the
time-waves of thousands of years, breaking forth in their music of
to-day.
Gipsies, like the Jews, muster strongly in Hungary, and number more
than 150,000. They are said to have taken refuge in this country from
the cruelty of their Mogul oppressors, and to have been suffered by
King Sigismond to establish themselves here under the title of “new
settlers.”
There are three classes of gipsies in Hungary, or _Farao nepek_,
“King Pharaoh’s people,” as they are often called in derision: the
musicians; the _sátoros czigánok_, or tented gipsies, by which
is meant, those who wander from place to place; and those who, having
a settled habitation, are the only blacksmiths in the country.
Notwithstanding their vagabond appearance, the gipsies are often
anything but poor, and have sometimes been known to amass considerable
wealth. Besides being musicians and blacksmiths, they also frequent
fairs in the character of horse-dealers, so that the Hungarian gipsy,
viewed in his social aspect, is a much more important individual
than his English brother, and is in fact, as he has been very aptly
designated, the “hanger-on” of the Magyar. No festivity ever takes
place without his being summoned to enliven it with his soul-stirring
music, whilst in some parts of Hungary it is the custom, or was so
until very recently, for a gipsy band to attend a funeral procession
to the cemetery.
Wherever one goes, the _czigány_ (gipsy) is sure to be seen. With
his long cart, on which, huddled together, sit his wife and ragged
children, he travels from village to village, his destination usually
being one of the numerous fairs which take place annually in this
country; and whether travelling along with his little worldly all, or
encamped with his tent under the blue expanse of heaven, he forms one
of the most picturesque features of the Alfőld scenery.
[Illustration]