THE ÁGÁS OR HUNGARIAN WELL.
The aspect of the Alfőld varies considerably according to the nature
of the soil. In some places it is boggy; in others sandy and incapable
of cultivation; in others again it is so marvellously fertile that
it produces crops which by an English agriculturist would be deemed
absolutely fabulous. In such areas shafts have been sunk five
hundred feet for the purpose of ascertaining the depth of the soil,
but even then without the bottom having been reached. In this rich
alluvial deposit wheat, poppies--the latter grown for a kind of
confectionery--sunflowers, buckwheat, hemp, flax, maize and tobacco,
are all cultivated.
In the cultivation of some parts of the Alfőld the method adopted is
to plant or sow in strips of about eighty feet wide and several miles
in length; and the stranger, seeing no habitation far or near as he
plunges along in his _britzska_ or “shaker,” is led to wonder
where the people live for whom the roads are made and who they are who
cultivate the soil, or whether benevolent earth spirits do not rise
during the night to till the land, sow the seed, and hoe and weed those
endless lines of golden maize and undulating corn.
The soil being so fertile, the harvests, as I have said, are
wonderfully abundant, and this, too, in spite of the drawbacks to
which the crops are subject, arising from droughts on the one hand, and
inundations on the other. The former are attributed in a great measure
to the absence of trees, one of the first peculiarities that strike the
traveller on entering the Alfőld.
To remedy this evil to some extent, namely, the dryness of the soil,
trees are being planted in great numbers in many districts of the
plains, whilst in others attempts are being made to irrigate the land
by means of canals.
The inundations, however, are a difficulty that can never be overcome.
Year by year a war offensive and defensive is waged by the waters of
the Danube, and its tributaries the Marős and the Theiss, with the
unfortunate inhabitants of the towns and villages situated on their
shores. As the beds of these rivers rise, the dykes are raised also;
but when there happens to be a sudden thaw in the higher Carpathians,
no artificial barrier is strong enough to resist the great pressure
brought to bear upon them, and the result is the bursting of the dykes,
as in the case of Szegedin, and the inundation of the surrounding
country.
There is also another phenomenon prejudicial to the interest of
agriculturists. The rivers flow subterraneously. In dry seasons they
drain the soil by drawing down its moisture to themselves; while in
rainy seasons the water of the overfull rivers, welling up through the
light alluvial soil, converts the plains into a gigantic swamp. Nor
is this all. The Danube is perpetually changing its course; in some
instances it has left towns and villages many miles distant which were
once situated on its banks; whilst it now flows close to others at one
time far away.
Geologists declare that at some pre-historic period the plains formed
three inland seas, and it is quite impossible to travel in the vicinity
of this greatest of all European rivers and its tributaries, without
feeling that in Time’s great cycle the waters must once more submerge
the whole district of the Alfőld.
In spite of all these disadvantages, the Magyars love their plains just
as the Swiss do their mountains, and see in them the embodiment of all
natural beauty.
Across these steppes the roads, which are often little better than a
waggon track overgrown with grass, are occasionally given to being
vague. Proceeding on our way we reach a point where two such roads
meet. The driver is evidently puzzled which to take. That to the left
appears to vanish in a corn-field, and the one to the right to lead
to a farm lying half-hidden in low brushwood. Pausing to consider our
bearings, we soon descried creeping lazily along the former, another
long waggon, the only kind of vehicle we have passed since leaving
Fűred.
“Ho! Hi! _Soger_!” cries our driver--“which is the way to
Stuhlweissenburg?”
The word _Soger_, which in that sense meant German, was an
unfortunate epithet, most insulting to a Magyar.
“_Brother!_” was the reply, uttered in a savage tone of voice and
accompanied by what sounded like an oath, the waggoner at the same time
giving a sharp tug to the reins that brought the waggon right across
our path and landed his team in a bog at the side. Then, standing
upright on the seat, he traced with his finger slowly and majestically
the whole circle of the horizon and exclaimed, “_There!_”
The Hungarians entertain a deep-rooted dislike to Germans individually
as well as to everything German; and to pretend to mistake a Magyar
for one of the hated race is a favourite and very effective mode of
insult.
After a delay of half an hour, during which the oxen are being
extricated from the bog, and the waggon dragged into position again,
we journey on once more and come to villages, the one-storied houses
of which are so uniformly built that, with their white gables facing
the same direction, they look from a distance precisely like tents. In
fact, wherever the observant traveller goes in Hungary, he is struck
with two peculiarities: one consisting in the relics of Orientalism
possessed by the people, as exhibited in their costume, manner of
cooking food, and many other domestic habits; the other, in the
resemblance their dwellings of to-day bear--in form and arrangement at
any rate--to those of their Turanian ancestors. The general features
of the Hungarian villages exactly correspond to a military camp;
and a stranger who travels merely from Pest to Presburg, or _vice
versâ_, will see this statement amply exemplified. The railway
skirts the Danube nearly the whole way, and looking across the broad
and glassy stream he will here and there observe, as the train bears
him along, what appear to be thousands of tents standing in groups at
the foot of, or lying on, the slopes of the hills; and should it happen
to be his first visit to Hungary, he will be under the full impression
that the whole army is camping out, until he suddenly finds, on nearing
a village, that what he imagined from a distance to be white tents are
after all but cottages.
The Hungarians are in very truth an odd mixture, here exhibiting traits
plainly traceable to their Ugro-Finnish forefathers, and there those
common to their former subjugators the Turks.
What, for instance, can be more truly Oriental than the _ágás_
or Hungarian well, to another of which, as we continue to jog along
the plains, we have just arrived? It consists of a deep shaft sunk
in the soil, and enclosed by a low parapet or wall. The water is
raised by means of a long cross-beam, fastened to a pole of equal
length, to which a rope and bucket are attached; the whole forming the
exact counterpart of the wells found on the plains of Hindustan, and
doubtless the same as that at which Abraham’s servant met Rebekah and
Jacob fell in love with Rachel on the plains of Mamre.
These primitive wells are principally made for the use of shepherds,
to enable them to water the flocks which graze on the uncultivated
wastes of these vast plains. Unharnessing the horses, Jöszef leads them
across to the one we have just reached. Hard by stands the shepherd’s
hut, which is made of straw, its shape that of a beehive; whilst the
shepherd himself, a tall man with a sheepskin cloak, who in his shaggy
garment looks not unlike the sheep he is tending, comes out and,
raising the water, holds the cool, dripping bucket to the noses of our
thirsty team.
After this we move on again as before, and pass lonely farmsteads,
surrounded by wooden palings and sheds for cattle. Near these
enclosures, and leaning wearily all on one side, may generally be seen
a rusty iron crucifix, throwing its pathetic shadow across the path.
Our Jehu, who has been smoking vigorously almost ever since we started
in the morning, now takes his pipe from his mouth, and, placing
it for safety in the leg of one of his top-boots, begins to doze.
András, sitting beside him, also dozes, the horses doze, we doze, all
nature dozes, in the sultry calm of eventide. The tired flocks cease
to browse; the tinkling of their bells is heard no longer, and the
shepherd--not he whom we passed an hour ago, and who gave our horses
water, but another, his double--lies stretched upon his _bunda_
fast asleep, his dog keeping watch beside him.
On, through the same kind of pastures; the same waving corn-fields;
the same villages with their twin churches--Roman Catholic and
Calvinist--standing peaceably side by side; the same vague roads, which
might be sheep-tracks, or anything, or nothing for that matter; the
same dust, the same birds taking their evening bath in the white sand,
the same sun, the same sky, the same everything. Yes! and I declare
the same melancholy iron crucifix, all on one side, just as we left it
whole hours ago behind.
“Hullo!” cries F., opening his eyes, and giving Jöszef a sudden shake,
that nearly overbalanced and knocked him off his seat on to the road,
“we are not going to be deceived this time. This is no _Déli-báb_.
We have been going backwards for an hour at least; what is the meaning
of it, you rascal?”
But, no: Jöszef, thus aroused--giving the horses an indignant reminder
with his whip--observes that it is not Nagy-_Palota_ that we have
come to, “and which we left behind us long ago,” but Nagy--_something
else_. But by what possible sign he knows a particular village when
he sees it and gives it any name whatever is a perfect mystery, for
one and all are as absolutely alike to our unpractised eyes, except in
minute details, as two pins in a paper.
At length reaching _Nagy_--whatever it may happen to be (it
is quite impossible to catch the outlandish names of these small
places)--just as the sun had set, and the plains, suffused in soft
tints of opal, seemed dreaming of the morrow’s sunrise, we come to a
halt, and decide to remain here for the night.
Our entry into the village excited no small interest. At the sound of
our horses’ hoofs, every man, woman and child, who did not already
happen to be outside, either came to the doorways, followed by their
equally inquisitive pigs, or peeped through the windows of their
houses, to ascertain what could possibly be coming to disturb the
equanimity of their pastoral retreat.
No sooner had we come to a standstill than we were surrounded by an
eager crowd, prompted--as we subsequently proved--not so much by idle
curiosity, as by a sincere desire to welcome and be of service to us;
but no Americans ever manifested more inquisitiveness, or a greater
desire for information than did the dwellers of this small village. Who
were we? whence had we come? and whither were we going? were questions
which András had to answer all in a breath; whilst that ostentatious
little Magyar, doubtless thinking he would shine by a reflected glory,
was telling them in a “stage whisper,” and by a succession of small
falsehoods, that we were very great people indeed--a great English
family, compared with whom all their lines of Eszterházys, and Bánffys,
and Keménys put together, were as nothing--not even chaff before the
wind.
We had scarcely alighted, when some one came hurrying towards us, to
whom all gave place, and whom from his general appearance we had no
difficulty in recognising as the _curé_. Without interrogating us,
as his parishioners had done, he begged we would at once accompany him
to his house, and make it our home as long as it suited us to avail
ourselves of so humble a shelter--a suggestion echoed by the whole
admiring crowd.
As the Hungarians are known to excel every other nation in the
virtues of hospitality, this invitation gave us no surprise. Our
_ci-devant_ host, however, was a priest, and as such may have been
influenced by the apostolic admonition regarding the entertainment of
“strangers.” Be this as it may, we were not destined to avail ourselves
of his hospitality; for our guide--who had left us a few minutes
previously to spy out the land and its capabilities--came hurrying back
at this juncture with the intelligence that a tolerable inn existed
in the village, containing decent accommodation for man and beast:
whereupon, thanking the priest for his kindness, we proceeded thither
at once.
The _fogado_ in question was a straggling building of which the
kitchen formed the principal room, where men--waggoners, apparently,
whose horses or teams of oxen we had seen reposing in the _álás_
close by--were drinking _slivovitz_.
In common with the generality of roadside inns in Hungary, there was an
odour of garlic pervading the apartments.
Garlic! Why should we turn up our insular noses at the classic bulb?
Did not Socrates himself advocate its use in the Banquet of Xenophon,
and the children of Israel hanker after it in spite of their manna?
To the right of the kitchen, furnished in the most primitive fashion,
was the guest-room, whose small windows, placed high in the wall, made
it seem like a prison. The hostess was a Jewess, but the house was
scrupulously clean, as are nearly all on the Alfőld.
In a corner of the room apart from the rest sat two men in the costume
of the peasantry, who, taking off their hats, rose at our entrance.
“They are nobles,” whispered the hostess as she led us to an inner
room--“_bocskorosok nemesemberk_ (Lords of the Sandal), as they
are sometimes called in ridicule, because half of them have not
wherewithal to buy _csizmák_” (top-boots).
These aristocratic rustics, nicknamed “_bocskorosok nemesemberk_,”
are in reality peasants, who have fought on the battle-field, or
otherwise served their country, and have received letters-patent of
“nobility”--a title, however, that merely gives them certain legal
privileges.
The _fogado_ covered a considerable area. Where land is so
abundant there is no need to economise space. Every room was on one
floor, and arranged round a large courtyard, which was bordered with
evergreens and flowering shrubs, growing in brightly-painted tubs.
Beyond was a cluster of cowsheds, and beyond these again a clump of
trees, beneath which a party of gipsies were bivouacking.
Out in the plains, in the direction of the west and opposite the
gipsies’ camp, a number of cattle were browsing peacefully; a man on
horseback was driving home a flock of sheep, the outline of his form
rendered vague and undefined by the crimson haze which flooded all
nature; the trees stood out against the brilliant sky, now bathed in
the afterglow, all golden towards their summits, and purple as they
neared the ground; the smoke from the gipsies’ fire curled upwards
in graceful wreaths; warm shadows lay across the greensward; a woman
flitted to and fro with milk-pails, her dress a rich mingling of red,
brown, and orange, and her head covered with a blue kerchief--the
whole forming a beautiful picture of sympathetic colour and repose.
These roadside inns are far less frequented now than they were, when
the ordinary country roads formed the only communication between one
town and another. The opening of railways must be an incalculable boon
to the inhabitants of both Alfőld and Felfőld alike, for, until they
existed, no towns in a state of siege could have been more cut off from
the outer world than were those of Hungary in winter, when the roads
become absolutely impassable, even for a light vehicle. The inhabitants
were consequently obliged either to purchase everything they needed
from a distance before the winter began, or to wait till the spring
came to release them from their durance.
Even yet, towns and villages connected by railways are few and far
between; and very dreary, one would think, must be the people’s lives
in places where none exist, when the earth has once lain down in the
sepulchre of winter, and the frost has set its iron grip upon the broad
expanse of plains. Locked in completely during this season from all
communication with their fellows, how do they manage to live? They are,
however, a contented, happy people, and their home joys greater far, it
is said, than those of dwellers in towns and cities. Let us hope they
are.
In the long winter evenings, seated round their large high stoves,
they read the passionate and patriotic utterances of their national
writers, improvise rhymes to the _csárdás_, or compose those sad
and plaintive melodies for the _telinka_ which one hears in the
open air in summer-time. It has been well said that external nature
is the outer body of national life, and these dwellers of the great
Alfőld, with its impressive breadth and silence, possess contemplative
and poetic minds, as nearly all do who are continually surrounded by
nature’s solitudes. Even in their most joyous moments there is, indeed,
a tinge of melancholy always perceptible in the temperament of the
Magyars.
The bad condition of the roads, at all events those of the Alfőld, is
of course mainly due to the absence of stone, and the enormous expense
which bringing the necessary materials from a distance naturally
involves. We were told by a gentleman with whom we once travelled from
Pest to Nagy-Várad, that one of the roads across the plains had cost
the Government no less than what represented in English money £20,000
per _mile_; and when the vast area of the plains is taken into
consideration, one no longer marvels at the quagmires that carriages
have to drag through whilst travelling from town to town and village to
village.
Nor is the absence of stone the only disadvantage the dwellers of these
steppes have to contend with, for wood is almost as scarce, and in some
remote districts the villages, from these combined causes, consist of a
mere cluster of mud cottages, thatched with the dried stalks of Indian
corn; whilst the farmers, unable to procure material with which to
build granaries, are obliged to bury their corn in holes in the ground,
which are lined with straw for the purpose.
As evening wears on, and the plains are swallowed up in shadow, fires
blaze up here and there in the vast expanse, indicating in unexpected
places the presence of gipsies or travellers bivouacking for the night.
During harvest-time, in the month of August, they are to be seen in
every direction. The nights being chilly, notwithstanding the heat of
the day, the reapers, in the absence of wood, make their fires of
wheat-sheaves--a thing thought nothing of in this region of cereal
abundance--and sit round them in merry groups as they eat their evening
meal.
Whilst the corn is being cut and gathered in, the peasants do not
return to their homes, the distance, in most cases, being too great.
They consequently sleep out of doors for many weeks together, until the
harvest season is over. In some parts of Hungary the reaping of the
grain is accomplished by moonlight, and the scene is very picturesque.
The ruddy glow of the fires lights up the bronzed faces of the reapers,
as they fell the long straight stalks of the Indian corn heavy with
their weight of golden grain, or plunge their sickles into the softer
and more supple labyrinths of wheat and rye, and forms pictures that,
once seen, it is impossible to forget.
After the labourers have partaken of their simple meal, which generally
consists of black bread and bacon, a period of rest ensues, when
they crouch or lie at full length round their fires, listening to
songs improvised by one of their party. He adapts rhymes of his own
composition to some popular melody, accompanied by a companion on the
_telinka_, a kind of Arcadian pipe; for the Hungarian peasant,
like the shepherd, is in a small way not only a musician, but a poet.
Occasionally they get up a dance; and should the _czigány_-folk be
wanting, besides the _telinka_ some one is sure to have brought
his bagpipes with him, and to these strangely antagonistic instruments,
the one so plaintive and pastoral, the other so wild and savage, they
dance together in the moonlight. All are clad in sheepskin garments,
the wool at that time of year being worn outside, and the whole scene
reminds one of the days when Pan tended his flocks, and fauns and
satyrs danced to the music of his reed. In whatever phase, or under
whatever circumstances one meets with the Hungarian peasant or labourer
of the Alfőld, he is the same half-savage, noble, kindly creature,
possessing an odd mixture of qualities wherein the good predominates.
During harvest-time the Slovaks from Upper Hungary migrate to the
plains, so that, although the area under cultivation is vast beyond
anything we in England are accustomed to, yet the lack of labourers is
seldom felt.
As we sit on the _szóhordó_ beneath the gable of our primitive
hostel, we listen now to the rude cadence of a peasant’s song as he
comes tramping home from work, and anon to the distant rhythmic beat of
music proceeding from a cottage farther up the village. Let us follow
up its strains; ten to one we shall find our friends the gipsies.
Yes, there they are fiddling for dear life at the far end of the room.
In their endeavours to leave as much space as possible to the dancers,
just at this moment, in the very height and wild delirium of the
_csárdás_, they have seated themselves on the high stove, in which
exalted position, concealed, all but their Asiatic faces, by clouds of
dust and tobacco smoke, they appear above the white wreaths like dark
cherubim sawing away at violins.
A wedding, christening, or some other domestic festival, is evidently
being celebrated, for through the wide open doorway we can see into
an inner apartment where a long table is spread, its numerous viands
decorated with flowers. Half the village would seem to have congregated
together, judging from the number of persons crowding the walls of the
room where the dancing is taking place. What shouts, stamping of feet,
and clashing of spurs is there as the men and their gentler partners
whirl and twirl with the velocity of dervishes! How the long ribbons
fly and the violet stockings quiver beneath the short red skirts, as
the little feet of the Magyar maidens patter swiftly over the earthen
floor!
Outside, the frogs holding a deafening concert croak an indignant
protest against these proceedings, and an insulted owl hoots from the
tower of the church hard by. In the little cemetery the kindly moon
keeps watch over the long green mounds upon which the crosses throw
their shadows as if to keep them safe. Away, beyond the village, and
out in the moonlit plains, the plaintive sound of a solitary sheep bell
is heard, as some dissipated member of the woolly flock turning night
into day nibbles the dewy grass.
But the nights are always chilly in Hungary, no matter at what season,
and as we make for our humble quarters we fold our wraps around us, for
there is ague abroad on the air.
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