DAWN IN THE ALFŐLD.
Is there anything in all this sinful world so irritating,
uncomfortable, and sleep-preventing as a Hungarian bed? Not only is it
so short, that, unless the would-be sleeper happens to be far below the
average height of ordinary humanity, he will find it impossible to lie
at full length in it, but also, from the exasperating nature of the
bed-clothes, the process familiarly known as “tucking up” is wholly
impracticable.
Regarded, however, from an external point of view, save in the matter
of length, nothing could seem more luxurious. Even in these common
roadside inns--“_Juden Kneipe_,” as András contemptuously calls
them--the linen is of the finest, and the sheets and pillow-cases are
embroidered at each end, but, alas! surely by the machinations of some
mischievous sprite, the upper sheet is sewn to the counterpane; and as
the latter is made the precise size of the bed, with nothing left to
hang over the side, the whole thing subsides upon the floor, should the
unfortunate occupant move ever so slightly during the night.
Our _logement_ at the various hotels in Hungary is generally
described on the bill as _napi lakdij_, and there never was a
more appropriate, signification so far as English travellers are
concerned, to whom the rest afforded is at best but a series of naps by
jerks, and, in consequence of the abominable custom above referred to,
a lop-sided conflict with the bed-clothes all night long.
In this “happy Arcadia,” however, even the mild term of _napi_
was inappropriate, for we could get no sleep at all. By an unfortunate
coincidence which befalls most things in this country of anomalies,
the guest-rooms adjoined the stables, so that every time the horses
kicked, they threatened to knock the wall in. Nor was this the only
circumstance antagonistic to sleep, for the dragging of manger-chains
throughout the livelong night and the hoarse shouts of the drivers
making strenuous but ineffectual attempts to keep their animals
quiet--they were evidently sharing the same apartment--were no less
disagreeable. In the silent village a clock in the belfry tower tolled
solemnly the hours which dragged wearily along, as they always do with
those who are deprived of blessed sleep.
Before dawn, looking out of my window which commanded the whole of the
eastern horizon, I watched the fires of night burn low. A thick pall of
cloud, black as Erebus, seemed hanging over the firmament, for neither
moon nor star was shining, and nothing was visible but the flickering
fires in the distance, and the tall straight beam of an _ágás_
across the village green, just showing like a sable spectre against the
sky. No tinkling of bells or lowing of cattle was heard as in the day.
All was silent under the drowsy spell of Night.
Then, as soon as night had culminated in the most complete darkness,
an indescribable change came over nature, a change which at first
seemed scarcely more than mere sensation, a palpable silence as of a
world not dead--until this moment--but only asleep. Then eastward the
darkness lost its opaqueness and became transparent. Behind night’s
dusky curtain a streak of light shone faintly through the veil, and in
the hush of dawn, that cold mysterious hour, the curtain with unseen
hands was drawn asunder and light became a living thing. The eastern
sky began to palpitate, and out of the void form gradually appeared.
The traditionary cock crew, and from that moment as if by given signal
all animate nature awoke from slumber, and made itself perceptible,
first by soft and peaceful murmurings, then by louder bleatings of
sheep and goats. Dogs barked, cows lowed,--sounds followed in due
course by the milking of those latter mammalia, which little domestic
operation we also heard distinctly from our room. See how silently and
mysteriously the _ágás_ yonder throws its giant arm about, as the
shepherd--whose form is hidden in the distance--begins to draw water
for his flocks! And now the sun himself begins to rise from out the
bosom of the plains; first sending upwards his _avant-garde_ of
crimson cloudlets with gold-embroidered edges. There is a sudden flash
of glory, and lo! the fiery monarch comes forth with slow and stately
majesty. Gradually, the golden lustre spreads itself across the plains
till, opening wide his arms, the god of day encloses all within his
bright embrace.
By this time the villagers are not only awake, but surrounding the
nearer _ágás_ across the green; old women and maidens filling
their crocks and pitchers for the day. A shepherd too is there, who,
having deserted his little flock of shaggy sheep, is lowering the
bucket for a Magyar dowager. The Hungarian, whether prince or peasant,
is chivalrous, and the old and weak first claim the shepherd’s
attention. In the fervour of his occupation he has doffed his hairy
mantle, in which but a moment ago he looked like a huge ungainly bear.
Observe how gently he takes the pitcher from that uncomely old woman
who has just come tottering up, and offers to fill it for her; looking
archly over his shoulder the while at a couple of merry, laughing
girls, as much as to intimate that _their_ turn--a sweet morsel
he is reserving for the end--will likewise come ere long. What a smile
bursts over his rugged sun-burnt countenance, as the old dowager thanks
him for his kindness, and, bidding him “good morning,” totters away!
[Illustration]
Now comes the _kisbiró_, or little judge of the village, walking
leisurely along in the direction of the rising sun. What a splendid
carriage he has, and a quiet dignity of manner quite patrician, every
line of his face expressive of deep thought and firm determination!
Look, also, at that man yonder in his long, full, embroidered cloak. He
wears it with such a stately grace that it might be the imperial purple
instead of the skins of beasts begrimed with the mud of years! Or that
group of peasants coming down the road: what a noble bearing they too
have, despite their full-fringed petticoat and full white sleeves, as
with their primitive implements borne across the shoulders they go
forth to their toil with a step as proud as if every inch of Alfőld
soil were theirs by right of ownership!
The term _paraszt_ (peasant), by which is meant agriculturist, is
not necessarily applied to a possessor, or even to an occupier of the
land, but refers in its primary sense to one who cultivates it, whether
he be owner or tenant.
Before the reforms of 1848, the peasantry only were taxed, the “nobles”
being free from taxation of every kind. There are three distinct
classes of peasants: those who _rent_ land in small or large
allotments, those who _own_ it, and those who _cultivate_ it;
each class possessing a distinct social status amongst his fellows, of
which the true Magyar is very observant.
Yet although they are more highly taxed now than before 1848, the
position of the Magyar peasant is far better than previous to that
time, when the feudal system prevailed; during which, if not serfs
in the strictest sense of the word, they were at any rate compelled
by law to work on certain days of the week for the lord whose land
they rented, as well as to pay him prescribed dues both in money and
kind. The emancipation of the land from the forced labour of the
peasantry was effected during this revolutionary period, together with
the abolition of the exclusive right of the “nobles” to possess real
estate. Before this, one nobleman could not sell any portion of his
estate except to another nobleman, on account of all “noble-land” being
free from seigneurial impost. It was this in fact which constituted the
distinction between the nobleman and the peasant: the one possessed
land and paid no taxes to government; the other occupied it, or
laboured on it, and was subject to taxation. In like manner the money
was wrung from the peasants for the various public works, whilst the
“nobles” were exempt from any exaction whatever. An example of the
unfairness of this law may be instanced in the bridge of boats at
Pest which existed until 1849--when the magnificent suspension bridge
that now crosses the Danube was completed--and which was open to the
“nobles,” whilst the peasant and the beggar in his rags had to pay
toll. All, “peasants” and “nobles” alike, are now equally taxed, and
the former can even become landowners, a thing after which they strive.
To possess a few _jochs_ of land and some “_jószag_” (flocks
and herds) to graze it, is the very height of the Magyar peasant’s
ambition, the very aim and end of all he dreams of or hopes for in this
life.
Until 1848 the State, the Church, and the “nobles” were the only
landowners in the kingdom. The peasants however were granted the
hereditary use of certain tracts of land designated “session lands,”
for which they had not only to pay tithes to the owner in the shape of
the tenth part of their produce, but were also compelled to work for
him a certain number of days in the week or year; which forced labour,
called “_Rabot_,” practically reduced the condition of the peasant
to one of serfdom. The estates of the “noble” consisted of land farmed
by himself, the feudal lord, and also that which was held by the feudal
tenants. Perhaps the very worst part of this system existed in the fact
of the feudal lord holding the position of judge or chief magistrate
over his tenantry; even the bailiff (_Ispán_) having the right of
administering on the peasant the punishment of twenty-five lashes if he
saw fit to do so,--a right which, no doubt, was often abused.
Happily the feudal system in Hungary is a thing of the past. Already
annulled in principle by the Hungarian Diet of 1848, it was practically
put an end to in 1868 by a special law sanctioned by Ferdinand V.
The labourers on the large estates are much better paid than ours are
in England, each man receiving about £27 per annum, besides board and
lodging in the farm. On smaller estates, however, they are often paid
in kind, more especially in produce such as _kukoricza_ (Indian
corn). When this is the case, arrangements are frequently made between
the landlord and tenant whereby the latter undertakes to cultivate
the land, furnish the seed and house the crop, in return for which he
receives half the yield.
Journeying on through a boggy country, our carriage begins to lurch
from side to side like a ship in an Atlantic storm. Some of these bogs
abound with leeches,--a fact of which we were made painfully aware
when bivouacking in the vicinity of one of those bogs on a previous
visit. The Servians and Bulgarians carry on a considerable trade in
these little creatures, which they collect principally here and in the
districts of Bessarabia, whence they convey them to the chief markets
of the West of Europe. At certain times of the year these merchants
arrive from their southern provinces for the purpose; and, having
collected the leeches, they preserve them in small tanks until they
have a sufficient number to transmit to their several destinations.
Passing a shepherd’s hut, we are greeted by a wolfish-looking dog,
which follows us with threatening aspect, but is brought to reason by a
stick thrown after him by the shepherd. These dogs are sometimes very
dangerous, and are known to attack the unoffending stranger. The sheep
here, in consequence of a disease engendered by the marshy nature of
the soil on which they graze, are nearly all lame. It is curious to
observe how instinct teaches them to shield themselves from the fierce
rays of the sun. About two o’clock, having ceased to browse, and the
sun no longer vertical, they form a close circle, and, lying down one
behind the other, each places its head in the shadow cast by the body
of its nearest neighbour.
Away in the distance, faithful to her character, Déli-báb, “fair
daughter of the Puszta,” presents her delusive objects to our view, and
invites us towards her by the cool and refreshing scenes of placid lake
and ocean shore which she spreads so temptingly before us. But we give
no heed to her seductive charms, for the most poetical of travellers
becomes prosaic when he is hungry, and the approach to a small village
suggests a halt.
Our guide, whom we soon found to be great in the commissariat line,
had replenished our larder at our last restingplace with a couple of
roasted fowls, some Hungarian sausage, and a variety of other little
et-cæteras, together with a bottle of excellent red wine, with the
distinctive merits of which he was thoroughly conversant. We ourselves
therefore were well provided for, but our tired horses wanted both rest
and provender.
The village, however, at which we have just arrived, proves almost as
illusory as the fair daughter of the Puszta herself, for on András
going off to reconnoitre he ascertained there was neither inn nor
_álás_. Besides which, the whole place seemed deserted. There
were the whitewashed cottages on each side of the dusty highway; there
were the empty “word-bearers” beneath each gable; there were the pigs
lying down in the dust which they had hollowed out to fit their long
lean forms; the poultry was swarming about the courtyards, and running
in and out of their funny little straw coops, the precise model of a
shepherd’s hut; but where were the inhabitants? Not a vestige of human
life was visible.
Presently, just as we were about to drive away, hoping to be more
fortunate at the next village, a door opened and a woman holding a
distaff appeared, with whom, after some little parley, András returned
with the gratifying intelligence that there was a shed behind the
woman’s cottage at which the horses could be put up, adding in his
usual pompous and grandiloquent style, that if the _Tekintetes
két_ (worshipful pair) would condescend to alight from their
chariot, and, plunging their feet into the unworthy dust, honour with
their presence the humble abode of the widow of a _bérlö_, etc.
etc.; which rodomontade we understood to signify, in plain English,
that, if we would get out of our vehicle, and, scrambling over the
pigs, enter the dwelling of a defunct farmer, we should be able to rest
there whilst the horses were being baited.
Yielding to his suggestion, we do plunge ankle-deep into the dusty
road, and, scrambling over the pigs in question, enter the cottage; the
woman, who meets us at the doorway, stooping to kiss our hands.
A Hungarian household of this description is prosaically and
unpictorially clean: no delicious mingling of rich brown tints, no
mud and muddle dear to the eye of an artist, greets the traveller as
he enters. Everything is provokingly and unsentimentally neat. In the
apartment into which the door opens, the first thing that will arrest
his attention is the high stove in the centre; the next, a small
bedstead, generally standing in a corner, supporting feather-beds,
which are enclosed in the cleanest and prettiest linen casings, and so
numerous that, piled one above the other, they reach the ceiling. So
far as I could ascertain, these beds, of which the housewife is very
proud, are simply kept as ornaments, and seldom or never used; their
number being supposed to indicate the prosperity of the household. The
windows, whose sills are painted bright green, contain flower-pots,
half hidden by neat muslin curtains, whilst on the walls hang
bright-coloured prints, depicting events in Hungarian history, and,
if the dwellers are Roman Catholics, a picture of the Blessed Virgin
and a crucifix. In addition to all of which, in this instance, hung
a portrait in full Magyar costume--evidently executed by some local
genius--of the defunct _bérlö_ himself.
As we sit by the open doorway, the plains beyond the village seem to
dance in the fervid heat. In the parched, sun-baked garden the tall
reeds of the pampas-grass bow their plumed heads, and wave and rustle
in the sultry air; butterflies and insects hover about the homely
flowers; zephyrs wafting in upon us fan our cheeks, and then his away
again to the corn-fields to fulfil the task allotted them by nature,
and fertilise with soft pollen the young and tender blades.
By the time our horses are harnessed and we are jogging along the road
again, shadows are lengthening. By windmills turning their endless
somersaults; by salt marshes in which the corn-crake clacks a greeting
as we pass; by sandhills, which the wind creates but to destroy, till
suddenly a dark object appears above our heads. How majestically it
cleaves the azure deeps, as with motionless outstretched wing it sails
in the cloudless sky! It is an eagle which has caught sight of some
prey; for see! it begins its downward flight by describing circles,
which, wide at first, grow less and less, till from its dizzy height it
falls to earth to settle on its trembling victim.
Only a few minutes ago from out the clover fields quails were rising
here and there in peaceful coveys, and hawks scouring the translucent
air, whilst in the marshes wild ducks and geese were paddling in and
out amongst the green reeds and sedges, and dipping their snowy heads
in search of tadpoles and smaller game. Where have they all gone? Not
a bird is seen in air or water, not a sound is heard; the plovers have
ceased to chatter, the hawks to scream; all are hushed in terror, every
living thing has sought to hide itself from that piercing eye.
This monarch of the air--the imperial eagle--is very common in the
plains, but is migratory, and roosts in forest trees, its favourite
food being marmots, young foxes, and deer. Many of the forest birds in
the plains of Hungary are very beautiful, and almost Oriental in the
splendour of their plumage, the brilliant colouring of some surpassing
any met with elsewhere in Europe. These, however, are songless, but in
some districts the woods are full of nightingales that trill a carol
all the livelong day and night.
[Illustration]