THE RACE.
It is a sultry evening, and there is a stillness in the air that
forebodes a storm. The leaves of the robinias hang down languidly
against their stems, and clouds which have rapidly risen from the west
obscure the sun. All Nature holds her breath expectant. Presently large
drops begin to fall, creating dusty globules on the thirsty earth.
“Patter, patter!” down it comes at last in real earnest and puts
Jözsef’s pipe out, and high time too, for that _Träger Kerl_ has
been smoking every mortal moment of the day. The rain pours down the
windows of our _britzska_ in winding streams, and fills the broad
brim of Jözsef’s brigand-like hat, out of which the tall crown rises
like a wet island, till, overflowing its borders, it trickles in a cold
shower down his neck.
In a short time a large town comes in sight, and a very important one,
judging from the number and variety of the steeples and towers which
rise above the low one-storied houses; and Jözsef, removing the pipe
from his mouth which he is still pretending to smoke, and pointing with
it in the direction of the town in question, slowly utters the words,
Székes Féjévar, as though he had been introducing to our notice some
great metropolis.
As we draw near to this our second restingplace since leaving Fűred,
there is nothing in its outward appearance, although so imposing from a
distance, to impress us in its favour; it would seem on the contrary to
be situated in the centre of an immense bog, and presents a very spongy
exterior as, at length approaching the town itself, we rattle over the
stones and dash through its outskirts. We always enter the towns and
villages at a gallop, the little strength which the wretched horses
possess being economised on the road for these displays of Jehuship,
dear to the heart of a Magyar driver.
[Illustration]
In rounding a corner, we manage to wrench from a shop doorway a
signboard, which according to Hungarian custom was placed there to
advertise the merchandise within, and at another corner nearly run over
a group of small children in top-boots and _gatyas_, occupied in
the manufacture of mud pies, till finally coming to a sudden stop, that
nearly brings the wheelers on their haunches, we are almost jerked out
of the carriage, and into the very arms of the landlord of the hotel.
I have long ago discarded my fur hat for a broad-brimmed one of white
straw, but, notwithstanding this, strange to say, we are here, as at
Gross Kanizsa on our former visit, mistaken for Russians--Julinka, the
chambermaid, as she arranges our room, addressing us every now and
again as _Muska_ (Muskovite); and upon our informing her that we
are _Ángolok_, she elevates her eyebrows in astonishment.
At this juncture an old woman enters the room, who had evidently
overheard the colloquy.
“_Ángolok! Ángolok!_” (English people! English people!) “_Jó
Isten!_” she exclaimed, apostrophising the Magyar deity, as though
we had told her we were visitants from some other planet, adding,
after a pause, that she thought she had heard the priest read of the
_Ángolok_ one Sunday in the Gospel. From which observation we
augured that neither missionary nor “schoolmaster” was “abroad” at any
rate in Székes Féjévar.
The town which rejoices in the imposing appellation of Székes
Féjévar--what a language is the Magyar for accents!--is the capital of
the _comitat_, or county, of the same name. It contains 23,000
inhabitants, was founded in the eleventh century by King Stephen I.,
and is interesting to the archæologist from having been built on the
site of an old Roman city, said to have been the “Roman Floriana,”
whatever _that_ may be.
In consequence of having been so frequently destroyed by the ruthless
Turks, to which it surrendered in 1543, under Solyman the Magnificent,
the town contains no relics of the ancient city, but is not devoid
of other objects of interest; namely, the cathedral and St. Mary’s
Church, both of which were built by that indefatigable monarch St.
Stephen, whose original name was Waik--the first Christian king of the
illustrious line of Arpáds.
For many centuries Székes Féjévar was the place at which Hungary’s
sovereigns were crowned, and no fewer than fourteen are here entombed,
amongst whom are several of her mediæval kings, viz. St. Stephen, St.
Ladislaus, and Matthias Corvinus. Its name signifies “White fortress of
the throne,” and it is consequently often alluded to as “Alba Regalis.”
Up to the end of the seventeenth century it remained in the hands of
the Osmanlis; and on their expulsion in 1777, the Empress Maria Theresa
constituted it an episcopal see.
The day following that of our arrival was Sunday. Taking a survey
through the window, early in the morning, we found small improvement
in the state of affairs so far as the weather was concerned. The
streets were wet and miserable, and there was a general sponginess
about everything that made Székes Féjévar look like a huge fungus.
From earliest morn however the church-bells had been twanging, and the
sturdy Magyars, notwithstanding the rain, had been tramping to and from
the various places of worship.
There exists in Hungary not only a diversity of nationalities and a
confusion of tongues, but an equal variety in matters religious. Thus
there are Roman Catholics, Greek Catholics, Lutherans, Calvinists,
Unitarians, Sabbatarians, Moravians, Jews, Nazarenes, Adamites,
Johannites, and doubtless Hittites, Hivites, and Jebusites as well.
The Magyars for the most part belong to one form or other of
the Protestant faith, the greater number being Calvinists. Many
however belong to the Lutheran Church--“Evangelists of the Augsburg
Confession,” as they are sometimes called; whilst others, again, are
Roman Catholics.
The Hungarians who follow the Greek rite are principally found amongst
the Wallachs occupying the whole of Transylvania, the Rusniaks dwelling
on the eastern slopes of the Northern Carpathians, and the Slavonians
and Croat-Serbs inhabiting the provinces which skirt the banks of
the Save, the votaries of the numerous sects I have enumerated being
generally found in the former, viz. Transylvania.
The natural result of this variety of religious opinion is complete
toleration amongst all classes in matters of faith, and it is curious,
when passing through the towns and villages of the Alfőld, to observe
how closely the Roman Catholic and Protestant churches are built
together. In such friendly fellowship, in fact, do they stand to each
other as to situation, that the faithful adherents of the one not only
jostle those of the other on their way to their respective places of
worship, but the lusty singing of the Protestant not unfrequently
drowns the monotone of the priest in the adjoining temple, creating a
rather unseemly jumble.
In Hungary the whole Christian body, embracing every sect and party, is
denominated under one head, namely, “The Church of God;” that branch
of the Church Catholic called “Roman” in other countries, whilst
acknowledging the Pope as supreme, has here never added “_Roman_”
to its title, which is even forbidden by law. In vain do Popes
attempt to impose ecclesiastical bulls upon these Hungarian clergy:
they persist in promulgating their own laws, organising their own
dioceses, and, whilst possessing a strong attachment to the tenets of
their Church, have, so far as discipline is concerned, been from time
immemorial very unruly sons of the Vatican.
By ten o’clock, the weather having made up its mind to improve, we
started for church. As good Protestants, we of course went to the
one most nearly allied to our own in doctrine and practice. The
Protestant religion as represented in Magyarland is, however, of a
very unattractive character. Its buildings, painfully destitute of
all ornamentation, are bare and wretched. The one we visited had
whitewashed walls; the women sat on one side of the church, the men on
the other; whilst the discordant singing we heard on that occasion, in
the shape of hymns to the All-Supreme, was enough to turn one’s hair
grey.
On our homeward road, we happen to pass a Roman Catholic chapel.
Leaving the “garish day,” we grope our way through the dark vestibule,
into the dimly-lighted oratory, filled with the fresh fumes of incense.
What a contrast everything presented to the “Reformed Church” which we
had left, so bald in its surroundings! What earnestness was there in
the devotion of the people! some of whom were kneeling, with clasped
hands, others with hands outstretched in earnest supplication before
the dark little shrines. How different! how pathetic! and, above all,
how sad!
Kneeling on the lowest step of a shrine at the side of the chapel,
was a man gazing intently at a grotesque representation of some
female saint, enclosed in a frame begrimed with the dust of ages. All
around it hung smaller pictures, even more grotesque, representing
deliverances wrought through her means.
“Do we not know that man?” inquired F., our eyes not yet accustomed to
the “dim religious light.”
It was Jözsef, his great ugly face looking almost beautiful, lit up as
it was by an expression of veneration and love. It was no longer the
Jözsef sitting on the box, doggedly smoking _his_ long pipe, it
was Jözsef actually with a soul, a spark of the divine love shining
through even _his_ usually stolid countenance.
We watched him long, wondering what was the secret that brought him
hither to kneel beneath the shrine of this--to _us_--unprepossessing
saint. What miracle had she wrought for him, or his? or what was he
seeking from her, in his honest, simple heart?
He was still kneeling in the same position, evidently unconscious of
all around him, when, leaving the hot, stuffy little chapel, we once
more stepped into the street. It was now full of people returning
to their homes, women in white head-gear, and short petticoats--oh,
_how_ short!
Notwithstanding the limited dimensions of their garments, however, the
devout Magyars are always seen in muddy weather to gather them up over
their top-boots in the exemplary manner before depicted, the children
imitating their elders here as elsewhere. The men invariably head the
family procession, Hungarian _patres familiæ_ of a certain class
inheriting, amongst other precious legacies bequeathed them by their
Eastern subjugators, that of regarding the female sex as inferior to
themselves.
Close to the hotel we met András, who, in reply to our inquiries as
to which form of religion he belonged, replied that he professed the
_Magyar Vallás_, thereby signifying that he was a Calvinist.
From his own subsequent description of it, however, his religion was
not of a very intelligible kind; but then, as we have previously seen,
András was occasionally deficient in the “art of putting things,”--in
other words, he sometimes found it difficult to express himself;
_his_ idea of religion, he informed us, being that the Almighty
was not so hard as He was said to be, and that the devil (_őrdőg_)
was blamed for a great deal he did not deserve, and that if a man
harmed no one, and was kind and gentle to women and children and such
weak things, he would not find himself far out at the last. And our
thoughts involuntarily turned towards András’s wife and her magnificent
proportions, and we wondered whether he regarded _her_ as a “weak
vessel.” In fact, this theology in _gatyas_, whether Protestant or
Roman Catholic, is of a very free-and-easy kind. It has nothing austere
about it. Its teachers exact little self-denial or sacrifice; impose
few penances, and indulgences are granted even without the asking.
[Illustration]
Later in the day, the streets having dried up, the Magyars turn out in
great force, _Magyar-Miska_ and his “inferior half,” the latter
in all the splendour of her Sunday attire, the two now walking side by
side-- an amiable concession made by her lord, by way, doubtless, of
holiday indulgence.
The beautiful Magyar girls too, the “_kisleány_” or “bright-eyed
little Alfőld maidens,” trip along in their top-boots, the sides of
which are not only embroidered, but ornamented with leather of various
colours; their hair drawn behind the ears, hanging down the back in
one long plait, and lengthened by numerous streamers of many-coloured
ribbons. The beauty of the Hungarian women has not been exaggerated.
Their features, as a rule, are not regular, but the type is refined,
and there is a blending of the European with the Oriental, the traces
of which are manifest even at the present day. They possess, moreover,
in every movement, a grace and nobility of bearing, that make every
woman one meets appear a lady.
The rough, hard visages of the men, too, tanned by the scorching heat
of summer, and furrowed with a thousand lines by exposure to the
frost and bitter winds of winter, grow upon one marvellously, and
the stranger soon learns to love these weather-beaten faces, and to
recognise under a rugged exterior, and a manner sometimes brusque, real
goodness and kindness of heart.
The term “Magyar-Miska” is applied to a man of the precise type of
our English “Hodge.” But let no one look down upon the homely garb
of a peasant in this country, for though he wear a sheepskin cloak,
huge white linen trousers (_gatya_), and a shirt that scarcely
reaches to the waist--which part of the body is generally exposed to
the elements--its wearer may be the owner of thousands of acres of
Alfőld soil. The dress of Bagi Jözsef--a man not so named on account
of his _baggy_ nether habiliments, but Jözsef Bagi, as we should
call him, the surname in Hungary being invariably placed before the
Christian--is none other, although his income is not less than half
a million florins a year. These _gatya_ are so full that they
often consist of ten and sometimes fifteen yards of linen; and it is
in this costume, together with the short jacket-like shirt with its
voluminous sleeves, that Bagi Jözsef, the “Nabob of the Alfőld,” as
he is appropriately called, wanders over his vast domain. Both sexes,
winter and summer, wear by way of outer clothing a short sheepskin
jacket, called a _kődmőny_, embroidered on the smooth side with
bright-coloured silk or wool. But whatever be the outer garment, so
far as the men are concerned, the sleeves are a purely ornamental
arrangement, for the arms are seldom put through them, and the jacket
is worn loosely over the shoulder.
The costumes vary slightly in every town and village, each having its
distinguishing mark whereby the wearer is at once recognisable as
belonging to a particular place. These peculiarities, however, are too
slight to arrest the notice of the traveller, and often consist in
such insignificant signs as the position or number of the buttons on
the _kődmőny_, some persons having one row, others two, others
again wearing them in a pattern, instead of in a straight line down
the front. But however slight the difference may be, the Magyar rustic
never deviates from it, and is as proud of the distinction as a soldier
of his badges, whilst a girl who is married to a man from another town
or village continues to wear her own distinguishing dress as long as
she lives.
Notwithstanding our first impressions of the hotel, which were by
no means favourable, and in spite of its plain exterior and homely
internal arrangements, we found it exceedingly comfortable, and were
entertained in it right royally.
In Hungarian hotels, meals are never served in the visitor’s own room,
and he is expected to descend for the purpose to the restaurant.
Following the custom of the country, therefore, at the Gothic hour of
two--the Magyar’s usual dinner hour--we made our appearance in the
_speise-saal_, and were ushered to a table luxuriously arranged
for us at the top of the room. In the centre of the table stood a
large silver _épergne_, tastefully filled with forget-me-nots
and white water-lilies; whilst two _talnok_ (waiters) waited on
us obsequiously in white cotton gloves. They also--and this to our no
small annoyance--addressed us as _úr_ and _úrnö_ (lord and
lady), as, indeed, did the landlord himself. We did not waken up to the
full significance of all these proceedings and their practical bearing
on our resources until we paid for our first dinner--a thing always
done at once in this country, where the food is not charged for with
the other items on the bill--when the truth all at once dawned upon us.
András, in his usual ostentatious manner, had doubtless been impressing
the good people of the house with false notions of our grandeur.
Summoning him at once to our room, we talked to him very seriously
on the subject. He was a truthful little man, and at once
confessed the fact, adding in his chagrin that in these democratic
“_tingle-tangle_”--a word used in the North of Germany to denote
a low restaurant where music is performed, and which he persisted in
calling this clean and well-appointed little hotel--they were incapable
of recognising any distinction below the rank of “noble;” ending by
saying, with tears in his eyes, that he wished his _édes uram_
and _édes asszony_ (sweet master and sweet mistress)--a very
frequent mode of address made use of in Hungary, not only by servants
to their masters and mistresses, but _vice versâ_--to be shown all
the respect, whilst passing through his country, that was their due.
The inns in Hungary are nearly always kept by Jews, but costly as
was our dinner, viz. 30_s._ calculated by our English currency,
the charge was by no means exorbitant, considering the excellence
of the repast. We tried to make our guide understand, however, that
unless he turned over a new leaf we must send him back to his master;
that every English gentleman was not an _úr_, neither was every
English lady an _úrnö_. We were, in fact, spending money with a
prodigality which, if unchecked, would very soon bring us to the doors
of a Hungarian workhouse, and his conduct forcibly reminded us of the
friendly bear, who in attempting to brush away a fly from his sleeping
master’s forehead is said to have knocked the top of his head off.
After this serious admonition, András, I am happy to say, gave us no
more annoyance of the like nature, but it was easy to see that it cost
the proud little man many a struggle, if not many a tear.
We were, however, less fortunate in the case of the landlord and the
waiters, who, upon our assuring them we had no handle to our names,
only bowed more obsequiously than before. Our attempts at lessening our
own importance, instead of having the desired effect, only made matters
worse, and I shall always believe to my dying day that they regarded us
as a prince and princess travelling in disguise.
In the evening, the sun setting crimson illuminated the domes and
spires of this ecclesiastical little city; and as it wore by
this time a less washed-out and bedraggled appearance, we walked
round the square, where the demure but coquettish little Magyar
maidens are walking in all their Sunday best, accompanied by their
chaperons--grave-looking women, with heads muffled up in white
kerchiefs--the honourable badge of the married state. The young
_betyárs_ too pace backwards and forwards in all the glory of
their brand-new _csizmák_, or stand and make love to their “fair
ones” beneath the statue of the poet Varósmarty--the Schiller of
Hungary--quoting from his songs a description of the joys of home.
The term “betyár,” which will often be met with in these pages,
possesses a twofold meaning, and, whilst frequently applied to a
brigand, is also a sobriquet used to denote a rustic who dresses
himself gaily and endeavours to render himself attractive to the fair
sex; in short, a _dandy_. He may generally be seen with his hat
set jauntily on one side, in which is stuck a bunch of fresh flowers
or plume of the beautiful flowering grass, which at a slight distance
looks just like the tail of a bird of paradise. Just such a man is
András, and, as we watch him in the square in front of us, it is easy
to see that he is making a great impression on the Székes Féjévar
belles.
It has evidently been noised abroad that English persons have arrived,
and our dress betrays that we are they. As the promenaders make room on
the uneven pavement to let us pass they regard us furtively, with much
apparent interest, and from more than one we hear the whispered words,
“_Bival Jankó_,” that being the Hungarian’s euphonious appellation
for that noblest of all animals, “John Bull.”
By some management of his own, András had engaged the horses that
brought us hither for the whole journey to Pest; but they were such
sorry beasts that we insisted on his sending them back and procuring
others here.
Unhappily _vorspann_--a word derived from _Fő-ispán_, a commandant of a
county _banderium_--has been abolished since the opening of the Alfőld
railway. This method of travelling, universal in Hungary up to that
period, consisted of an order from a magistrate to the Judges of the
peasants, who were peasants themselves, and called in the Hungarian
law-books _Judices plebeii_, to supply the holder with horses to
transport him to the next station, the distance between each being
about fifteen or twenty miles. In this manner even the journey from
Vienna to Pest used to be accomplished, though it was one that occupied
no less than a week. To obtain such an order was considered a great
favour, it being vouchsafed as a rule to the military only, or to some
one travelling on the public service. The conveyance consisted, as now,
of a long country cart half filled with hay. On arrival at the various
stages along the road, the traveller had simply to send his _vorspann_
to the Judge’s house, who saw that the peasant whose turn it was to
furnish a relay of horses fulfilled his duty.
Although this obligatory state of things has passed away, we found
little difficulty in obtaining horses, which are by no means an
expensive luxury in Hungary, where they are often caught fresh from
the _puszta_ and harnessed to the traveller’s conveyance. On this
occasion, however, the horses which András engaged to take us on to
Pest came direct from the inn stables.
It was a right jolly little team that we found waiting at the door of
the hotel the morning of our departure, and this time we anticipated
our journey with something like pleasure and satisfaction. Our
departure was considerably delayed, however, by an altercation that had
taken place between our new driver and another, engaged at the time in
harnessing his team to an empty _leiterwagen_. We had witnessed
the quarrel from the window of our room without understanding them, and
had heard the angry words which passed between the two drivers, and
which András interpreted to us as he strapped our rugs and portmanteaus
preparatory to the start.
The driver of the _leiterwagen_ team had intimated to our Jehu
that his horses were screws, and that with such a heavy carriage he
would not reach Pest by nightfall. This was a challenge. As we took our
seats we observed a dark cloud settle on the face of our charioteer,
who, justly proud of his horses, will not take the statement as a joke.
The two drivers shower complimentary expletives at each other, and then
our coachman cracks his whip and drives through the archway at full
gallop, and whizz past the shops, and over the rough paving stones
until we reach the open country and pass through boundless fields of
wheat and rye.
Before many minutes are over we hear the clatter of hoofs behind us.
The insulted Sándor--our new coachman--stands up and looks back over
the hood of the carriage. He utters not a word, but as he resumes
his seat, he pulls himself together significantly, “sits tight,” and
gives a shake to the reins. He is a Magyar, and we know full well how
passionate and determined they are when once aroused, and instinctively
we realise what is about to happen. The _leiterwagen_ gains upon
us sensibly, but Sándor gives his sturdy little nags their heads and
a sharp touch of the whip at the same time,--a double reminder, the
meaning of which they fully comprehend, for we go flying over the
ground at a pace that would astonish a sober English driver and make
his hair stand on end, now plunging into a hole a foot deep in sand,
now ploughing our way through boggy soil, but tearing along through it
all at a maddening and ever-increasing gallop. Sándor “sits tighter”
still, but turns his head round sharply now and then and utters cutting
epithets between his clenched teeth at his antagonist, now close upon
our heels, or sharp savage cries to the horses.
The _leiterwagen_ overtakes us quite, and we race side by side
for a few seconds. Its pilot is skilful and its weight light. We come
to a quagmire, and here the _leiterwagen_ has the advantage
over us; great are its contortions, but, possessed of a snake-like
vertebræ, it has the capacity of writhing, twisting and doubling itself
up without being the worse for it, and overcoming by its plastic
nature all difficulties. It is ahead of us now by fully fifty yards,
its long supple body swaying from side to side. Our carriage, on the
contrary, is heavy, and its draught is beginning to tell severely
upon our willing steeds. The lines about Sándor’s mouth contract,
and his aspect grows more fierce; he will die rather than surrender.
Seconded by our guide, we shriek, implore, expostulate, but entreaties
and remonstrances are alike unheeded and unheard; Sándor regards
us no more than if we had been children. He stands up now, and his
countenance is fierce like that of a wild Indian hastening on to
battle, as he urges his horses onwards by gesture, expletive, and force
of the lash. Crack, crack, hi! hi! jolt, bump; we once more overtake
the _leiterwagen_, and the contest grows hotter and hotter each
instant. There is a deep hole before us, and we hold our breath, for
surely we _must_ upset this time. But no; a severe jolting, and
a violent struggle on the part of our team to extricate themselves,
and on we go again, but--_alone_, for on looking back we find
our opponent has come to ignominious smash; one of his leaders having
fallen. Then reining in his plucky steeds, whose flanks are steaming,
Sándor once more looks over the hood of the carriage, and, taking off
his broad-brimmed hat, exclaims as he regards the signal overthrow of
his antagonist:
“So my horses were screws, were they, and we shan’t get to Pest by
nightfall, shan’t we? _Teremtette! Ejnye!_” he continued, with a
derisive laugh; “you won’t call a man’s horses screws again, I take it.”
Whilst giving the horses rest, Sándor slowly draws from his boot his
long pipe, and taking from his pocket his leather pouch, filled with
home-grown tobacco-leaves coarsely cut, begins smoking the well-earned
pipe of peace.
As we proceed on our way again, we are more than ever impressed both
with the wonderful fertility of these plains and the thinness of the
population--in some districts that we pass through, vast tracts of
uncultivated land many miles in extent, consisting of soil so rich that
it only needs to be turned and sown with grain to yield rich increase;
and as we gaze from horizon to horizon and see only one solitary
farmhouse, we marvel that English colonists do not emigrate here
instead of exiling themselves to the Antipodes.
Our approach to the Hungarian capital is indicated by the Danube
spreading itself out over its low sandy shore, against which numerous
rafts and floating water-mills are moored. But first we reach
Promentorium, with its curious subterranean dwellings hewn out of the
limestone rock, and then pass through the outskirts of Buda. Splash,
jolt, creak, crack, shake, bump, rattle, bang, screw--eugh! the hood
of our unfortunate carriage is nearly wrenched off this time. Squeak
go the wheels as they grind heavily through the mud, for it has been
raining here also and the road is little better than a ploughed field.
Past one-storied houses in which lights shine brightly, for the sun
set long ago, and day has succumbed to night. Over a good road now,
and dashing down a hill we enter a long tunnel which passes under the
Schlossberg. Here other carriages meet us, thundering and rumbling on
their way to the railway station, and we make our exit close to the
suspension bridge, where the great lions couchant look grimly forth
upon the night.
[Illustration]