PEST.
How astonished would the traveller be, how utterly flabbergasted and
dumbfounded, were he set down suddenly at Pest without having been
previously informed of his whereabouts! How puzzled, as he threaded
the clean and handsome streets, and looked at the names over the shop
windows and doorways, to conjecture at what part of the globe he could
possibly have arrived! One can fancy his rubbing his eyes and imagining
himself half asleep, or else that the odd arrangement of the letters
of his once-familiar alphabet, bristling all over with accents like
porcupine quills, must surely be some post-prandial jumble that will
come all right to-morrow morning, and that as to himself he must be
suffering from some temporary lapse of memory as to the proceedings of
his own immediate past.
As he walks along he will see such names as the following: Mészáros
Imre, Stőszer Ignatz, Miskolczy Testvérek, Vadász Ferener, Szép
Ferenz, Lápossy Jankó, Vértessy Sándor, and a thousand others equally
outlandish. If he wants to buy mineral waters, he will probably do
so at the shops of Édeskuty Lajos, or grocery either at Messrs.
Radocsay and Bángay’s or Szenes Ede’s; whilst if he happen to be a
person of a literary turn of mind he will probably go to _Ráth Mór
Könyvkiadóhivatala_, who will publish his book on the shortest
possible notice, in spite of his long superscription.
Occasionally however, like roses amongst thorns, he will come upon such
modest and familiar names as Jones Thomas, Hill Robert, or Brown John,
for the surname as we have seen always precedes the Christian name in
this strange country.
Nor will the stranger be less astonished, if he takes a stroll along
one of the beautiful quays in the evening, at the extraordinary number
of pretty women gracefully pacing the asphalt promenade, accompanied
by their duennas. Where else can one see so many lovely faces or such
ravishing toilettes?
Hardly even in Paris can we hope to find such a quiet and delicious
harmony of tints, or such perfect refinement of style, as in the dress
of these Hungarian ladies; and nowhere indeed such lovely combinations
and simple elegance. And as we gaze at them admiringly, we wonder
who the goddesses can be who invent such charming costumes, and
make them fit so beautifully the graceful and slender figures, and
whether they are Manaszterly and Kuzniek, who announce themselves as
_Hölgyruhakészítő_ (ladies’ dressmakers).
What a bright, clean, beautiful city, it is with its noble mansions,
the very type of the Magyars themselves! Here there is no sham, no
struggle to keep up appearances under false pretensions, no stucco
that will crumble away and lay bare in a few years the miserable
counterfeit behind; all is real and what it seems. Its palaces not only
look like palaces, but are built of solid stone, to defy the ravages
of Time the destroyer; whilst the magnificent position of the capital,
situated as it is on the banks of the Danube, with the rock-built
city of Buda facing it and the majestic Blocksberg rising above it,
constitute, to my mind, the most beautiful place I have ever seen.
Walk along the terrace of the embankment on an evening in early summer,
when the robinias are in bloom! The odour of the flowers, the beauty of
the women, the fresh breeze blowing from the river; the noble mountain
buttress opposite, rising out of the water a sheer precipice of eight
hundred feet; the setting sun illuminating the black-and-gold cupolas
above the houses and suffusing the waves of the Danube with a crimson
dye,--all form as perfect a whole as can well be imagined on the earth
this side of Paradise!
The evening must be fine, however, and the weather warm, for the
butterflies do not spread their wings and come forth at other seasons;
and, ah me! how cold it is at Pest sometimes! It freezes one’s blood
even to think of it! But we will banish the remembrance of the nipping
blasts that blow over the ice in winter and spring. It is June now, the
best month of the whole year in which to visit Pest: the robinias are
decked in their fairest green, the fountains plash, and the butterflies
are abroad in all their glory.
Pest, which threatens one day to rival Vienna in size as it already
does in position, has greatly changed even within the last four years;
and when one considers the peculiar difficulties against which its
people have had to contend from first to last, the progress it has
made is marvellous.
Situated on a quicksand to begin with, the very ground on which
the houses stand had to be thickly covered with cement before the
foundations could be built, besides which the absence of stone in the
Alfőld has naturally been a very serious drawback. Before the days of
railways, and when the now obsolete _vorspann_ was almost the only
means of travelling through Hungary, it is said that when a postboy
happened to see a stone or pebble on the road he would stop his horses
to pick it up, and, placing it carefully in his pocket, carry it home
as a curiosity, or something very precious, to be kept as an heirloom
in the family and handed down to successive generations!
In spite of all these disadvantages, Buda-Pest with its splendid
river embankments is, as I have said, one of the most beautiful
capitals in the world. The Magyars are a most patriotic people, and
contribute nobly to all national institutions, responding liberally
to every object that is undertaken for the benefit of their country.
Occasionally, however, they embark in almost more than so young a
nation--which thirty years ago had scarcely emerged from the barbarism
of the Middle Ages--can afford; and their notions of splendour and
eager desire to embellish their beloved metropolis are sometimes,
it is to be feared, too mighty for the state of their finances. The
National Museum, a very large and handsome building, was erected partly
by private subscription. The Magyars likewise contributed voluntarily
a million and a half of gulden for the endowment of the palace of the
Academy of Sciences, a beautiful edifice completed in 1865, at a cost
of 800,000 gulden; while the Redoute, a splendid building in the
Moorish style near the river, which contains a spacious ballroom and
restaurant, was erected at a cost of no less than 600,000 gulden.
Although comparatively few English travellers come to Pest--“fewer and
fewer each year, _mein Herr_,” the porter said, as he deposited
our luggage in the room that had been allotted to us--we took care
here, as we invariably do when “pilgriming” abroad, to avoid hotels
recommended either by Murray or Bradshaw, preferring not only to mingle
with the natives of the place rather than our own countrymen, but to
fall in with the national customs as well. On our arrival therefore,
we drove at once to the “_Jägerhorn_,” and, finding all its lower
rooms occupied, took up our abode at the Hôtel ---- in the Servieten
Platz, one of the most completely Magyar hotels in Hungary. Although
small, we are most delightfully situated at this hotel, and never can
I forget its appalling cleanliness, the dusting and scrubbing that
perpetually go on, or the exquisite texture and dazzling whiteness
of the linen. I name these facts because the Hungarians are a
much-maligned people, and are supposed to be behind the majority of
other nations in the matter of cleanliness.
That melancholy institution the table d’hôte does not exist in Hungary,
and the traveller has the option of either taking his meals _à la
carte_ or ordering his meal beforehand. The Hungarian bill of
fare includes wild boar, red deer, and, as the irrepressible Murray
informs us, “frogs in the proper season!” Perhaps it may with propriety
be questioned whether there does exist any “proper season” for the
devouring of those little reptiles of the Batrachian tribe, or of
snails either, another delicacy previously alluded to, to which Magyar
epicures are much addicted; but, with the exception of these two items
of the Hungarian school of gastronomy, we were quite willing to partake
of anything which their cuisine afforded. But “_Si Romæ fueris Romæ
mores sequeris_” being our motto when travelling abroad, we were not
prepared to satisfy our hunger with anything so English as “ros-bif”
or “bif-stek,” which the waiter--who had evidently discovered to what
nation we belonged--informed us, on handing the day’s bill of fare, we
could also have if we did not mind waiting for it.
Now, as an Englishwoman, I object to the belief commonly entertained by
all foreigners that in our island habitat we live and move and have our
being solely by the agency of those two sources of nutriment. In France
the notion does not surprise one; for is it not a creed amongst her
people that it is by these means that “_Jong Boule_” has conquered
one-half of the world and bullied the other? But here, not only in the
heart of the Magyar capital, but in the seclusion of a Magyar hotel,
where English persons so rarely come, to be thus reminded of our
national weaknesses, and have them in a manner thrust down our throats,
is more than provoking, and I am afraid we answer rather snappishly
that we wish neither the one nor the other. At this doubtless we sank
considerably in the waiter’s estimation, for how could we be true
_Ángolok_ and not require our _ros bif_ or _bif-stek_!
The sun is scorching in the city. But on the heights of the Blocksberg
we shall enjoy a cooler air, to which end we must cross the suspension
bridge, a triumph of engineering skill accomplished by an Englishman,
Mr. Tierney Clarke; _Herr Clarkey_, as he is invariably called
by the grateful Hungarians, who never fail to speak of him to the
stranger when alluding to the bridge.
Yonder flows old Danube, tearing along in desperate hurry, as though he
had lost time somewhere in his wanderings farther north-west, and had
to make it up, or he would be late in his arrival at the Black Sea.
The magnificent structure spanning it, of which the Hungarians may well
be proud, was erected at a cost of £460,000. The width of its central
span is much greater than even that of the Menai chain-bridge, and its
strength was tested in a very severe and singular manner, when, in
1849, it was opened for the first time to admit of the Hungarian army
crossing the Danube under the leadership of Kossuth when pursued by the
Austrians. It is stated that during those first two days, no fewer than
260 pieces of ordnance and 66,000 troops passed over the bridge; and
the scene, as graphically described to us by an eye-witness, must have
been one of the wildest tumult and confusion, the retreating army being
closely followed by squadrons of Austrian cavalry and artillery.
The last time we were here we happened to see the breaking up of the
winter’s ice, and it was a wondrous sight to behold the great blocks,
borne down by the swift current, heave and struggle and beat against
each other, and then dash headlong against the massive stonework of the
bridge, with a crash like that of a volley of musketry.
The breaking up of the ice is always a time of especial anxiety to the
immediate dwellers on the banks of the Danube, particularly to those
of Buda and Pest, with the remembrance of the calamity of 1838 ever in
their memory. Should a rapid thaw take place higher up the river, the
pent-up waters, suddenly let loose, pour down _en masse_, and,
bursting the ice, hurl huge blocks many tons in weight up into the air,
not unfrequently throw them on to the shore, and wreck many a small
craft moored to the river’s banks.
So terrible indeed is the apprehension when a sudden thaw occurs that
alarm-guns are fired to apprise the inhabitants of the threatened
danger, while the ice itself is cannonaded in order to break it up and
allow the imprisoned waters to escape.
During the present century there have been no fewer than fourteen
inundations, none however so disastrous in their effects as that of
1838. Only three years ago one occurred which threw the citizens on
both sides the river into a state of great consternation. The snow,
which had melted unusually early in the mountains of the Tyrol, caused
the Danube to rise to an alarming height, and the ice getting jammed
a few miles below Pest, the blocks which the waters gathered in their
progress hither heaped themselves one upon another and formed a
complete barrier to all outlet.
“It was like a great ice mountain,” exclaimed a German-speaking Magyar
with whom we got into conversation as we leant over the bridge together
and watched the unruly river tearing by.
“_Ach! lieber Himmel_,” he continued, “that too was a dreadful
time. We scarcely went to bed for three nights. Buda was under
water, and the houses could scarcely live in the surging flood which
threatened at each instant to inundate Pest.”
In fact, not only has the physical formation of the country rendered
this “_beata Ungaria_” a perpetual anxiety to the children of
her soil, but ever since the time of Constantine until the middle of
the present century she has seldom been otherwise than in a state of
anarchy and confusion from causes which have reached her principally
from without. Five times has Pest been under the dominion of the Turk
alone; and though her political horizon is now tolerably free from
cloud, she has her own two great climatic evils perpetually hanging
over her,--inundation on the one hand and drought on the other; so that
nature and man seem to have conspired together to render this grand but
unhappy country the sport of fortune.
But we must loiter no longer on the bridge, or evening will have
closed ere we can return. Before us in bold outline rise the porphyry
mountains, on which shadows are already beginning to lengthen. Opposite
rises the proud citadel of Buda, which bravely held its own during
the twenty sieges that were laid against it in the course of three
centuries, not only by Moslems, but by Christians also. On the summit
of the rock, with its terraced gardens and magnificent flights of steps
sloping at right angles down to the river, stands the Regal Palace,
together with the ruins of a church, once dedicated to the Cross, but
which, once and again, has borne on its sacred frontal the ensign of
the infidel Crescent.
Taking a droszky at the other end of the bridge, we make for the
majestic Blocksberg. What a glorious and at the same time singular
panorama greets us from its steeps! How beautiful looks Pest from this
elevation, with its noble palaces, above which rise conspicuously its
many cupolas and spires of ebon and gold! Below lies its sister-city
Buda, a name said to be a corruption of Bléda, given to it by Attila,
after one of his brothers--wearing such an odd old-world look that,
forgetful of the long, long centuries that have come and gone, one
can almost imagine the Huns still established here under their great
leader, who is said to have fixed his court and camp on the spot where
Buda now stands. A little above, on the site of the ancient fort,
rises the citadel, bristling with cannon, in which a Turkish Pasha, to
whom the half of Hungary was compelled to own allegiance, once ruled
supreme. Nor was Pest the only city that owned his sway, for in 1529
the conquests of the Sublime Porte extended to Vienna, where for two
centuries the Crescent replaced the Cross on the cathedral there.
The united population of Pest and Buda, the modern and ancient cities,
is estimated at rather more than 200,000.
From the heights on which we are standing we look down upon the citadel
which has been the scene of so many sanguinary struggles. Ah! if
those stones could but speak to us, what tales of bloody conflict and
dauntless bravery would they not unfold! What a strange contrast, too,
do these twin-cities present, the one so ancient, bearing in everything
evidences of a bitter past, the other a splendid city of to-day!
Between them flows the Danube. Who would suppose, looking down upon it
now so calm and smiling, that it is in reality such an ill-conditioned
river, and so absolutely without self-control, keeping the peaceful
inhabitants settled on its inhospitable shores in such a frequent state
of alarmed expectancy? Yes! there it goes! rolling on in majestic
silence, coldly indifferent to the presence of friend or foe: invasion,
conquest, bloodshed, flood and drought, are equally unheeded. Yonder in
its arms lie peacefully the fair green islands. How like toys look the
steamers that ply between them and Pest, as like some monster shuttle
they “weave each together into closer and closer union”!
In the distance rise the gentle vine-clad slopes of Buda, from the
grapes of which various kinds of wine are made, amongst which are
Ofner, Adelsberger, and another appropriately called “Turk’s blood,”
which I should imagine the Hungarians, with their memories ever keenly
alive to bygone days, must partake of with considerable relish.
Beyond all stretch the sandy plains, the great Alfőld steeped in a
rich mingling of varied hues which a hot tremulous vapour has blended
and softened into one delicious harmony. In the remote distance the
mountains of the Mátra, dimly floating in a dreamy haze, rest their
summits against the azure.
* * * * *
On first arriving at Pest, the traveller--who will doubtless have heard
so much of the national costumes--will feel not a little disappointed;
for the railways, which have already done so much to rob Switzerland
and the Tyrol of a great part of their old charm, are slowly but surely
doing their work here. The so-called civilisation of the West is
likewise toning down not only the costumes, but the primitive customs
of this part of Eastern Europe.
The gradual extinction of the former is a source of intense regret to
the Hungarians of the old school, who regard it as a sign of coming
evil, attributing it to German influence. Occasionally in the streets
a man with an immense round beaver hat and curious short jacket thrown
across his shoulders may be seen, and there are plenty of sheepskins
and fur-lined mantles everywhere; but to see costumes that once so
astonished the traveller one must go some distance from the capital.
The great fear that possesses the mind of a true Magyar--the very
_bête noire_ of his existence--is lest his country should become
Germanised. The Magyars of the old school in all internal matters are
strongly conservative: they do not object to progress, but it must
wear the Hungarian costumes, speak the Hungarian language and think
the Hungarian thoughts, and must be of that kind which opposes with
clenched antagonism the faintest shadow of German innovation; for any
sympathy with the Teutonic nation he looks upon as an evidence of
national decadence.
[Illustration]
“There was a time within my memory, and not so long ago either,”
remarked _mein Herr_ Dulovics, the landlord of the hotel, an
old man with a tow-coloured wig, who liked to have a quiet talk with
the _Ángolok_, much as he disliked speaking the hated German
tongue--the only medium of communication between us, for he knew
neither French, Italian, nor Latin--“There was a time when even the
nobles wore the _gatya_ and a distinctive dress, and Pest was
vastly different in those days. Now, on the contrary, even the
servants wear _Schleppen_ and _Hauben_ forsooth (trains and
bonnets), and the Magyars, who used to be so much sought after as
making the best of servants, are now avoided, and we have to get them
from Bohemia and Poland, and goodness knows where besides;” and the old
man sighed heavily as he thought of the “good old times.”
Not a lass however of the kind he had been describing, who wore a
_Schleppe_ and _Haube_, was the chambermaid of the Hôtel
Dulovics, with her modest head-gear, a clean white kerchief crossed
over her smooth, fair hair and tied under her chin. What a deft little
woman she was, as she went trudging about with her duster and broom and
neat checquered apron pinned over her bosom! No enterprising spider
wove seductive webs behind the curtains where _she_ reigned
supreme, nor did dust attempt to evade her eye by collecting in remote
corners; and as she tidied the room, the polished furniture gave back
her bright little image as from a many-sided mirror.
The waiters, on the contrary, wore the ugly garments of Western Europe.
The head man, to whom appertained the making out of the bills and
superintendence of the hotel generally, was a sort of black divinity
in whose presence the importance even of Herr Dulovics himself was
dwarfed. He also waited upon us, doing so as though we had been of
royal blood, not obsequiously however, like our _tálnok_ of
Székes Fejérvár, but with a deference and dignity of manner quite
perfect. I never saw anything like the stately bearing of this grave,
broad-shouldered, handsome specimen of Magyar, or the amplitude of
his embroidered shirt-front. He might have been, and probably was, a
prince or “noble” in disguise. Nothing whatever brought the ghost of a
smile over his countenance, and he was altogether so extremely solemn
and correct that we almost lost our appetite as he waited on us. It
seemed indecorous, somehow, to be hungry in the immediate presence of
such deportment, and we often wondered whether that grave visage ever
relaxed when, his duties ended, he retired within the secret recesses
of his own lair, and whether he ate and drank and slept like mortals.
[Illustration]