THE VOLKSGARTEN.
Pest is a costly place to sojourn at, and our money absolutely flew, a
_gulden_[1] scarcely going farther than a _franc_ in Paris,
or a _lire_ in any part of Italy. No wonder is it then, as the
porter told us on our arrival, that “fewer and fewer English travellers
come each year.” Prices however vary considerably, according to the
state of the currency; and are a barometer indicating the state of
political affairs in Hungary, as well as external ones affecting the
interest of the country, ascending with the depreciation of the paper
currency, and descending as it increases in value. Thus the tradesman
loses nothing by the fluctuations of the circulating medium; his gulden
may not be worth so much at one time as at another, but he charges
more for his wares, and thus keeps up for himself a wise and equitable
balance.
[1] Supposed to be worth two shillings, but averaging, in the
depreciated state of the Austrian currency, only one shilling and eight
pence.
What an aggravating and irritating currency is the Austro-Hungarian
with its miserable kreuzers and paper gulden! Our purses will not hold
sufficient even for our daily wants. Oh, to live in a world where there
is no need of money! We have ceased to count the kreuzers, one hundred
of which go to a gulden, and give them out promiscuously, a small
handful of those little coins generally covering the cost of tickets
for the steamers that ply all day between Buda and Pest, cab-hire,
“pour-boires,” and the like.
Ordinary hackney carriages--which are here called “comfortables,” just
as in Transylvania they are designated, more oddly still, by the German
name of “_Gelegenheiten_” (opportunities)--are however both cheap
and excellent. They consist of small broughams drawn by one horse, but
besides these there are carriages of other kinds, always to be found
waiting for hire in the Gasella Tir, to which two horses are attached,
the carriages of all kinds being nearly as good as private ones. Let
us jump into one and go off to the Stadt-Wäldchen. We have lunched
sumptuously at the Jägerhorn, to the sound of plashing water and the
fragrant perfume of flowers, and are ready for anything.
At what a pace the horses go, as they dash round the corners, and take
us on through the crowded thoroughfares, into the long broad road which
leads to the open country, at the end of which we can just descry,
through the blue veil of atmosphere, the trees at the entrance to the
People’s Park! It is a festival of some sort, and the streets are full
of holiday-makers, in holiday attire. In vain the bells which with
equal importunity summoned the faithful to church in the early morning
now peal forth again, and clang and twang and nearly crack themselves
in the anxious vehemence with which they strike against their clappers.
The people refuse to hear the call, and still in never-ending stream
make their way to the various piers, and crowd the steamers which
every few minutes are seen cutting through the waters with a cool and
pleasant splash to Buda, Alt-Ofen, or other places lower down the
Danube, and, calling for passengers at Pest, come banging against the
wooden framework of the piers and nearly knock them over.
All is hurry, bustle, and excitement. The sun shines fiercely, but a
refreshing breeze is blowing down the river. If ever a day was made
for a holiday, surely this one is. The Hungarian flag has a rare time
of it, and its red, white, and green stripes wave and flash, not only
from the sterns and masts of steamers, but from every available spot.
The open omnibuses--which are here like two Victoria phaetons joined in
one--are passing and repassing by the score, filled with quiet happy
people seated under the clean brown-holland awnings. Every mortal thing
is clean in Pest. On through the Sugár út, with its bordering of gilded
mansions and pretty Italian villas, till we reach our destination,
where dismissing our droszky on payment of the magnificent sum of
one gulden for the “_course_,” and an equally magnificent sum
of twenty kreuzers to the driver, we hasten away to “Arcadia’s green
bowers,” not proof however against the seductions of the vendors
of delicious sweetmeats (_édességek_), which, lying in small
white muslin booths, like babies’ bassinets, waylay the weak-minded,
sweet-toothed pleasure-seeker at each step on entering the domain.
This sylvan retreat, dear to the hearts of the people, as well it
may, was not long ago a huge swamp, but, having been drained by
an artificial lake, now contains “every requisite” for a pleasure
resort. The sheet of water, with its swans and (moored to its banks)
innumerable gaudily-painted canoes, is a great source of delight to
the holiday-makers, who paddle about and fish for minnows and tadpoles
with a gravity and perseverance quite astounding. Nothing short of an
insurrection or an overflow of the Danube would prevent the Hungarian
_bourgeois_ from resorting hither on Sundays and week-day
festivals: to them a tour in the “merry-go-rounds” and a saunter in the
pleasant shady walks is a necessity of their lives, without which they
could not digest their “_gulyás hús_” or “_paprika hendl_,”
and would even lose relish for their “_schoppen_” of beer.
As we proceed, the discordant sounds of music, the spasmodic beating
of drums, and hum of many voices greet us; for in the deep recesses
of the Wäldchen itself, the Hungarian world is _tout en fête_.
There are open-air theatres, Blondin feats, dancing on the tight-rope,
and something to suit all comers, not to speak of the aforesaid
“merry-go-rounds,” each rivalling the other in eccentric design.
Emerging from behind a group of trees, we find ourselves close to
one of these popular sources of amusement and exercise, composed
of an artificial menagerie--a “happy family” revolving in peaceful
fellowship, as they carry their bold equestrians, male and female,
whizzing in giddy circles.
A few steps farther on we find an opposition one, and, judging from the
crowd of lookers-on which stands outside the gaily-fringed awning, a
great favourite.
Managing to work our way through the throng of people, we behold
the twelve signs of the Zodiac chasing each other with maddening
velocity--objects sufficiently grotesque to send children both small
and great back to their homes with a whole lifetime of nightmares on
the brain. Farther still is another in which huge swans with gilded
beaks are made to draw wondrous cars containing not only children but
grown-up men and women of all ages, some sitting, some standing. So
accustomed are the Magyars to this particular mode of exercise that
they rotate with a speed positively astounding, doing so at the same
time with the gravity of judges, scarcely the ghost of a smile breaking
over the countenance of any one of them. Never can I forget one young
woman in a pink dress with long golden hair flying out behind like
a mermaid; as, standing bolt upright in one of the cars, her hands
demurely folded and her eyes bent downwards, she managed to rotate
about twenty times without moving a muscle of her body, or holding on
to anything for support. In fact, so perfectly still was she, that
we had just come to the conclusion that, like a figure-head at the
bows of a vessel, she was simply placed there for effect, when the
machinery came to a standstill, and she stepped out of the car with a
pair of “understandings” of most unquestionable flesh and blood, and
disappeared amongst the crowd. This part of the entertainment would
seem to be regarded as a duty rather than an amusement; for still
they go round and round to the grinding of an immense barrel-organ,
the most popular instrument, seemingly, with the proprietors of these
_divertissements_, combining as it does the greatest quantity
of sound with the least possible motive power, and the people never
stop--except to begin again.
The whole scene was headachy and bewildering; whilst the jumble of
barrel-organs, each playing different tunes in a different key, soon
sent us off in quest of a more peaceful locality.
Not far away, but a little out of the noise and tumult of voices, came
the familiar squeak of the immortal Punch, sound irresistible at all
times. But a _Magyar_ Punch and Judy!--we _must_ go and see
it. Following the direction of the dulcet tones, we see before us, not
the modest and itinerant arrangement of our childhood, but a permanent
theatrical establishment. The performance proves to be a most elaborate
and imposing rendering of the drama of the classic pair, consisting of
a play in five acts, in which Judy leads the same miserable life, and
receives the same number of wooden blows from the arms of her lord and
master, who finally poisons her and marries again, but in which she
comes to life again in the fourth act, and, imbued with supernatural
powers, takes the form of a hideous monster,--a creature with huge
jaws, half alligator, half shark, whose appearance frightens the little
children, but preaches a wholesome lesson to Hungarian husbands, for
it dodges the footsteps of the newly-wedded pair to such an extent,
that the second Mrs. Judy takes leave of this mortal stage in a rapid
consumption, and is buried with much pomp and ceremony, whilst the
conscience-stricken Punch, after wasting to a mere shadow, is crushed
to death in the animal’s jaws.
This tragic and melancholy ending of the hitherto victorious hero was
accompanied by the most dolorous music, extracted with much difficulty
by a young female in long plaits, who ground away with both hands at an
asthmatic old organ, which sent forth spasmodic gasps and groans highly
appropriate to the occasion.
At this juncture, the loud bell of the al-fresco theatre, about a
hundred yards off, announces that another performance is going to
begin there also. Let us throw our little heap of kreuzers into the
greasy saucer which is now seen hovering above the heads of the people,
and, having paid our modest tribute to the memory of the defunct
Punch, follow yon hurrying throng in the direction of the theatre,
take tickets at the rustic wicket-gate for the “dress circle,” and,
entering, rest beneath the cool shade of waving trees.
As fate would have it, the hero of the piece was the typical
Englishman, and in course of the performance we were treated to
an exposure--most graphically rendered--of some of our national
traits, which, though not particularly flattering to ourselves, were
at any rate highly appreciated by the audience, who greeted their
representation with immense applause.
In these al-fresco theatres the popular drama is not seen in its most
_recherché_ form, certainly; and the garish day, by laying bare
many of its secrets, detracts not a little from its accessories, but
there is seldom anything to offend eyes or ears the most fastidious.
There are no coarse jests nor ribaldry. Everywhere there is merriment
and happiness, but vulgarity and intemperance never; and the people
greatly enjoy this source of amusement, often paying the price of their
tickets over again, to witness a repetition of the same piece.
The last time we were in Pest a troupe of Italian pantomimists were
performing here; but they could scarcely have come to a worse place
than Hungary to find an appreciative audience, for the phlegmatic
Magyar _bourgeois_ seems incapable of taking in the full meaning
of mute gesture, of which the Italians are so fond and which to them
has all the power of language. In vain the supple bodies of the
“_mimi_” rocked to and fro in their endeavours at simulating
passion, or quivered in every nerve under the power of strong emotion;
in vain they emitted electric flashes from their finger-tips
expressive of disgust and indignation; in vain the lines and muscles of
their faces worked convulsively as they endeavoured to give expression
to the various sentiments. Love, hate, sorrow, joy, indignation, and
contempt, all came alike to the Hungarians, who can only comprehend the
force of pantomime when exhibited in their national dance.
[Illustration]
On whatever side we gaze there is a stream of human life which has
been augmenting each moment throughout the day. The greensward is
covered with happy groups reclining beneath the shade of trees. Like a
palace of the “Arabian Nights” lies the boat-house yonder, reflecting
itself in the calm water over which swans white as snowflakes glide
in spotless procession. Beyond all, in wavy curvature rise the hills
of Buda. And now the little rustic bridges are crowded with persons
crossing over to the island whence come the sounds of music, no longer
that of barrel-organs, but of a gipsy band, and soon the broad surface
of the lake is alive with canoes and brightly-painted boats, and the
swans floating in graceful curves seem to keep time to its inspiriting
strains.
Outside the various restaurants the people sit at the small
marble-topped tables under the awnings, and eat ices or drink coffee
whilst listening to the music. This is the people’s day, and the
_beau monde_ do not appear; but in spite of this we see some
lovely faces, as well as figures of exquisite contour. Look at that
Magyar girl yonder, leaning against a tree, her hat resting against
her lap. What makes her look so sweetly sad as the gipsy band rings
out one of its speaking melodies, and what is she thinking of whilst
the butterflies with spangled wings play at hide-and-seek amongst the
branches, and the sunlight like a shower of gold lingers about her
head as though it loved it? She is only a shop-girl probably, out for
a holiday, but how pretty she is with her tiny features, and what
modesty and reserve there is in her whole bearing! Quietness without
insipidity, and dignity without pride.
But now bidding adieu to this gay and festive scene, just as the fires
of sunset are paling in the west, we jump into a droszky, scores of
which crowd the entrance to the gates, and rattling off to the Danube,
take a steamer to the fair green island of Marguerite.
Here the holiday-makers are of a far different type, and, consisting
of the _nil admirari_ class, take their pleasures tranquilly, a
military band being the only source of amusement provided. Walking
through shady alleys skirted by noble forest trees, across broad
stretches of velvet lawn and past well-kept parterres, we reach a
large restaurant at the end of the island--and here we dine.
This beautiful island of woods and flowers, which lies so peacefully
in the Danube’s arms, belongs to the Archduke Joseph. Here in ancient
days, so runs tradition, a lovesick maiden--the daughter of a king--was
in the habit of retiring to pray. Her name was Margaret, that is
“Pearl,” and it is after her that the island is so sweetly called the
“Pearl of the Danube.”
Seated beneath the lime-trees, amongst which hundreds of lamps are
gleaming, we listen to the melodious rhythm of the orchestra, and seem
to be in fairy-land. The soft evening air blowing from the Danube fans
our cheeks, and our prosaic _Kalbs Schnitzel_ and _Lämmerchen
Braten_ no longer taste like either. We are partaking of ambrosial
food, our “Turk’s blood” converted into nectar of the gods. We fall to
earth again, however, with one fell swoop, when, having asked for the
bill, it is presented--but who would think of grumbling after such a
happy day? Restaurant-keepers _must_ live, and money was made to
spend, whilst the _cuisine_ was excellent and the wine direct from
the Archduke Joseph’s cellars.
To our right sit a group of buxom Germans, not dwellers in Hungary
evidently, or they would have spoken Magyar; it being the highest aim
and ambition of the German residents to be taken for the dominant race.
So great, in fact, is the attempt of the Germans to repudiate their
own nationality and pass for Hungarians, that they will often tell
you they are Magyars, in a language which though Hungarian betrays a
very unquestionable Teutonic accent, and swear that their ancestors
came over with Árpád. The ladies in question therefore must be
visitors to the fair capital, possibly from Vienna, where it is the
fashion to speak ill of everything Hungarian, for they are abusing
not only the country and its people, but all that is placed before
them, in their harsh gutturals, and again and again we hear such
words as “_miserables Brod_” and “_schlechtes Fleisch_;”
but still they eat and drink, and we marvel at the quantity of
“miserable” _Speisen und Getränke_ (meat and drink) they manage,
notwithstanding, to consume.
To our left sit a trio of slim Hungarian ladies prattling softly
in their expressive language. How gentle in manner are they, and
how modest and demure! What a charming absence of vanity and
self-consciousness is there about these Magyar belles! and how unlike
in these attributes--may I be forgiven for saying so?--are they to many
of our English girls of the period!
In their beauty the Magyar women have been said to resemble the
Circassians. Of this I have had no opportunity of judging. But lest
it should be thought I have exaggerated, let me quote the opinion of
a gentleman (M. Tissot) on the subject: “Those who want to see the
true type of feminine Magyar beauty should come here (_Margarethen
Insel_), seat themselves in the shade, and watch the women who
pass by. What strikes one first among the Hungarians is the extreme
freshness, delicacy, and purity of the complexion, whether they be
brunette or blonde. Their wavy hair, as in all women of this race, is
superb; in their large Oriental eyes, shaded with long lashes, reverie
mingles with passion; their lips are the colour of roses, and their
teeth have the brightness of pearls.... The figure is supple, the
joints fine, and the feet arched and tiny. You recognise a Hungarian
woman at once by her walk, so completely without affectation, so noble
and full of ease. It is an indescribable stamp of aristocracy and of
good manners, which makes the German women who live among them yellow
with envy.”
[Illustration]
Amongst these Magyar sirens the stranger will often recognise a face
that is decidedly Hebraic, and often the Grecian and even Spanish type
is manifest; whilst immediately opposite us a lovely woman is sitting,
whose type might be a mingling of all three. Her complexion is a clear
brunette, with a tint like the damask rose just showing through the
delicately transparent skin, and her wavy clusters of dark brown hair
drawn back in loose bands. She too has taken off her bonnet and is
fanning herself, for the evening is sultry. She has already caught
sight of my sketch-book, and knows by my fixed gaze that I am sketching
her, but looking up she smiles sweetly, then resumes the same pose,
remaining perfectly still, the expression of her face imbued in its
every line with that unconscious grace and charm of indifference to
admiration which great beauty so often adds to its possessor.
On the men of Hungary Nature has been less lavish in her gifts. They
are tall, manly, and even stately in form, and handsome faces are very
frequently observed, but they are not the rule, as amongst the women.
Now and then, amidst these fine and well-formed people, one is seen who
recalls to mind their Tartar origin, and anthropologists are puzzled
not a little to account for the change which these once pastoral
nomads--the Magyars dwelling in their northern steppes--have undergone
both in face and feature since they migrated southwards and became a
settled and agricultural people. They affirm that the admixture of
Slavonian and other blood which has taken place from time to time is
inadequate to account for the complete change of type evinced not
only in external characteristics, but even in cranial formation. For
whereas the Lapps and Finns, who have been ascertained by philological
research, no less than by the guidance of ethnology, to form with them
a common stock, still retain their ancient physical characteristics,
and are “short of stature and uncouth,” with “pyramidal” skulls--a
type which is said to distinguish in a great degree all the pastoral
races of the North--the stature of the Magyars of the present day is
stalwart, and the cranium has acquired the “elliptical” form, that
denotes the dwellers in Western and Southern Europe.
* * * * *
Twilight had drawn its veil across the sky and the stars were peeping
forth by the time we turned our backs upon this “Paradise of Houris,”
and, taking the steamer, made for Pest. A celebrated gipsy band was
to perform that night at the restaurant of the “Jägerhorn,” and we
determined to go and hear it, and thus conclude our exciting day.
Entering the quadrangle of the hotel which formed the restaurant, we
took our seats. The stars, dimmed by the lustre of the artificial
lights, looked down upon us meekly, for we were seated in the open
air. The fountain in the centre of the court merrily tossed its spray,
and the gold-fish darted in and out of their miniature grottoes as they
played at “hide-and-seek.”
The soul-stirring, madly exciting, and martial strains of the
“Rákótzys”--one of the revolutionary airs--has just died upon the ear.
A brief interval of rest has passed. Now listen with bated breath to
that recitative in the minor key--that passionate wail, that touching
story, the gipsies’ own music, which rises and falls on the air. Knives
and forks are set down, hands and arms hang listless, all the seeming
necessities of the moment being either suspended or forgotten--merged
in the memories which those vibrations, so akin to human language,
re-awaken in each heart. Eyes involuntarily fill with tears as those
pathetic strains echo back and make present some sorrow of long ago, or
rouse from slumber that of recent time.
Watch narrowly the countenances of the listeners one by one! Regard
that phlegmatic and, as you thought but a few minutes ago, painfully
prosaic man of threescore years sitting over his high glass of
_Lagerbier_. See, he hangs his head and wipes away a tear! Now
gaze furtively at the face of that fair one opposite, in all the
rounded grace of early womanhood. What a look of pain is fixed upon her
brow! how the eyebrows knit and the corners of the sweet mouth droop!
And that younger form beside her, of a girl who has scarcely left her
teens--what a pensive shadow passes over the expression of her face
also; _hers_ the unconscious foreshadowing of some future cloud!
All are firmly held, grasped, enthralled as by a magic spell, every
heart responding to those plaintive notes, and every sorrow stirred by
the thrilling vibrations which hang upon the ear.
And now the recitative being ended and the last chord struck, the
melody begins, of which the former was the prelude. Watch the movements
of the supple figure of the “first violin,” standing in the centre of
the other musicians, who accompany him softly. How every nerve is _en
rapport_ with his instrument, and how his very soul is speaking
through it! See how gently he draws the bow across the trembling
strings! and how lovingly he lays his cheek upon it, as if listening
to some responsive echo of his heart’s inmost feeling, for it is his
mystic language! How the instrument lives and answers to his every
touch, sending forth in turn utterances tender, sad, wild and joyous!
The audience once more hold their breath to catch the dying tones, as
the melody so rich, so beautiful, so full of pathos, is drawing to a
close. The tension is absolutely painful as the gipsy dwells on the
last lingering note, and it is a relief when, with a loud and general
burst of sound, every performer starts into life and motion. Then
what crude and wild dissonances are made to resolve themselves into
delicious harmony! What rapturous and fervid phrases, and what energy
and impetuosity is there in every motion of the gipsies’ figures as
their dark eyes glisten and emit flashes in unison with the tones!
whilst in the restaurant itself everything is once more stir and
motion. Knives and forks clatter, corks fly, and the cool fountain
plashes with a merrier sound.
The deep-toned cymbals--a large kind of lyre laid flat upon a table and
played with padded sticks--thrum and ring and vibrate; the strings of
the double-bass thunder; the strains come thicker and faster, but in
perfect time, till the performers, interrupting the regular measure by
an inversion of the order of notes, glide into syncopated passages, and
we think they must surely lose themselves in those intricate and subtle
“quantities.” But no! “Thump, bang, crash, and squeak” rend the air,
but in the din and clamour and fury of the wild rhythm they all come
right again, and wind up in the greatest precision.
The fiddles are now placed upon the table; the “loud cymbals” are
hushed; the double-bass and violoncello rest against the green
trellis-work with which the walls of the restaurant are covered; the
clarionet lies hidden amongst a labyrinth of leaves, and for a brief
space the _czigánok_ walk about the quadrangle, and receive the
congratulations of the audience. But they never really tire, and would
seem to be endowed with the power of perpetual motion, for they soon
begin again, and “men may come, and men may go, but” _they_ “go on
for ever.”
No wonder is it that the Hungarians prefer their national music to any
other, for the gipsies are not only gifted with an extraordinary genius
for music, but their impetuous and passionate natures make them enter
into it heart and soul; and this being the case, it is impossible for
them to help communicating some of their ardour and enthusiasm to their
impressionable listeners.
The cymbals (_czimbalom_), the most characteristic of all their
instruments, possess great tone as well as capability of expression.
They emit as much sound, in fact, as that of a grand piano, the lower
strings possessing immense depth and power. We are so accustomed to
associate the word cymbals with the circular brass plates which are
clashed together, that it seemed odd to hear any other instrument
called by that name; but I never heard the gipsies’ _czimbalom_
without wondering whether they had inherited them from their ancestors,
and whether, under a more simple form, this stringed instrument, in
universal use amongst the Hungarian Ishmaelites--so infinitely more
capable of expression than the sharp ringing sound produced by the kind
of cymbals familiar to us in our own country--be not in reality the
“loud cymbals” with which David told the Jewish people to “praise the
Lord.”
Our last night in Pest has come for the present; our last bill is paid
at the Jägerhorn restaurant; our farewell of the gipsy-band has been
taken, and we return in regret to our hotel. Ascending the stairs, we
meet Herr Dulovics, who demands our wishes concerning our early repast,
previous to our journey on the morrow, observing--a fact we had already
recognised--that the inns on the Alfőld are both few and indifferent.
He suggests, therefore, the desirability of our fortifying ourselves
with a substantial meal.
Seeing that we hesitate for an instant, he breaks in hurriedly, as
though seized by a happy inspiration--
“Leave it to me; I will take care that you have a breakfast to please
you,” and then disappears.
On the following morning, descending to the _Speise-saal_, we
see the snowy cloth spread in readiness for us, and at the sound of
our footsteps, peeping through a doorway at the end of the apartment,
mine host’s head appears. He looks hot and busy, and his wig is all
on one side in the very fervour and excitement of his occupation. The
cook, clad in white, stands hard by, his arms folded. He is not deemed
equal to the occasion evidently. Herr Dulovics himself undertakes the
important office of preparing a savoury mess--a parting blessing in the
flesh-pot way--such as he thinks the soul of the _Ángolok_ loves.
The Magyars were called Ogres by the ancient Romans on account of a
belief commonly existing amongst them that these heathen conquerors ate
the hearts of their enemies and drank their blood, an idea possibly
originating in the fact of their eating almost raw meat.
Surely Herr Dulovics must have been imbued with a similar notion with
regard to the descendants of the Ancient Britons, for in a few minutes
he is seen approaching bearing in each hand a small round silver dish.
No other hands, not even those of the “black divinity,” shall present
to us those time-honoured morsels.
“There!” he exclaims, a look of complete triumph animating his
whole countenance, as removing the covers with a flourish he places
before each of us a piece of half-cooked meat--“There! _Bif-stek à
l’Anglaise_.”
[Illustration]