THE GIPSY CAMP.
An ordinary Hungarian coachman has little notion of time beyond that
which has reference to the movements of the sun. The sun rises, and
behold it is morning. It sets, and, lo! it is night. It is somewhere
high up in the heavens, it is mid-day--but what time of day to within
an hour or two he has not the faintest conception.
Greksa Jankó, however, was not quite an ordinary coachman. He had
long been under the influence of Tátra-Fűred civilisation, and was
consequently only twenty minutes late when he drove up to the steps of
Villa Sontagh as strong and jolly a little pair of cobs as could be
found in all Hungary.
There is a general leave-taking, very sorrowful on our part. The Herr
Doctor comes out, and the pretty Frau Doctorinn; the manager, the
little boy Simon, aged four, and the baby just five weeks and a day,
all come out to see us off. There is much waving of the hand and cries
of “_au revoir_” and “_auf wiedersehn_” from the balcony as,
turning the corner, we get our last glimpse of the peaceful mountain
home, and its pleasant and kind occupants.
Away through the pine-woods by a broad pathway, and out into the main
road which leads to the village of Félka, where we shall have to stay
whilst the horses are shod, for we have a week’s hard work for them
over mountain passes in the Northern Tátra, whither our steps now tend.
I have already spoken much of the badness of the roads in Hungary, but
nothing in all my experience comes up to the one we traverse, after
emerging from the pine forest--through which, as I have previously
said, it is good the whole way. It is my private opinion that one-half
the cures which are supposed to be effected by the mineral waters
of Tátra-Fűred are due as much as anything to the violent exercise
to which the patients are subjected as a preliminary to the baths,
and that “To be shaken before taken there” ought to be added to the
programme of the bathing establishments.
There is moreover a tradition of no very ancient date, that a dyspeptic
old Magyar, believed to be suffering from enlargement of the liver,
was so entirely cured on the journey between Poprád and Tátra-Fűred
that he required no treatment on arrival, and simply turned round and
went back again. The road in fact has never been other than a broad
sand-track destitute of stones. We go down into holes and then ascend
over hillocks, and the carriage rocks from side to side, and creaks and
cracks, and strains in such a manner that we wonder it does not break
up altogether, and that the plucky little horses do not give in and
cease their efforts in utter despair. At last we reach Félka, and pull
up at a blacksmith’s forge.
The profession of shoeing horses in the Zipser district is evidently
not affected by gipsies, as in other parts of Hungary, for the
good-tempered-looking Vulcan who comes out smoking a long pipe, and
at once commences the necessary operations, is not a gipsy; but not
caring to take a lesson at present in the art of shoeing, we alight,
and walking along to the quaint old church, make a sketch of it with
its tall white tower and slender red cupola, which, rising from the
centre of the roof, looks as though it had originally been a chimney,
but in course of years had grown up and developed into a steeple.
As I sketch, the people standing behind half-open doors or
beneath archways--which might have been built in the time of the
Pharaohs--watch me furtively, and then run into adjoining houses and
summon their neighbours to come out and see what it all can mean.
Passing through Poprád, we think it wise to stop and ascertain the
safety or otherwise of our _britzska_, and find it safely reposing
in the _álás_ where András deposited it the day we left both him
and it for the mountains. It looks more dusty, and worn, and battered
than ever, and gazing at it we feel it is high time its work was done.
Close to the wheels some geese are wading in the mud, and sometimes
getting stuck fast in it with their broad webbed feet; whilst within
the sacred precincts of the carriage itself a hen would seem to have
serious intentions of making her nest.
In two hours’ time we reach Kesmark, a straggling old town, or
rather--I beg its pardon--a “Royal Free City,”[2] and the most
important place in Zips, containing 4500 inhabitants. It is situated
on the river Poprád, at an elevation of 2115 feet above the level of
the sea, close under and lying to the east of the Tátra. Its broad
streets are lined with houses whose picturesque wooden roofs and
gables overhang the road; each gable having attached to it an immense
rain-shoot, sometimes even fifteen feet in length, made from a long
straight trunk of a tree, which, hollowed out and projecting from the
eaves, gives to the place a most singular and old-world appearance.
Besides this, the gable and roof of each house is surmounted either by
a wooden cross or ball, according to the religion of its occupants; the
inhabitants being divided between Lutherans and Roman Catholics. These
Zipsers, as they are called, are an industrious and thriving folk, well
worthy the traveller’s attention, inheriting as they do the ancient
characteristics and customs of their forefathers.
[2] Although the laws existing before 1848 prohibited non-nobles from
acquiring real estate, there were certain towns which in themselves
were considered “noble,” and whose municipalities in their corporate
capacity had the privilege of possessing and acquiring lands, not as
individuals, but in the name of the towns they governed, such towns
being distinguished from others not holding the privilege by being
called “Royal Free Cities.”
[Illustration]
In the centre of the town stands the _Rath-Haus_, or Town Hall,
erected in 1461, and within a hundred yards of it stands an interesting
old castle, formerly belonging to the Szapolzag family, but now in the
possession of Count Täköly, who has caused it to be beautified and
restored.
The most interesting object of all, however, is the ancient Gothic
church, erected in 1444, and built entirely of wood. I wish I could
describe this wonderful old edifice, with its numerous gables,
pinnacles, and figures, all painted grotesquely in fresco. The altar
and pulpit are of the most fantastic description, the latter supported
by two pink angels with gilt wings, stout muscular angels with brawny
arms--types of the Zipser maidens. The church in fact was so full of
sculpture that we mistook it for a Roman Catholic edifice, whereupon
the woman who showed us over almost screamed and told us it was
Lutheran.
It was sad to be told that this quaint old monument of a past age
is to be destroyed to give place to a brand new one of stone, very
ostentatious and ugly in design, which is being built close by, and
which, overtopping the beautiful ancient one, seems to be looking down
upon it with disdain.
Kesmark is the head-quarters for various Alpine excursions, such as
to the “Alabaster Caves,” and the Green, Red, and White Lakes; but
we do no more on this occasion than bait our horses. Whilst waiting
at the hotel for our carriage to be brought round, we see on the
table before us a Hungarian newspaper, entitled “_Osszehasőnlitó
irodalomtőrtenelnu Lapok_.” Fancy taking in a periodical afflicted
with such a name, but, after all, I believe it signifies nothing worse
than “Comparative Literary Journal”!
After leaving Kesmark, we journey towards the mountains which tower
grandly above us, and pass through sleepy and silent little villages,
the houses of which are made of pine-logs, and whose interstices are
filled with moss to keep out the cold. There are no chimneys, and the
smoke issues “picturesquely” through the roof.
By the wayside, in the neighbourhood of the villages, are little
shrines containing images of saints, resembling gaudily-painted dolls;
whilst close to a mountain stream we are just passing, and which is
evidently given occasionally to overflowing its borders, we observe
a niche attached to a high pole, in which stands the figure of St.
John Nepomucensis--a saint who, though drowned himself, is supposed to
possess the power of restraining unruly waters, and protecting others
from inundation.
Farther still we recognise the form of St. Philip, that hospitable
saint, who, just “done up,” is radiant in every colour of the prism.
As we approach the quaint little town of Béla, with its prodigious
shoots extending from the gabled houses--and which, in length and
ponderousness, far outdo even those of Kesmark--the snowy range is
glistening like molten silver, the peaks piercing the sky with points
like needles.
Nowhere is the outer belt of this stately group of mountains more
beautiful than from this point. At Poprád the whole length of the range
is seen, but here we are nearer to them; and although they present only
a foreshortened view, they are far more bold and rugged.
What a heavenly scene it is!--the ermined giants veiling their
foreheads in the fleecy clouds which here and there pass across them;
the deep blue precipices at their base dreaming in the noontide haze,
and the broad stretch of pine-clad plains in the foreground.
In the undulating pastures oxen are ploughing in teams of four, and
even six, as they lazily turn the rich brown soil. Yonder is a group of
men and women reclining under the shadow of a waggon as they eat their
mid-day meal; whilst near the roadway to our left stands another of
those picturesque wayside shrines, beneath which some country-people
are kneeling.
Since leaving Poprád the roads have been excellent, and, soon beginning
to ascend the pass of a mountain which separates the south side of the
Tátra from its northern or Polish slopes, we again get into the region
of primeval pine-forests, the banks of which are full of that most
lovely of all Alpine flowers--the blue gentian--which, dwelling so far
above the ordinary abode of men, and reflecting the deep colour of the
zenith, seems to have tempted down bits of the sky.
The birds sing sweetly, and our hearts beat high. Who does not remember
to have experienced such moments when the mere fact of existence is an
immeasurable delight--when the life-blood courses through the veins
with a warmer glow, and each bodily sense vibrates in unison with
external nature? The invigorating mountain air, fragrant with the
breath of pines; the purple expanse of mountain peak beyond; the bright
sunshine,--all kindle within the heart a new joy, which leaves no room
for other and sadder feelings. Even the sorrows of the past that are
common to the lot of all, come floating upon the memory with a gentler
sadness.
Now and then we meet a long waggon filled with timber on its way to
the plains, driven by a mild Slovak, who sings as he comes along, for
he too is joyous on this lovely day. Sometimes a pedestrian passes us,
his hat adorned with flowers gathered by the wayside; he lifts it, and
gives us an unintelligible but kindly greeting. Then as we approach the
summit of the pass the ragged edges of a fleecy cloud get caught in the
topmost branches of the pines, and for a few moments we are enveloped
in mist, but the sun soon shines brightly as before.
Having crossed the pass, which has occupied about two hours, we arrive
at the straggling village of Altendorf, inhabited by our old friends
the Slovaks--for we have left Zips with its German-speaking population
far behind, and shall soon be in a district inhabited entirely by
Rusniaks, or _Malo-Rossijantsi_ (Little Russians), as they are
sometimes called.
There has been a fire here recently, for many of the houses are reduced
to mere heaps of charred wood, which is lying about in all directions.
Against each house a ladder is left standing, in readiness for the next
conflagration: fires, we are told, being of very frequent occurrence
at Altendorf. When one does take place, it is a marvel how any house
escapes, for once ignited they must blaze like a box of matches,
consisting as they do wholly of wood, and leaning almost one against
the other.
The Slovaks in this district differ slightly in appearance from those
we saw in the _comitat_ of Gőmőr, and wear, instead of the large
round felt hats which had amused us so infinitely, smaller ones turned
up at the brim, very peculiar in shape, but less striking at first
sight than the former. In other respects their costume is precisely the
same, and their features and manner are wholly unmistakable, as also
is their voice, which is melancholy and low. We felt glad to be amongst
the gentle Slovaks again, for there is a pathos about them and their
simple lives which interested us greatly.
Long before we had completed our repast, which consisted of edibles
brought with us from Villa Sontagh, it became noised abroad throughout
the village that a family from _Ángolország_ had arrived, and were
resting at the inn. Not that that noun suggested anything very definite
to the ungeographical Slovak mind. But just as there are the moon
and stars--spheres which they cannot reach or comprehend the nature
of--so there are places on the earth, afar off, in a mysterious region
beyond the Slovak horizon, or, it may be, in an altogether different
world from that in which he has his being, where there are strange
people speaking a strange language, possibly having tails or walking
on “all fours,” and, for aught they know, possessing some entirely new
arrangement of humanity. They consequently all turn out to behold with
their own eyes these unknown entities and unexpected visitants to their
hemisphere, and are no doubt greatly disappointed when they discover
that we are men of like fashion with themselves.
Walking down the village, we find on its outskirts a gipsy encampment.
It consists of two hovels, formed of planks placed together tent-wise
and partially sealed with mud. Close to these human kennels is a
wretchedly old tent, whose canvas is seamed with many a patch and darn.
In one of the hovels a small anvil rests on the ground, and from this
we infer that they are the resident blacksmiths of the neighbourhood.
I think it is Carlyle who says that “society is hung upon clothes.”
These gipsies, however, possess in this matter a contempt for the
superfluous common to their race, and, although residents of the
village, they are not recognised as members of the Slovak community,
possibly on the aforesaid theory. Be this as it may, no one had taken
the trouble to impart to them the interesting fact of our arrival, or
we may be quite sure they would long ere this have presented themselves
clamouring for kreuzers, as is their wont on the advent of the
stranger. But as soon as they see us, they begin to make up for lost
time, and come pouring out of their hovels like a swarm of bees from a
hive, thirteen women and children covered with the veriest rags, which,
hanging upon them without shape or form, look like a hideous mockery
of clothing, and cause them to present the saddest spectacle I ever
witnessed. They were soon joined by two men, evidently of the party,
hunger and oppression written in the faces of every one of them; whilst
those of the younger wore an eager, wizened, hunted look. Not that they
are ill-treated by the villagers,--far from it; but, descendants of
a vagabond race, these “settled” gipsies seem no more civilised than
their wandering brethren, and possess the same sad, oppressed, and
down-trodden expression of countenance inseparable from their race--a
heritage brought with them from the land of bondage, and which, like
that of the Jews, has stamped them a separate and distinct people for
ever, to be individually recognised in all countries and in all climes.
As we look at them, clothed in their blackened rags which cling to them
like cerements, we ask each other in dismay, Have these poor creatures
immortal souls, and are they brethren? Are these amongst the number for
whom precious blood was shed--these wild, half-savage-looking beings,
with their secret language, their belief in elves and hobgoblins, their
total disbelief in the immortality of the soul, and utter ignorance of
every form of religion? Can _these_ be brothers and sisters, who,
more degraded than the South Sea Islanders, recognise the existence of
no Great Spirit higher and better than themselves?
The Austrian Government insists on the gipsies having their children
baptized, but they have no notion of the meaning of the rite. In fact
the Christian religion is a complete puzzle to them, especially in
regard to the Holy Trinity; some labouring under the belief that God
the Father has abdicated in favour of His Son, others that He is dead
and that His Son reigns in His stead.
It is marvellous that in the nineteenth century such ignorance should
exist in any Christian country. Surely there is work here, amongst
these 150,000 outcasts, for Christian philanthropists?
“How do these people live?” we ask of a respectable-looking man, whom
curiosity has prompted to join us, and who we feel sure, from his
wearing the familiar costume of the West, will be able to understand
the question we have put to him in German, and reply to it, if ever so
imperfectly; moreover, in all probability he may prove to be a Zipser.
“_Gott allein weiss_,” he replied readily, shrugging his shoulders
as if to give greater force and expression to the utterance, so full of
sad and pathetic meaning. “_God only knows._”
“But what do they live on? what do they eat?” we inquired, anxious to
come to the root of the matter.
“Anything,” was the reply; “they snare birds, and eat rats, and snails
and frogs besides; nothing comes amiss to the _czigány_. There are
three more men belonging to this gang, but they are away, picking up
a job here and there, and _möglicherweise mausen sie_” (possibly
pilfering). “They manage to live _somehow_”--and regarding the
slender anatomy of these poor creatures, I could not help thinking
that the various species of esculent he enumerated could not be
very nourishing food; and the word “_somehow_” in all its sad
significance haunted us for many a day afterwards.
“Would they wear decent clothes if they were given them?” I asked
again, remembering with regret the number of travel-stained garments we
had left behind us at Poprád.
“Yes! they would wear them,” answered our informant, who we afterwards
learnt was an officer in the Revenue Department. “But the Slovaks are
poor, very poor; besides,” he continued, smiling sardonically, “who
would think of giving clothes to a _gipsy_?”
Whilst this colloquy is taking place, F., surrounded by a knot of
peasants a little higher up the village, is making the boys run for
kreuzers. Amongst them is a gipsy urchin, who he insisted should be
permitted to take part in the race, but who so invariably came in
first, that after a few times he had to be handicapped; whilst a
juvenile specimen of the male Slovak, whose particular mission in life
would seem to be to lug about a big baby, cried so pitifully because he
was unable to join the sport, that he had to be consoled with kreuzers.
Then the small fry--the little four-year-olds--are made to run. In
vain the bell summons them to afternoon school. In vain the long-robed
priest comes out to see what can be the reason of their absence. A
complete state of demoralisation has taken place--the Slovak urchins
heed neither the schoolmaster nor his Reverence, call they never so
loudly, and so the afternoon has to be declared a general holiday.
At length it was proposed that the men should compete, a race in which
our Jehu joins. Jankó had evidently made a great impression on the
minds of the gentle Slovak by his Sontagh livery, which consists of a
scarlet waistcoat and blue hussar jacket and tights, embroidered with
bright yellow braid. All the village turns out to see the fun, even the
babies, who whine plaintively, and receive not only kreuzers, but extra
shoves on the part of their small nurses, who are scarcely bigger than
themselves. I think I never saw so many babies together in all my life
as in this Slovak village; and had it rained babies and hailed babies,
instead of the conventional cats and dogs, during a recent heavy
storm, I doubt whether they could have been more numerous. The day’s
excitement is at last brought to a blissful termination by a _feu de
joie_, in the shape of a general scramble for small coins, and we
gallop away amidst the blessings and acclamations of the multitude,
whom we have made quite happy at the cost--divided into infinitesimal
fractions--of the magnificent sum of four and a half gulden.
[Illustration]