ANDRÁS IN DIFFICULTIES.
We reached Kesmark in time for the evening service at the Lutheran
church; the curious old building, with its grotesquely painted roof
and walls, taking us back to mediæval times; whilst the officiating
minister, wearing a costume of the sixteenth century, looked as
though he had just stepped out of some old picture-frame. It was
all exceedingly quaint and interesting, and we were glad to have
witnessed a service in one of these ancient edifices--so few of which
now remain--that connect the present with the past, and tell more
eloquently than words of the struggles of the people in the cause of
religious freedom, so hardly won. As we watched these honest Zipsers
peacefully thronging to the church in which their fathers worshipped
and who fought so nobly for their faith, and listened to their lusty
singing, our minds could not help reverting to that troublous time
when, at a Diet held at Buda in 1523, an edict was passed empowering
the government “to hang or, if of noble lineage, to behead all Lutheran
heretics and their abettors found in the Apostolic Kingdom of St.
Stephen.”
How bravely they held their own against the intolerance of the Roman
Church of that period may be inferred from the fact of there existing
no fewer than 1,100,000 Lutherans in Hungary at the present time,
irrespective of other Protestant sects, which number in all 3,124,000
members.
The service ended, we were walking about the old building, when we
were accosted by the woman who had been so horrified at our supposing
the church to be other than Protestant. She asked us to walk into
the vestry, just vacated by the minister, who, having doffed his
ecclesiastical robes, now looked like an ordinary mortal of the
nineteenth century.
What a conglomeration of relics of a bygone era awaited us here! To
enumerate them would be impossible. Suffice it to say that an antiquary
would have gone mad with delight over the _bric-à-brac_ which the
room and its vestibule contained, and I doubt whether the contents
of all the shops in Wardour Street could have produced a greater
display of “art treasures,” in the shape of sacred vessels and other
antiquities, of the Roman Catholic period. They are all so old that,
in comparison, two ancient life-size portraits of the great Reformers,
Luther and Calvin, appeared but the work of yesterday; and who,
forgetting in the mellowing influence of three and a half centuries
their bitter antagonism in matters of religion, here hang side by side,
and ogle each other with Christian benignity.
We found a letter awaiting us here from András, containing many
expressions of devotion to our service, and informing us in somewhat
florid German that he should hold himself in readiness to accompany
us on our further travels from to-day. We had given him leave to go
home during our absence in the Northern Tátra, a leave which extended
almost a week beyond the present time, in consequence of our having
purposed making excursions in the neighbourhood of Kesmark; but as he
has already returned to Poprád, we decide to journey on to that place
this evening.
Having dismissed our Zakopane coachman, we hire another carriage to
take us on, and bid farewell to this interesting old town at five
o’clock. The roads are excellent the whole way; and the horses this
time spinning along at an exhilarating pace, we have a splendid drive,
and do not once lose sight of the Tátra, whose peaks, rising above us
in lonely majesty, appear in the clear atmosphere to be scarcely more
than a stone’s throw off. As we near Poprád, the sun is setting, and
they tower above us bathed in all the tender roseate hues of evening;
whilst the dense pine-forests reposing at their base, which cross them
in one magnificent sweep, stand out blue and sombre and cold.
Entering the town or village, or whatever Poprád may be called,
the first person we recognise is András himself, looking more
“_betyár_” than ever; his moustache--after the fortnight’s growth,
and careful manipulation he has been able to bestow upon it during our
absence--extending far beyond his cheeks, and twisted into a lovely
curl at each end. Great at all times in ties and top-boots, he is so
altogether “_chic_” now that he is out for a holiday, that as he
walks down the street with that peculiar swagger which he invariably
assumes when he is decked out in all his “war-paint,” the little
children look up at him wonderingly with open mouths and reverently
kiss his hand, thinking, as they see their small round faces reflected
in his shining boots as in the bowl of a tea-spoon, that he is quite a
superior being; whilst the Zipser damsels sitting out of doors in the
cool evening air evidently regard him with unfeigned admiration, as the
very perfection of a “_Magyar-miska_.” Although he had written to
say he had returned to Poprád and was at our service, he had no reason
to expect our arrival for several days to come, so he was not a little
surprised when, pulling up, we made our presence known to him. But
kissing our hands reverently, and expressing in Magyar idiom his great
joy at once more beholding the face of his “sweet master and sweet
mistress,” he mounted the box, and directed the driver to take us to
“Hôtel Tátra.”
Hôtel Tátra is well named, the only objects visible from its windows,
besides the ugly little station of the Oderberg and Kaschau railway,
being the great mountains rearing their jagged and denticulated summits
into the purpling sky. We purpose remaining here, however, one night
only, and starting early on the morrow for Neusohl, a few miles beyond
which friends reside to whom we have a letter of introduction, and
who have asked us to spend a few days with them on our way from the
mountains.
Whilst András was making the necessary arrangements for the journey,
which chiefly consisted in procuring horses and driver, together with
laying in a small store of provisions for our roadside bivouacs, there
was a gentle knock at the door, and in response to our “_Herein!_”
a tall man, dressed in shabby black, entered hat in hand. That we were
greatly puzzled at receiving such a visit may readily be imagined; his
appearance, too, added not a little to our wonderment. He might have
been a tract-distributor, or a _colporteur_, if he had only had
his pack; or a detective in disguise, or an “undertaker,” or Methodist
parson. He looked demure enough for anything.
It was not long, however, before he unfolded the object of his
mission. Could we tell him whether the person in our service was
_aufrichtig_ (upright), and the kind of man to whom a devoted
father would like to entrust his daughter’s happiness? This odd inquiry
subsequently elicited the fact that András had not been spending his
time during our absence in the bosom of his family, as we had all along
imagined, but had remained here instead, lodging with our visitor, who
possessed a daughter, to whom he was said to have engaged himself in
marriage, and, to use the words of the “devoted father,” _sie waren
verlobt_--they were betrothed.
We were quite taken aback by this astounding and most improbable
declaration. That András was a little prone to “butterflying” with the
opposite sex we already knew by experience, but that there was any real
harm in our little “_betyár_” we did not believe for an instant;
for, having accompanied us on two of our previous journeys through
Hungary, we had known him long. In vain we assured the demure man in
black that he must be labouring under a delusion, informing him that
our guide was married, and the possessor of several olive-branches.
He insisted on the fact with such earnestness and gravity, and talked
about compensation and redress in such a fierce and determined manner,
that we began to fear it must be true.
I need scarcely say, however, that we soon proved that our good little
guide had been guilty of no such enormity. That he had been spending
his time here _pour s’amuser_, and had not thought it necessary
to impart to the fair ones of Poprád the fact of his being ineligible
as a “partner for life,” I fear there is not much doubt; probably
acting on the casuistic principle contained in the French proverb,
“_On est obligé de parler toujours sincèrement; mais on n’est pas
toujours obligé de parler_;” for, on the matter having been brought
to the notice of the “_pandúr_,” to whom we were obliged to have
recourse by way of intimidating András’s traducer--who we subsequently
discovered to be a Jew, and who went so far as to threaten to prosecute
him for his alleged fraudulent conduct--the whole thing fell to
nothing like the fabled fox-track in the snow, which “dwindled to a
rabbit-track, and then to a squirrel-track, and finally ran up a tree,”
and was doubtless, as the “_pandúr_” hinted, only a device to gain
money under false pretences.
“Why did you not go home to your wife?” we inquired of András later in
the evening, as--the unpleasant little episode over--he came to wish us
“good-night” and receive the latest orders for the morrow.
“Ah! if my sweet master and mistress only knew”--tears came into his
eyes, and he sighed piteously--“if they only knew how Katicza treats
me!”--all the starch and perkyness dying out of him at once as the
image of that charming female rose before him in all her magnificent
proportions. As it did so, he stood before us a wrinkled, cowed, and
thoroughly submissive man; and we realised the situation in an instant,
and regarding him under his changed aspect we learnt a moral. Here was
a man, small of stature, it is true, and usually dauntless in spirit,
who could hold his own, and assert himself with _men_, but who
nevertheless, under the irresistible and all-powerful hierarchy of
womankind, was reduced mentally to the condition of a subdued kitten.
Poor András, thou art, after all, but an example of a judiciously
henpecked husband!
It was, however, impossible to allow this incident, so indicative of
András’s weaknesses, to pass without “improving the occasion,” and
bestowing on him a few platitudes relative to his general behaviour
towards other goddesses than his own, and I sincerely trust that he
retired to rest that night if a “sadder,” yet a “wiser” man.
As gloriously as it had sunk to rest, the sun rose out of the plains,
calling men from their slumber to the toils of day. We too were up
early, and saw the rugged summits of the mountains start into awful
life--the snows looking in the morning light like glittering flames of
gold.
We have broken our morning’s slumber so effectually by habitual early
startings, that we can no longer sleep much after five o’clock; and the
immortal “ode to the sluggard” can scarcely, therefore, be said to be
applicable to ourselves, in _these_ days at any rate. Distances
are great in Hungary, and the fresh morning air breathed as we bowl
along is well worth the effort of turning out--even if it _were_
an effort, which in our case it has long ceased to be. Our hope is
to reach Neusohl by nightfall, a distance of about sixty miles, to
accomplish which we start to-day with four horses.
Journeying towards the western slopes of the Tátra, we find that the
mountains at their base have been ruthlessly robbed of their beautiful
pine-trees, and they appear wretchedly barren after those we have left
behind. And we tremble at the possibility of a day arriving when, the
forests on the outer declivities of the Tátra once exhausted, the
forest department may be compelled to have recourse to those of the
interior, in which event the aspect of these wild and beautiful regions
will soon be totally changed.
[Illustration]
Having, to András’s intense satisfaction, left the district of the Zips
behind--he declares that having shaken from his feet the dust of _das
Land der Juden_, as he persists in calling that peaceful country,
nothing shall ever induce him to enter it again--we find ourselves
once more in the region of big hats, and reach a province inhabited
entirely by Slovaks; our approach to each village being indicated by a
steeple peeping above the gentle undulations. First appears the small
round ball supporting the cross, then the metal cupola, shimmering like
a star in the morning sun, then the tall white tower, and lastly the
sleepy little village itself comes in sight, with its sombre houses,
and semi-circular windows in the wooden roofs, like eyes half open.
Here and there in these villages we see women standing on high ladders,
engaged in repairing the shingled roofs, plastering the corners of
the houses, or otherwise busily occupied; for these operations, which
in other countries pertain unto men, are evidently confided in this
locality to the “weaker sex,”--if that term can with truth be applied
to these Slovak matrons, whose muscular development is of the very
highest order.
The pigs, too, afford instructive examples of the Darwinian theory
of mental development by “hereditary experience,” their constant
association with the creature man--with whom they live in close
fellowship--having made them almost human. As we drive through the
villages, they rise from their wallowing in the dust on either side
of the road, droop their tails, and then with a peculiar squeak, half
grunt, half speech, gallop off to their respective cottages to inform
the dwellers therein that interlopers have arrived to disturb the
tranquillity of their borders. These quadrupeds however, though in a
high state of cerebral development, are, I should say, in regard to
physical anatomy, the very lowest type of their class. Covered with
scanty red hair, and possessed of an erect and scrubby mane which
extends down the nape of the neck, an immense head, high back and short
body, they resemble hyenas far more than the domestic and familiar
mammal of our styes.
Never can I forget the indignation of one of these animals, or the
expression of its countenance, as we passed a little colony of
charcoal-burners. First looking at us full in the face, as though
about to charge, it almost swore at us. Then, as if thinking it would
be hardly a match for us, it turned round with a look of injured
innocence, and with a series of grunts, whose intonation was almost
like that of the human voice, ran home to complain in the most
deprecatory accents of our raid upon the village. We had often heard of
the fine pigs of Hungary dignified with the royal title of “Palatine,”
but we venture to hope that the Slovak species does not belong to that
noble order.
Passing now over a very bad road, our progress is exceedingly slow;
the carriage rocking to such an extent that we tremble lest in its
old age it should break up entirely and land us on the ground, which
is covered with stones sharp as needles. Opposite, lashed to the front
seat, is the provision-basket, in which stands a bottle of wine, and
which occasionally takes such a leap into the air that we have serious
fears, not only for the safety of its contents, but lest the quality
of the wine itself be impaired by the perpetual churning to which
it is subjected; a process which has caused us long ago to refrain
from bringing milk, experience having taught us that that fluid under
similar circumstances is without human agency occasionally given to
exchanging its properties for those of butter.
For some time past we have been winding round the buttresses of rugged
mountains, whose trees have only recently been cut down; but on
proceeding a mile or two farther, we welcome the existence of a nursery
of young pines--seedlings just peeping above the soil, showing that the
forest department are not wholly unmindful of their duty to the future.
We are again surrounded by vegetation, and, coming to an unusually
steep ascent, András jumps off the box and climbs the outskirts of the
forest in search of _Pilzen_, or edible fungi, which abound in
Hungary, and are of the most beautiful colour and form. In some places
the mossy banks are thickly sown with what appear at first sight to be
daisies, an effect produced by the white _Jungfernsschwämme_. In
others it is covered with the golden _omphaleák_, which hold aloft
their small and variously painted heads on slender, half-transparent
stems. Besides these, there are the canary-coloured _Clitocybe_
and the exquisitely adorned _Täublinge_, standing together like
soldiers on parade, with their purple, green, or violet caps; whilst
here and there, like gnomes amongst the elves, a fat _Cortinaria_
may be seen, almost bursting through its leathery outer garment; nor
must the scarlet _Fliegenschwämme_ be forgotten, one of the most
beautiful of all.
These fungi, which in many instances are quite as splendid in both form
and colour as flowers, are not all edible. The peasants however easily
distinguish the one from the other; the edible, with the exception
of the _maschlare_, the flesh of which is too soft, being much
esteemed.
András, who now rejoins us, bearing a quantity of _Pilzen_,
which he informs us are of the best kind, calls our attention to the
existence of a number of enormous slugs lying amongst the damp moss
and lichen on either side of the road, with bright emerald-green heads
and dark-blue bodies, which he declares to be a _Leckerbissen_
(dainty), and recommends our trying them as an accompaniment to our
_Pilzen_ at the end of the journey, when he assures us our
prejudices will vanish for ever.
Zigzagging down the steep mountains come long waggons laden with
charcoal, and driven by our old friends the Slovaks with the large
hats. But we are nearing a larger village than usual, and our driver,
lashing his horses, takes us bodily into the middle of an _álás_,
where alighting we arouse the anger of a number of turkeys, who spread
their broad fans and make for us with indignant gesture. It had
occurred to us that we might possibly find something to eat at this
place, but on going over to the adjoining inn we find they can as usual
offer us nothing but rye bread and Slovak cheese. In a few minutes
we are joined by our guide, who informs us that there is also some
difficulty in procuring a relay of horses to take us on, and that he
fears it will be some time before any are forthcoming, all the animals
belonging to the village being engaged in the fields many miles away.
This being the case, we request him to find a pleasant and retired spot
for a bivouac, to make the fire and prepare our meal, and to leave for
once the arrangements about horses to ourselves.
Sending for the village “_pandúr_,” we ascertain that the
inhabitants have spoken quite correctly; neither love nor money could
procure horses for us that day; and upon his suggesting a yoke of oxen
as the only possible solution of the difficulty, we set off together in
search of a benevolent peasant who may be induced to lend us four for
the purpose. For to-morrow’s journey the _pandúr_ proposes sending
a messenger over the mountains to the next village by a nearer route,
to obtain horses there if possible, and have them ready for our arrival.
As we walk down the village, so great is the curiosity concerning us
that a face is peeping from every window or half-opened doorway; dogs,
too, which appear to consider themselves a kind of rural police, rush
out of sheds, show their teeth and bark at us furiously, until they see
that we are already in the company of a functionary of the law, when
they slink off again as though they felt they might safely consign us
to his _surveillance_, and that in this instance the duty which
they owed to their Slovak masters, in the protection of the village
from the incursions of suspicious characters, no longer devolved upon
themselves.
At length, reaching the end of the long street, we observe a rustic
leaning out of a window smoking a pipe. He is evidently the immediate
object of the _pandúr’s_ quest, for he accosts him, and after a
short conversation, carried on in the Slovak language, he informs us
that in an hour’s time a team of strong oxen will be at our disposal.
Hastening back to András with this intelligence, we find him busily
occupied with his culinary utensils, and looking--crouched round the
fire and peering into his stew-pans--like a wizard engaged on some
unholy philtre or mystic spell, whilst the _cazarola_ was sending
forth the most appetising odours.
He had chosen for our refectory a sweet green spot under the cool
shadow of a tree. What though on the journey the mustard had invaded
the territories of the butter? What though the omelette, when it came
smoking from the frying-pan, resembled Australian damper and was gritty
from the all-pervading sand? What though the faithful András, cumbered
with many things, had forgotten before starting to bring the salt? Our
good appetites compensated for everything.
The wine, however, though it had the tint of rubies, was both a
delusion and a snare--whether from the exhilarating effects of the
severe process of churning to which it had been subjected on the way,
or from the nature of the wine itself, I know not. But I incline to the
latter theory. Bad Hungarian wine, especially if it happen to be new,
has a vicious habit of going at once to the head; and before either
of us had imbibed more than half a glass of this, we are almost taken
off our balance, and subjected to the humiliating consciousness of
considerable difficulty in the power of articulation!
Having seen that the wants of our excellent _chef_ were well
supplied, and taken care, by consigning it as a libation to the river
at our feet, that he did not himself partake of the wine, we repair
to the _álás_, where we find our carriage already attached to its
novel team.
Patriarchal and primitive as our wanderings have been hitherto,
travelling through the country with a yoke of oxen is an entirely new
experience. In all this “vale of tears” there is nothing so slow and
dreary, and, crawling along the road in our lumbering old chariot, we
seem to be carried back to a remote period of the world’s history, even
to the drowsy old times of the ancient Seers. As we pass through the
sleepy little villages, people come out of their houses and follow us,
asking questions of András and the driver, who we are and whence we
have come; the more intelligent addressing them in German, and taking
no more heed of our presence than if we had been deaf.
In process of time we reach the village where the horses were to await
us, and, suddenly aroused by the stentorian shout of the owner of
the oxen, who brings them to an abrupt standstill, we see three bony
animals standing in the middle of the road.
At eight o’clock we reach Neusohl, and are driven at once to the Hôtel
----. We had stayed here with András on our previous visit to Hungary;
and the moment he enters the inn to make the necessary inquiries as to
accommodation, he is recognised. The landlord, a German Jew, embraces
him with effusion. He is his “long-lost brother.” The landlady almost
repeats the ceremony, but suppresses her emotions with a dignity and
fortitude that do her credit.
“_Und die Engländer_?--They are here too? _Ach!_ It is too
much. Accommodation?” They should think so. The whole house was ours.
The best guest-chamber, where the King himself had slept; and if the
hotel had been full, why then we should have had their own. Yes! their
very own room. “_Ach!_”
The preamble happily coming to an abrupt conclusion with the utterance
of this guttural, we are permitted to alight from the carriage and
enter the hotel, which not being full, the hospitable alternative above
mentioned had no need to be taken advantage of--a distinction which,
having been favoured with it on our last visit, we did not appreciate
sufficiently to desire its repetition on the present occasion.
[Illustration]