THE PERIOD OF NATIONAL DECLINE, AND THE DISASTROUS BATTLE OF MOHÁCS.
We are now approaching one of the darkest pages in the history of
Hungary. The nation which but thirty-five years before had occupied
a commanding position in the world, had, within that short space of
time, sunk so low as to become merely a bone of contention for foreign
princes. The concluding act of that sad era was the calamitous battle
fought on the field of Mohács, where were expiated the many national
sins which had brought about this sorrowful state of things.
The period following the death of the great king was marked by feeble
rulers; by hierarchical chiefs, unmindful of their duties; by an
oligarchy acknowledging no restraints; by a military organization
rotten to the core; and by discontented subjects. So rapidly did the
fame of the nation decline that we find Erasmus of Rotterdam envying
their king, Louis, the possession, not of his kingdom, but of an
eminent teacher (Jacob Piso) then living there. The power of the king
was even at a lower ebb than that of the nation. We find, for instance,
John Szapolyai (or Zápolya), the head of the oligarchy, daring to
attack King Uladislaus at the latter’s own palace at Buda, in order
to force from him the hand of Anna, his daughter. King Louis, the
successor of Uladislaus, was told to his face by Thomas Bakacs, one of
his councillors, at a meeting of the National Assembly, that, unless
he acted according to the wishes of his councillors, and listened to
their advice, they would drive him from the country, and elect another
king in his place. These incidents clearly denote the character of the
rulers, and of the leading men of the nation, whose province it was to
defend the country against an enemy which the great Hunyadis themselves
had hardly been able to withstand, namely, the Turkish power, and
the ruinous effects of their misrule became evident soon enough. In
rapid succession followed one loss of territory after another, coupled
with loss of prestige abroad, and civil strife within, and shortly
afterwards came the crowning disgrace of the Turkish yoke. It is but
right to add that this melancholy period was not quite barren of good
men, who both knew and strove to do their duty, and it will be a
grateful task to make honorable mention of these noteworthy exceptions.
The partisans of four hostile candidates met on the 17th of May,
1490, on the field of Rákos, for the purpose of electing a king of
Hungary. The National Assembly, at that period, greatly resembled
the popular meetings held by the conquering Hungarians under the
Árpáds. They gathered on horseback, numbering many thousands, on
some extensive plain, taking counsel with each other, or, rather,
listening to the utterances of their party leaders. These assemblies
continued their so-called deliberations at times for many weeks, and
their attendance entailed no little expense to those taking part.
Many of them came with a large retinue of servants, and it frequently
happened that the poorer members, the so-called middle, running short
in provisions and money, were compelled to leave for their homes before
the deliberations were concluded. This was precisely what happened on
the present occasion. The powerful magnates purposely wasted time by
delaying the deliberations, and thus compelled the smaller gentry to
withdraw. Before leaving, however, these last elected sixty members
from their number, who were to remain as representatives, but it was
of no avail, for their party was defeated, owing to the withdrawal of
such large numbers. This time the stratagem of the oligarchy proved
more successful than at the former election, when, as we have seen, the
impatient smaller gentry, who were greatly in the majority, succeeded
in electing their candidate, Matthias Hunyadi.
Of the several candidates, John Corvinus, the son of King Matthias,
had few adherents and many enemies. It was accounted a crime in him
that he was not descended from a queenly mother. Beatrice, the widowed
queen, was especially opposed to his election. She could not bear the
idea of her husband’s son ascending the throne. She flattered herself,
besides, with the hope of being able to retain her regal position
by the election of a prince who would make her his queen. With this
view she became the partisan of Maximilian, the son of the emperor
of Germany, and advanced his interests with the passionate vehemence
characteristic of the Italian blood which ran in her veins. Her
partiality for the imperial prince, however, soon gave way to feelings
of disdain, upon being addressed by him, in one of his letters, as
his “dear mother,” and she transferred her affections to Ladislaus
(styled by the Hungarians, Uladislaus), king of Bohemia. Her new
favorite was descended, through the female line, from the Árpáds. The
wealthy and influential magnates were also on his side, but with them
the fact chiefly weighed in his favor that he was understood to be a
kind-hearted, gentle, and feeble prince, whom it would be easy for them
to govern. Both Báthory and the oligarchy wanted no king but a royal
tool. Albert, the brother of Uladislaus, was the fourth aspirant for
royal honors.
The States-General not being able to agree upon any one of the
candidates, they at last resolved that he who should obtain the vote
of Szapolyai, governor of Vienna, should become king. This decision
greatly elated the party of John Corvinus, for as soon as they learned
that the election of their candidate depended upon Szapolyai’s
decision, they felt assured of his triumph. They could expect no less
of the man who, from having been twenty years ago a common trooper—at
Visegrád—had been raised to his present exalted position by King
Matthias. Szapolyai received in Vienna the deputation which had come to
invite him to elect the king. In the consciousness of his power, the
proud upstart lifted up his little boy, who afterwards became king of
Hungary, and placing him upon his knee, said: “Wert thou, my boy, but
that tall, I would make thee king of Hungary.” This unscrupulous man
was not inclined to obey a master, and, knowing that he himself had
no chance of royalty, he preferred a weak king, such as he believed
Uladislaus to be, and, in consideration of a large reward, he sold to
him the throne.
The result of the election greatly disappointed and surprised the
middle classes. John Corvinus himself was at first at a loss how to
act, but finally determined to retire to the southern part of the
country and to take with him the crown of St. Stephen, which was in his
hands. Six thousand men ready to do battle for his cause accompanied
him, and an occasion for the display of their zeal soon presented
itself through the treachery of Stephen Báthory and Paul Kinizsy. These
faithless favorites of the late King Matthias had promised him, on his
deathbed, to stand by his son, and now, instead of redeeming their
sacred obligation, they turned traitors to the cause they had vowed
to defend. They were the first to assail the son they had promised
to support. They came up with him in the county of Tolna, scattered
his troops, and not only took from him the crown, but robbed him also
of his personal treasures. John Corvinus himself became afterward
reconciled to the new order of things, and, at the coronation, it was
he who presented the crown to his more fortunate rival. A deputation
was sent to Uladislaus, to invite him to the throne of Hungary. He
received them most graciously, kissing each of them in turn, and crying
with joy. In the month of August the newly elected king made his
triumphal entry into Buda, accompanied by a gayly dressed cavalcade,
and no one could have anticipated that the brilliant pageantry
displayed on that occasion would be followed so soon by a series of
humiliations terminating in a national tragedy.
The remaining rival candidates, however, were not disposed to consider
their cause as lost. Each of them wanted his share of the kingdom,
which was now become an easy prey to its neighbors, and the borders of
Hungary on the east and west were simultaneously crossed by enemies. A
few months had hardly elapsed since the death of Matthias, the great
king, and Albert, Duke of Poland, brother to Uladislaus, was already
laying waste the country to the east as far as Erlau (Eger), while the
horsemen of Maximilian were tramping at Stuhlweissenburg over the grave
of Matthias, and making booty of his treasures. Uladislaus remained
inactive in the face of these outrages committed by Maximilian. He
finally concluded a most humiliating peace (which to him seemed
advantageous), by the terms of which all the former conquests of
Matthias were to revert to Maximilian. The true patriots blushed at the
news of the disgraceful treaty, and all the comfort they could obtain
from the king was his favorite ejaculation, “Dobzse, dobzse.” (It is
all well, it is all well.)
Whilst the country was pursuing its downward course, the Czech
attendants of the king were incessant in their clamors against poor
Hungary. They complained that if they did not wish to starve they would
soon have to leave the country. The king himself had not money enough
at his disposal to provide for the ordinary expenses of the royal
household. And yet the taxes were as high, and even higher, than during
the reign of Matthias; nay, the chronicles of the time tell us that
the people were better off under that Matthias who arbitrarily imposed
taxes, than now under Uladislaus. In truth, the many burdens which
were now weighing down the people were owing to the desire of many in
high places to enrich themselves. The disorders of the time afforded
a rare opportunity of doing so with impunity. It happened, though, at
times, that the mismanagement of such greedy men would leak out, as in
the case of Lukács, bishop of Csanád, and Sigismund Hampr, bishop of
Fünfkirchen (Pécs), who were both treasurers of the realm, and whose
fraudulent transactions were discovered. But the king was too weak to
visit their crimes with condign punishment, and amongst the great of
the land none were disposed to throw the first stone at the criminals.
The impotence of the king caused the decline of the national strength,
the ruin of the finances, and, as a natural consequence, the complete
disorganization of the military institutions.
In this connection we have to record a strange encounter which took
place in 1492 in the vicinity of Halas, in the county of Pesth. Paul
Kinizsy, the terror of the Turks, the general who had grown gray on
victorious battlefields, met there, in hostile array, the army he
himself had formerly commanded, the famous “Black Guard” of Matthias.
This very army, with their brave old leader, had a few months earlier
repulsed the Turks near Szörény. After this victory the soldiers
demanded the pay which had long been in arrears. As usual on such
occasions, tumults and disorders broke out in consequence of this
failure to keep faith with the troops. The wisdom of the Hungarian
National Assembly knew no better remedy than to instruct Kinizsy to
march against the exasperated men. The old general obeyed orders. Seven
thousand men were massacred, and the remainder, flying to Austria,
dragged out their weary lives as robbers, constantly at war with
the law. This cruel and impolitic measure deprived the nation, at a
time when she was preparing for the life-and-death struggle against
the formidable power of the Turks, of one of her main supports, in
destroying that army which alone could have saved her. For Kinizsy, the
former miller-boy, this was the last campaign, for very soon after he
was stricken with paralysis and deprived of the power of speech. His
contemporaries saw in this a punishment decreed by Providence for the
part he had played on that bloody occasion.
The better part of the nation soon grew restless under this state
of things, and a party arose which was hostile to the king. Stephen
Verböczy was the leader of the new party. He was a thorough patriot and
a skilled jurist, well versed in legislation. He was highly esteemed by
the middle class, in whom he saw the only element which would restore
to his country the universal respect she formerly enjoyed. This party
aspired to the government of the land, and their choice of a ruler
fell on Stephen Szapolyai, the son of John Szapolyai. If Stephen had
not been, in 1490, still a child, his father would then have made him
king. That he should become king was the highest ambition of his mother
Anna, Duchess of Teschen, a woman more ambitious even than her son, and
of whom it is said that she invariably concluded her daily devotions
with a special prayer to God, asking that she might be permitted to
live to see her son ascend the Hungarian throne. Szapolyai himself
did not consider it an arduous task to accomplish this, for he argued
that it was a precedent in his favor that Matthias, who was of no more
exalted origin than himself, had become king. His partisans first tried
to attain their end by marriage, and with this view Szapolyai asked
of Uladislaus the hand of the young Duchess Anna. Uladislaus refused
to accede to his request, and sought protection against the vaulting
ambition of the national candidate in an alliance with the emperor
Maximilian. The idea of a treaty of marriage between the two reigning
dynasties was broached. The national party answered by convoking the
National Assembly on the field of Rákos and passing the important law
that, in case of the extinction of the male branch of the dynasty, they
would elect a native king only. In the meanwhile Szapolyai renewed his
wooing, and he was all the more confident of accomplishing his object,
as Uladislaus was then seriously sick and still remained without any
male issue. But Uladislaus could not be moved to reconsider his
refusal. He told Szapolyai that he trusted to God that he would recover
his health, and that a male child might yet be born to him. Nor was
he disappointed in his hopes. He regained his health, and shortly
afterwards his queen bore him a boy who reigned, at a subsequent date,
under the title of Louis II.
Uladislaus now perceived the bearing of the Rákos resolution and, in
consequence, entered into a new treaty with Maximilian. Under its terms
Ferdinand, a grandson of Maximilian, was to marry Uladislaus’ daughter
Anna, whilst another grandchild of Maximilian, Mary, was betrothed to
Louis, the boy just born. By virtue of this treaty Ferdinand, Archduke
of Austria, took possession of the throne of Hungary after the fatal
day of Mohács. This new alliance, however, did not deter Szapolyai from
his bold purpose. Twice again he tried to gain Anna’s hand, forcing
his way into the presence of Uladislaus, but it was all in vain. His
partisans now began to meditate the policy pursued by them later on,
namely, to resort to Turkish friendship for assistance. The present
state of things had become so intolerable, that the national party
recoiled from no measures, however extreme, to bring about a change.
One day a wicked hand sped two balls into the palace of Uladislaus; the
king escaped, but to this day the suspicion of the foul deed rests on
the adherents of Szapolyai.
The desperate contentions of the two parties gave frequent rise to
lawlessness and stormy scenes. The nobility laid waste each other’s
estates and often even took unlawful possession of them. In this way
many a castle which John Corvinus had inherited from his father passed
at that time into the hands of Szapolyai. Duke Ujlaky ventured even to
molest the royal domains, and upon being called to account for this
by the king, Ujlaky disdainfully styled him an ox. The offended king,
in order to avenge this affront, sent an army against him under the
lead of Bertalan Drágfy, the vayvode of Transylvania, with the message
that the king’s second horn was now growing, and that henceforth the
king would fight his unruly subjects with two horns. Szapolyai, the
palatine of the kingdom, offered to intercede; the intercession,
however, being nothing but a cloak to incite the people to rebellion
against Uladislaus, the latter was compelled to yield, and to pardon
Ujlaky. A most disgraceful brawl, such as is usually witnessed only
amongst the drunken rabble, took place in the very presence of the king
in the royal council-chamber. George Szalkán, the primate of Hungary,
allowed himself to be carried away, during a heated discussion with
Christopher Frangepán, to such an extent as to seize the latter by the
beard, whereupon he was struck in the face by Frangepán. The king,
by personally interfering, put an end to these most unparliamentary
proceedings.
A dangerous movement was at this time gaining strength throughout
Europe. The peasantry, weary of the servitude in which they were
held, resorted to arms against their former oppressors. In Hungary,
especially, this movement assumed ominous proportions. The rebellion
broke out in 1514, and was commonly called either the Kurucz rebellion,
from the fact that those who took part in it were originally intended
to be soldiers of the cross (cruciferi), or, after the name of their
leader, the Dózsa rebellion.
Julius II., one of the most distinguished popes, died at Rome in 1513.
Amongst the aspirants to the papal see we find a Hungarian archbishop,
Thomas Bakacs. He is said to have spent fabulous sums in the eternal
city to further his object. In order to ingratiate himself with the
populace he had his horses’ feet shod with silver shoes, but so loosely
that they were dropped on the road and picked up by the people. Being
unsuccessful at the papal election, he begged of the new pope, Leo
X., to be allowed, as a solace for his disappointment, to organize a
crusade against the Turks on his return to Hungary. The arrival of
Bakacs was the signal for a fierce struggle in the ranks of the Diet.
A portion of the oligarchy, who hoped to derive some profit from this
venture, warmly advocated his scheme, while by others, who were too
much burdened already, it was violently opposed. Stephen Telegdy, the
keeper of the treasure, stood at the head of the latter and threw
the whole weight of his authority into the scale in order to prevent
the passing of the law sanctioning the crusade. He vividly pictured
the miserable condition of the peasantry, and resolutely objected to
providing them with arms, saying that it would be equivalent to arming
their own enemies. The law was passed in spite of this remonstrance,
and the crusade was proclaimed on the 16th of July, 1514.
The condition of the Hungarian peasants at that period was a most
wretched one. Those who inhabited the border were beggared by the
incessant plundering expeditions of the Turks, while the remainder
fared hardly better at the hands of their lords. Their masters
were always in need of large sums of money to cover their enormous
expenditures. A German contemporary, who lived for some time in
Hungary, wrote of the landed gentry that they were in the habit of
spending whole nights in riotous living, and passing the days with
sleeping off the effects of their nocturnal orgies. The money required
for this mode of life had to be wrung from the hard labor of the poor
peasant, who was also weighed down by other burdens. The Hungarian
nobility enjoyed privileges only; their shoulders knew no burdens. It
was the peasantry who paid all the taxes, who had to pay out of their
hard-earned farthings tithes to support the clergy; and over and beyond
all this, they had to provide for their lords and masters. The peasant
had to till the soil if he did not wish to starve, and in time of war
he was compelled to ransom himself from military service. Against
oppressions on the part of his lord he had no remedy, for his master
was his judge. The lords’ tribunal sat in judgment over the peasant,
and it can be easily imagined what kind of justice was meted out to him.
Such was the sad condition of the peasantry when the crusade was
proclaimed. No wonder that the oppressed peasants flocked in great
numbers into the camps ready to exchange the abject drudgery of their
daily life for the perils of crusading. A large portion of the
nobility were from the first arrayed against this movement, all the
more so as it happened during the season when there was most work to do
in the field, and it was very difficult for them to get along without
the laborers. The peasants looked with indifference upon the distress
of their masters, and deserted them in daily increasing numbers to
take up the holy cross. Bakacs had already provided a leader for them,
singling out for that position a simple gentleman from Transylvania.
His name was George Dózsa, a name which, coupled with a doubtful fame,
will, nevertheless, continue to figure for all times in the history of
his country. Hungarian historians of our days are fond of ascribing to
him high and patriotic schemes, and love to portray him as a hero in
the cause of liberty and one animated by a lofty spirit. Yet, if we
attentively scan his actions, we are compelled to admit that he was
little better than a brave and desperate peasant, whose whole conduct
proves him to have bitterly hated the nobility. Nor was he indebted to
any great qualities for the distinction he had won. His chief merit
consisted in being a bold man, of a fine and martial appearance, in
possessing a voice fit for command, and in having a few years before,
in a skirmish, cleft in twain a Turkish pasha. The officers placed
under him were for the most part poor nobles like himself, together
with a few citizens from Pesth, and a certain Lawrence Mészáros, a
priest from Czegléd. In a few days there were collected at the camp
of Pesth no less than 40,000 men, who were to be marched against the
Turks. But the army did not need to go so far to find an enemy—namely,
their old oppressors, their Hungarian masters. The more hot-headed
amongst the peasants were haranguing the others with vehemence,
exciting their passions. Their chief, Dózsa, was himself swept into the
new movement. Bakacs himself became terror-stricken at the direction
things were taking. He called upon Dózsa to lead the army to their
place of destination, and as the latter hesitated to obey, he was
placed by this high church dignitary under the ecclesiastical ban.
Dózsa, in answer to the archbishop’s anathema, changed his programme,
and led his men against the nobility. The struggle was short but
bitter. It was fear rather than the badly armed troops of peasants
that, at first, defeated the great nobles. As soon as the first
shock was over, every member of the nobility felt that to avoid the
general ruin of all, they must stand together, in a well organized
force. They gathered under the leadership of Stephen Báthory, the
chief Comes (count) of Temes, and Nicholas Csáky, bishop of Csanád,
but were destined to meet with yet another defeat. The cruelties then
perpetrated by the blood-thirsty peasantry beggar all description.
They overran the whole country, burning one castle after another, and
massacred, by the light of the flames, all the noblemen with their
families who were so unfortunate as to fall into their hands. Stephen
Telegdy, who had so vehemently opposed the crusade, himself lost his
life in this shocking manner, and Nicholas Csáky was captured on the
battle-field, and was, to the delight of the whole camp, killed with
torture.
Dózsa now proceeded to lay siege to Temesvár. He had singled out this
fortified place as the point from which he would conquer the country
for his peasants, but at this very spot he had to learn by painful
experience that it was not an easy task to cope with the established
power, no matter how demoralized for the time it be. The factions,
admonished by the common peril, ceased for the time their party
strife, and the chief Comes of Temes, a partisan of the king, did
not hesitate to invoke the support of John Szapolyai, the vayvode of
Transylvania, who was the leader of the national party. The vayvode,
together with a strong force of the yeomanry of Transylvania, came to
his assistance, and the struggle soon approached its termination. At
the first engagement the army of Dózsa was utterly defeated, those who
survived were scattered, and the leader with a few of his companions
was taken captive. The savage work of retaliation now followed. The
vayvode Szapolyai was the president of the tribunal. The victory he had
achieved raised his authority with the nobility, who looked upon the
late struggle as a war waged for their extermination, and he thought
it would add to his glory if he presented to the excited nobles a
harrowing spectacle. Mercy was shown only to Gregory, the brother
of George Dózsa, inasmuch as he was merely beheaded. The remaining
rebel leaders, including Dózsa, were thrown into prison, and were
not permitted to taste any food for a fortnight. Nine of them still
remained amongst the living. Dózsa was seated on a red hot iron throne,
a red hot crown was placed on his forehead, and a red hot sceptre
forced into his hand. Not a murmur of pain escaped him during this
dreadful torture. Only when his famished companions in arms rushed upon
him and tore the charred flesh from his body to appease their craving
for food, he exclaimed: “These hounds are of my own training.” This was
the end of one of the episodes of this sanguinary domestic war. Four
months of civil strife had cost the country the lives of 50,000 men. At
a future period, not very distant, the nation might have made a much
better use of these lives, but there seemed to be a fatality impelling
the people to become their own destroyers. The Hungarian popular
feeling has always sympathized with the peasantry in this bloody
rebellion. Thus the story is, to this day, current amongst the people,
that, as often as the Lord’s body was raised, during mass, Szapolyai
became maddened for a few minutes, because by his deeds he had rendered
himself unworthy of beholding the sacred host. History, on the other
hand, still cherishes the names of John Gosztonyi, bishop of Raab, and
Gotthard Sükey, a captain from Pápa, of whom it is recorded that in
order to scatter the peasantry with as little bloodshed as possible
they loaded their guns with grass and rags instead of cannon balls.
The 50,000 victims, however, did not suffice to appease the vindictive
spirit of the victors, for in their opinion the crimes of the peasantry
called for a sterner expiation. The crime of the fathers must be
visited on all generations to come. The Diet, which met on the 18th of
October, 1514, seemed to think that the peasants had been treated too
mildly, and that all of them deserved death. The wise fathers of the
land reflected, however, that if all were exterminated no one would be
left to work for the nobles and to provide them with food and drink.
They therefore let mercy prevail—but mercy as they understood it was
the most refined cruelty. The peasants were to be allowed to live, but
their life should become a calamity to them. The perpetual servitude of
the peasantry was proclaimed, and it was ordained that they should be
chained down to the soil.
This iniquitous law was passed and sanctioned by the king on the
19th of November, on the same day that he confirmed the celebrated
_tripartite code_ compiled by Stephen Verböczy, the Chief-Justice of
the land. Truly a most remarkable contrast in legislation. On the one
hand, a code which established law and order in the kingdom; on the
other hand, the most inhuman measure in European history dictated
by savage vindictiveness. Verböczy’s tripartite code, or, as its
title runs, “Decretum _tripartitum juris consuetudinarii_,” is the
most famous and the most important work of Hungarian jurisprudence,
shedding also an interesting light on the social condition of the
country at a remoter period. The _tripartitum_ is a strong advocate of
the privileges and immunities of the nobility. It establishes equal
rights for all the members of the Hungarian nobility, acknowledging
no difference between them except on grounds of personal merit. Every
Hungarian noble accordingly was entitled to the privileges accorded
to the whole body; he could not be deprived of his liberty without
due conviction; above him there was but one lord and master, and that
was the king, and he was exempt from taxation. It further limits the
authority of the clergy over lay nobles, and denies the right of the
Pope to the disposal of church benefices. After endeavoring in this
manner to claim for the nobles independence as to those above them, the
code at the same time tries to enlarge their rights as to those below
them. The recent uprising of the peasantry offered a good opportunity
for this tendency. It says: “The recent rebellion, aimed, under the
pretext of a crusade, against the whole nobility, and led by a robber
chief, has, for all days to come, put the stain of faithlessness on
the peasants, and they have thereby forfeited their liberty and become
subject to their landlords in unconditional and perpetual servitude.
The peasant has no sort of right over his master’s land save bare
compensation for his labor and such other reward that he may obtain.
Every species of property belongs to the landlords, and the peasant has
no right to invoke justice and the law against a noble.” This was the
view taken by the nobility at that period, a view which they succeeded
in forcing upon the feeble king.
The king, indeed was indifferent to the political and social changes
which injured the best interests of the nation. His main purpose
was to secure the throne to his family, and as long as he succeeded
in this all the rest was “_dobzse_” to him. He had his sickly son
crowned when he was but an infant of two years, and obtained for him
the powerful protection of the imperial family. In 1506 his queen,
Anna of Candal, an intelligent and energetic woman, the niece of
Louis XI., King of France, died. The sorrow of the widowed king was
boundless; for days he remained in his rooms weeping and moaning. Ten
years later he followed the queen he had so much mourned, and his son,
Louis II., succeeded him. Louis was a mere boy, but ten years old,
when he ascended the throne, and his youth was another misfortune to
the weakened and divided country. The events of his reign are usually
summed up in one sentence: “He was prematurely born, married young,
ascended the throne young, and died young.” We shall, however, devote
a larger space to this kind-hearted but unfortunate youth. Louis, as
was stated, came prematurely into the world, and it required all the
skill the medical science of the time afforded to keep alive the royal
infant, who hardly breathed when he was ushered into the world. For
weeks he was kept lying in the warm carcasses of animals slaughtered
and cut open for that purpose, and in this manner was saved from death.
But little attention was paid to his education during his father’s
life; it is reported that at a later period he blamed the latter for
his neglect, and strove hard by redoubled exertions to make up for
lost time. Although prematurely born he developed quite early in life,
and was a tall and strong youth at the time his father died. Cardinal
Thomas Bakacs, John Bornemisza, the castellan of Buda, and George
of Brandenburg, Margrave of Anspach, were, by the king’s last will,
appointed his guardians. George became the ruin of the ambitious
young king. The good lessons taught him by Jacob Piso, his excellent
teacher, were set at naught by this guardian. He was not actuated by
sinister motives in spoiling his ward; his conduct was the effect
rather of a life-long habit of riotous living, of which he could
not divest himself, and it was no wonder that the youthful king was
quick to imitate the unworthy example. The more serious studies soon
gave way to amusements of all kinds, and the boy-king spent his life
in riding, hunting, and feasting, as long as his means would allow.
Some of the frolicsome eccentricities recorded of him best illustrate
his giddiness. He had among his courtiers a man named Peter Korogi,
whose indestructible stomach was far-famed for its utter want of
squeamishness. It was his great delight to summon before him Korogi,
and see him devour living mice, cats’ tails, carrion found in the
streets, and inkstands with the ink in them. Poor Korogi lost his life
afterwards at the battle of Mohács.
A glance at Louis’ court and at his personal surroundings will suffice
to give us a picture of the condition of the country. Uladislaus had
already repeatedly complained that but a small portion of the revenues
of the state ever reached his hands, and that his income during three
years did not amount to as much as King Matthias used to spend on
his clerks. Louis, who, besides, had to defray the expenses of his
education, fared infinitely worse. He had to put off from day to day
his journey to Prague, the capital of his Bohemian kingdom, because he
was unable to procure the funds necessary for his travelling expenses.
Things came to such a pass that the king could not provide decently
for the royal table, which was all the more unfortunate for him, as he
boasted of an excellent appetite; his contemporaries relating of him
that when his resources permitted, seven meals were daily served at his
court. His penury finally reached such a point that he lacked the means
of paying the wages of his household servants, and then it was that
a certain sum was set apart for royal expenses, to be paid into the
hands of the treasurer and not of the king, a contrivance which was of
little avail, the treasurers themselves being untrustworthy. King Louis
remained as poor as he was before, and we read that at a reception
given to the ambassadors of foreign powers, where the most brilliant
display would have been in place, the young king sat on his throne in
dilapidated boots. In spite of his poverty Louis found a way to indulge
in pastimes and to squander money. At a time when they write of him
that he could not call a sound pair of boots his own, he remitted to
one of his courtiers a debt of 40,000 ducats in exchange for a trained
falcon. George of Brandenburg wrote on one occasion that although the
court was dreadfully poor, yet they managed to carouse all the time.
These entertainments were marked by scenes and occurrences which but
ill comport with the dignity of a court. The king was excessively
fond of amusements, and on one occasion he wrote three months before
the carnival: “Wherever we shall happen to be, even on a journey, we
intend to make merry and to pass gayly our days.” The carousing at
the court, however, was not confined to the carnival season, for we
read that on the very eve of the battle of Mohács, the king and queen
were enjoying themselves right royally. The queen, too, was fond of
gayeties. No one would have foretold of her that she should ever become
so versed in matters of state. The difference between Mary the queen
and Mary the widow might well elicit universal surprise. The eventful
battle of Mohács sobered her. While her husband lived she so freely
entered into the pastimes and frolics of the king that the partisans
of the king himself were compelled to remind her more than once of the
rules of decency and propriety.
A fierce struggle ensued between the oligarchical and the national
party as to who should be selected for the royal council. This rivalry
sprang by no means from patriotic motives, or from a desire to serve
the country in the royal councils, but from the more sordid aim of
making use of the royal authority to extend and increase their personal
power and influence. The party leaders were still the same. Szapolyai
and Verböczy stood at the head of the middle-class party, whilst the
royal party, led by Báthory, made common cause with the Fuggers. The
Fuggers were the Rothschilds of the sixteenth century; they had amassed
immense wealth in Hungary by advancing at first an inconsiderable sum
to the king, and obtaining for it the privilege of working the mines.
They fraudulently exported from the land all the gold and silver
obtained from the mines, while of the money advanced by them but very
little got into the king’s hands, as it had first to pass the hands
of middle-men, who managed to keep large portions. In this way can it
be accounted for that Thomas Bakacs’ household was far more lavish
and brilliant than that of the king himself, and that Count Alexius
Thurzó, being in collusion with the Fuggers, was enabled at one time
to advance to the king 32,000 florins. Emeric Szerencs’ name figures
most conspicuously amongst these money manipulators. He was a converted
Jew, occupying a prominent position, and who subsequently became
treasurer of the state. While he was never able to procure money for
the treasury, he succeeded in constantly adding immense sums to his own
fortune. The people at last rose against the unscrupulous treasurer,
and attacked Szerencs in his own palace. He saved himself only with
great difficulty from the fury of the populace by escaping through a
window to which a rope ladder was attached.
The party of the nobility was at last victorious. At the Diet assembled
at Hatvan 14,000 nobles assumed such a menacing attitude towards
the government that all its members were compelled to give in their
resignations, and Stephen Verböczy was elected by the triumphant party
palatine of the kingdom. John Szapolyai became treasurer. To what
extent the treasury was better managed under his direction it would be
difficult to determine, for the sad fact remained that the treasury
still remained empty, and that the new treasurer was constantly adding
to the number of his estates and increasing his domain. The magnates
as well as the burghers clearly saw that nothing had been gained by
the change effected in the administration. They therefore combined to
restore the former government, and were headed by the great nobles who
had been deprived of their offices—Báthory, the late palatine, and
Alexius Thurzó. The league is known in Hungarian history under the
name of the “_Kalandos_” Society—the word “kalandos” having in the
Magyar language the meaning of “adventurous,” but in truth the word
was derived from the “_Kalends_,” the society being in the habit of
meeting on the “Kalends,” or first of each month. This patriotic band
of would-be saviors of their country went on with their intrigues even
after the news had arrived of another Turkish inroad threatening the
country. The league at last succeeded. At the Diet convoked in Buda
they reinstated their party in power. Verböczy himself was not slow in
perceiving that he had been used by Szapolyai merely as a tool, and,
refusing to be an instrument in his hands, he resigned the dignity of
which he had been already deprived by the Diet. In order to save his
life he fled to Transylvania, but he could not prevent the Diet from
declaring him to be an enemy to his country.
Báthory occupied again his former position of a palatine, and announced
his programme in these brief words: “We are not the cause of the ruin
of the country”—a very strange assurance on the part of the councillors
and leading statesmen of Louis II., coming too at a time when they were
menaced on all sides by approaching perils. This conduct occasioned
the papal nuncio’s remark that “they were playing comedy with their
mutual protests.”
The Reformation added a new complication to the many dividing the
nation, being a fresh source of discord amongst the people. This mighty
religious movement spread as far as Hungary about the same time that
it had won a large territory for itself in Germany. Here as there its
adherents met with persecutions at the hand of the Roman Catholic
Church. The new faith, although it had not gained large numbers, soon
found its martyrs in the country. Both of the political factions were
equally guilty of these persecutions, and we find a telling proof of
this in the fact that Verböczy as well as Báthory, the respective
palatines of the hostile parties, each had his share in the executions
of the Protestants who laid down their lives for their faith. While
Hungarian blood was thus shed by the Hungarians themselves, their
proud neighbor, Sultan Selim, the mighty ruler of the Turkish empire,
had registered a vow before Allah, in case he would vouchsafe victory
to his armies over Persia, to build for his worship three magnificent
mosques—one in Jerusalem, another in Buda, and a third in Rome. The
sultan vanquished the Persians, but was prevented by death from
fulfilling his vow. In Hungary they made merry, drinking death to the
Turks, and little dreaming that the new sultan was destined to inflict
upon them soon a most deadly blow.
Solyman the Magnificent succeeded the fierce Selim. He combined in
his person the talents of a great warrior, a great legislator, and
a great theologian. It was not long before the Hungarians themselves
offered him an excuse for waging war against them. On his accession to
the throne he had sent an ambassador to Louis II. for the purpose of
prolonging the peace between them. The overbearing Hungarian nobles
did not so much as enter into a parley with the envoy, but threw him
into prison, dragged him with them all over the country, and finally,
after cutting off his nose and ears, sent him back to his master. This
dire offence against the law of nations, and the unprovoked insult
to the sultan in the person of his representative, could not be left
unpunished. Solyman swore he would be avenged for this affront, and
vowed he would get possession of that Belgrade which at one time
had maintained its independence against the warlike genius of a
Mohammed II. “He attacked simultaneously two of the strongest border
fortresses—Shabatz and Belgrade. The king was just then too busy with
his wedding with the Austrian princess Mary to allow himself to be
disturbed by the hostile inroad, nor did his chief councillors take any
heed of it. Báthory, the palatine of the kingdom, was also celebrating
his nuptials, whilst Chancellor Szalkay’s attention was entirely
absorbed by the administration of the bishopric of Erlau that had been
recently bestowed upon him.
Shabatz stood under the command of Simon Logody and Andrew Torma, both
men of great heroism and rare courage. They shone out as conspicuous
exceptions in this corrupt age. They preferred to face certain death
rather than save themselves by deserting the fortress entrusted to
their care, and solemnly swore to be true to the cause of the country
unto death. They and their brave garrison kept their oaths faithfully;
of five hundred men, but sixty were left on the 16th day of the siege.
These sixty men were drawn up in soldierly array on the public square
of the fort to receive the last assault of the Turkish army, and not
one of them escaped with his life. Six weeks later Belgrade, the famous
scene of Hungarian heroism, was taken by the Turks, and it is not
often that an enemy achieved as easy a victory over such a stronghold
as this border fortress as the Turks secured on the 29th of August,
1521. Francis Hedervári and young Valentine Törok had been entrusted
with the defence of Belgrade. These selfish nobles, unmindful of their
sacred duties, left Belgrade and proceeded to Buda, in order to obtain
from the government repayment for the expenses already incurred by them
for the maintenance of the fortress. Failing in their errand, they
did not return to their trust, but left the garrison, numbering seven
thousand men, to themselves, under the command of their subordinate
officers, the brave Blasius Oláh, and the treacherous Michael Moré.
Their desertion sealed the fate of this fortress. Moré became a
traitor to the cause of his country; he deserted to the enemy’s camp,
and, betraying to the Turks the weak points of the stronghold, he
endeavored, at the same time, to prevail upon Oláh to aid him in his
wicked designs. The patriotism of the latter, however, was proof
against all the allurements of the tempter. The fall of the fortress
was, nevertheless, unavoidable. The number of the garrison had dwindled
down to seventy-two men, when a squabble ensued between those of
them who were Hungarians and those who were Servians, which ended in
their compelling Oláh to surrender the fortress. By the terms of the
surrender the garrison was allowed to leave the fortress unmolested,
but the Turks interpreted this clause in their own way. They were
permitted to march into the Turkish camp, but on their wishing to leave
the camp they were all of them massacred.
The fall of Belgrade spread terror all over the country—all the more as
it was entirely unexpected, and certainly might have been prevented.
Báthory, the palatine, and John Szapolyai stood, each with a great
army, not very far from Belgrade; but these noblemen, obeying only the
dictates of their mutual hatred, would not join their armies, and truly
says the poet Charles Kisfaludy, that the deepest wounds inflicted upon
the poor country were “no, not by her enemies, but by her own sons.”
Louis himself was roused from his lethargy upon hearing the sad news.
He upbraided his councillors for neglecting to warn him of the dangers
menacing the country, and for not having taken measures to avert them;
nay, in his exasperation, as we are informed by his chaplain, he
struck one of his councillors, Bishop Szalkay, in the face. Repentance
was now too late, and the impending catastrophe seemed unavoidable.
It is true that the Hungarians achieved one more victory in the
Hungarian Lowlands. Paul Tömöry, the newly appointed archiepiscopal
captain-in-chief of that section, defeated Ferhat Pasha on the field
of Nagy-Olasz, in Syrmia. But the passing glow of this success left no
permanent effects; three years later the Turks were more formidable
than ever to Hungary.
While the Hungarian Diet was the scene of fierce discussions, Francis
I., King of the French, smarting under the defeat he had suffered at
the hands of the Emperor Charles V., stirred up Solyman against Hungary
and the Hapsburg crown-lands, in order to effect a division of the
imperial army. In this scheme Francis I. succeeded so well that in the
month of August, 1526, an army exceeding 300,000 men, with 300 cannon,
under the lead of Solyman, was invading Hungary.
The news of Solyman’s approach found the country unprepared. The
treasury did not contain money enough to pay the messengers, still
less to organize an army. A requisition of the gold and silver plate
and vessels of the church was of little avail, for what little could
be collected, owing to the resistance of the clergy, was appropriated
again by the nobles, who were charged with the duty of coining them
into money. Caspar Serédy owed his wealth to such transactions.
In soldiers they were even poorer than in money. The sultan was already
crossing the southern frontier, and not a soldier was near King Louis.
The cities bought their exemption from military service with money,
and the great nobles were dilatory. The king finally marched alone
against the enemy. The guilty were seized with shame at this noble
example, and about the beginning of August four thousand men had
already rallied round him. He was steadily proceeding southward and
reached Mohács in the latter part of August. The army had swelled by
this time to twenty-five thousand men, but it wanted a commander, and
there was not in the whole country a single general capable of wielding
large forces. The king, under these circumstances, had no other choice
but to appoint, as commander-in-chief, Paul Tömöry, whose victory
achieved over the Turks was still fresh in memory. Shortly afterwards
the Turkish army, which had occupied Peterwardein (Pétervárad) a few
days before, made its appearance. A serious discussion arose now
whether the Hungarians should stand a battle, or, retreating first,
join the army of Christopher Frangepán, coming from Slavonia, and that
of John Szapolyai, marching from Transylvania. Tömöry was in favor
of accepting battle at once, and was sustained by the king. Francis
Perényi, the witty bishop of Grosswardein, on seeing that Tömöry’s
counsels had prevailed, is reported to have said: “The Hungarian nation
will have twenty thousand martyrs on the day of battle, and it would
be well to have them canonized by the pope.” The battle took place on
the 29th of August, on a fine summer’s day. The Hungarians formed in
battle array early in the morning. The king, surrounded by his lay
and ecclesiastical magnates, occupied the centre. A thousand mailed
horsemen were around the king, and in their midst John Drágfy, the
Chief-Justice of the land, waving high up in the air the national
banner. Seated on a white horse, he wore no spurs, according to the
ancient custom, implying that flight to him was impossible.
Báthory, afflicted with the gout, rode with the king along the line
of each troop, addressing words of encouragement to the men. The
whole army impatiently looked forward to the moment when the battle
should begin, and, finally, at five o’clock in the afternoon the Turks
advanced. It was remarked that the king, on the silver helmet being
placed on his head, became deathly pale, as if in anticipation of
the near danger, but while it shocked the attendants, it by no means
disheartened them.
The first onslaught came from the Hungarian horse, who rushed upon
the enemy in front of them and drove them back. The Turkish troops
thus attacked retreated without offering any resistance to the body
of the army. The Hungarians, shouting victory, pressed on in hot
pursuit, little dreaming that they were running into the jaws of sure
destruction. The retreat was but a feint, for when the Hungarian army
had been drawn on near enough to the Turkish centre, the retreating
troops opened their ranks, and, through the gap left open, three
hundred cannon and several thousand Janissaries poured a murderous fire
on the advancing troops. The slaughter was dreadful; a large portion of
the troops, including their commander and their standard bearer, fell
at the first fire. The rest fled in every direction, but were greatly
impeded in their retreat by a violent shower of rain which suddenly
burst on the fugitives, among whom was also the youthful king. As he
was trying to cross the Csele, a small brook, swollen by the rain, the
horse, after reaching the opposite bank, stumbled backward into the
waters below, and buried his rider under him.
The prophecy of Perényi was fulfilled. Twenty thousand martyrs strewed
the field of Mohács, and among them was the witty prophet himself. The
Hungarians paid the heavy penalty of thirty-six years’ misrule and
disorder, but the worst was yet to come. On the 10th of September there
passed again a brilliant procession through the gates of Buda. This
time it was not the crowned king of Hungary who made his entry into the
fortress, but Solyman, who delivered it up for pillage to his soldiers.
On this occasion was destroyed the famous library of Matthias.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]