CHAPTER IX.
THE RACE.
It is a sultry evening, and there is a stillness in the air that forebodes a storm. The leaves of the robinias hang down languidly against their stems, and clouds which have rapidly risen from the west obscure the sun. All Nature holds her breath expectant. Presently large drops begin to fall, creating dusty globules on the thirsty earth.
“Patter, patter!” down it comes at last in real earnest and puts Jözsef’s pipe out, and high time too, for that Träger Kerl has been smoking every mortal moment of the day. The rain pours down the windows of our britzska in winding streams, and fills the broad brim of Jözsef’s brigand-like hat, out of which the tall crown rises like a wet island, till, overflowing its borders, it trickles in a cold shower down his neck.
In a short time a large town comes in sight, and a very important one, judging from the number and variety of the steeples and towers which rise above the low one-storied houses; and Jözsef, removing the pipe from his mouth which he is still pretending to smoke, and pointing with it in the direction of the town in question, slowly utters the words, Székes Féjévar, as though he had been introducing to our notice some great metropolis.
As we draw near to this our second restingplace since leaving Fűred, there is nothing in its outward appearance, although so imposing from a distance, to impress us in its favour; it would seem on the contrary to be situated in the centre of an immense bog, and presents a very spongy exterior as, at length approaching the town itself, we rattle over the stones and dash through its outskirts. We always enter the towns and villages at a gallop, the little strength which the wretched horses possess being economised on the road for these displays of Jehuship, dear to the heart of a Magyar driver.
In rounding a corner, we manage to wrench from a shop doorway a signboard, which according to Hungarian custom was placed there to advertise the merchandise within, and at another corner nearly run over a group of small children in top-boots and gatyas, occupied in the manufacture of mud pies, till finally coming to a sudden stop, that nearly brings the wheelers on their haunches, we are almost jerked out of the carriage, and into the very arms of the landlord of the hotel.
I have long ago discarded my fur hat for a broad-brimmed one of white straw, but, notwithstanding this, strange to say, we are here, as at Gross Kanizsa on our former visit, mistaken for Russians—Julinka, the chambermaid, as she arranges our room, addressing us every now and again as Muska (Muskovite); and upon our informing her that we are Ángolok, she elevates her eyebrows in astonishment.
At this juncture an old woman enters the room, who had evidently overheard the colloquy.
“Ángolok! Ángolok!” (English people! English people!) “Jó Isten!” she exclaimed, apostrophising the Magyar deity, as though we had told her we were visitants from some other planet, adding, after a pause, that she thought she had heard the priest read of the Ángolok one Sunday in the Gospel. From which observation we augured that neither missionary nor “schoolmaster” was “abroad” at any rate in Székes Féjévar.
The town which rejoices in the imposing appellation of Székes Féjévar—what a language is the Magyar for accents!—is the capital of the comitat, or county, of the same name. It contains 23,000 inhabitants, was founded in the eleventh century by King Stephen I., and is interesting to the archæologist from having been built on the site of an old Roman city, said to have been the “Roman Floriana,” whatever that may be.
In consequence of having been so frequently destroyed by the ruthless Turks, to which it surrendered in 1543, under Solyman the Magnificent, the town contains no relics of the ancient city, but is not devoid of other objects of interest; namely, the cathedral and St. Mary’s Church, both of which were built by that indefatigable monarch St. Stephen, whose original name was Waik—the first Christian king of the illustrious line of Arpáds.
For many centuries Székes Féjévar was the place at which Hungary’s sovereigns were crowned, and no fewer than fourteen are here entombed, amongst whom are several of her mediæval kings, viz. St. Stephen, St. Ladislaus, and Matthias Corvinus. Its name signifies “White fortress of the throne,” and it is consequently often alluded to as “Alba Regalis.” Up to the end of the seventeenth century it remained in the hands of the Osmanlis; and on their expulsion in 1777, the Empress Maria Theresa constituted it an episcopal see.
The day following that of our arrival was Sunday. Taking a survey through the window, early in the morning, we found small improvement in the state of affairs so far as the weather was concerned. The streets were wet and miserable, and there was a general sponginess about everything that made Székes Féjévar look like a huge fungus. From earliest morn however the church-bells had been twanging, and the sturdy Magyars, notwithstanding the rain, had been tramping to and from the various places of worship.
There exists in Hungary not only a diversity of nationalities and a confusion of tongues, but an equal variety in matters religious. Thus there are Roman Catholics, Greek Catholics, Lutherans, Calvinists, Unitarians, Sabbatarians, Moravians, Jews, Nazarenes, Adamites, Johannites, and doubtless Hittites, Hivites, and Jebusites as well.
The Magyars for the most part belong to one form or other of the Protestant faith, the greater number being Calvinists. Many however belong to the Lutheran Church—“Evangelists of the Augsburg Confession,” as they are sometimes called; whilst others, again, are Roman Catholics.
The Hungarians who follow the Greek rite are principally found amongst the Wallachs occupying the whole of Transylvania, the Rusniaks dwelling on the eastern slopes of the Northern Carpathians, and the Slavonians and Croat-Serbs inhabiting the provinces which skirt the banks of the Save, the votaries of the numerous sects I have enumerated being generally found in the former, viz. Transylvania.
The natural result of this variety of religious opinion is complete toleration amongst all classes in matters of faith, and it is curious, when passing through the towns and villages of the Alfőld, to observe how closely the Roman Catholic and Protestant churches are built together. In such friendly fellowship, in fact, do they stand to each other as to situation, that the faithful adherents of the one not only jostle those of the other on their way to their respective places of worship, but the lusty singing of the Protestant not unfrequently drowns the monotone of the priest in the adjoining temple, creating a rather unseemly jumble.
In Hungary the whole Christian body, embracing every sect and party, is denominated under one head, namely, “The Church of God;” that branch of the Church Catholic called “Roman” in other countries, whilst acknowledging the Pope as supreme, has here never added “Roman” to its title, which is even forbidden by law. In vain do Popes attempt to impose ecclesiastical bulls upon these Hungarian clergy: they persist in promulgating their own laws, organising their own dioceses, and, whilst possessing a strong attachment to the tenets of their Church, have, so far as discipline is concerned, been from time immemorial very unruly sons of the Vatican.
By ten o’clock, the weather having made up its mind to improve, we started for church. As good Protestants, we of course went to the one most nearly allied to our own in doctrine and practice. The Protestant religion as represented in Magyarland is, however, of a very unattractive character. Its buildings, painfully destitute of all ornamentation, are bare and wretched. The one we visited had whitewashed walls; the women sat on one side of the church, the men on the other; whilst the discordant singing we heard on that occasion, in the shape of hymns to the All-Supreme, was enough to turn one’s hair grey.
On our homeward road, we happen to pass a Roman Catholic chapel. Leaving the “garish day,” we grope our way through the dark vestibule, into the dimly-lighted oratory, filled with the fresh fumes of incense. What a contrast everything presented to the “Reformed Church” which we had left, so bald in its surroundings! What earnestness was there in the devotion of the people! some of whom were kneeling, with clasped hands, others with hands outstretched in earnest supplication before the dark little shrines. How different! how pathetic! and, above all, how sad!
Kneeling on the lowest step of a shrine at the side of the chapel, was a man gazing intently at a grotesque representation of some female saint, enclosed in a frame begrimed with the dust of ages. All around it hung smaller pictures, even more grotesque, representing deliverances wrought through her means.
“Do we not know that man?” inquired F., our eyes not yet accustomed to the “dim religious light.”
It was Jözsef, his great ugly face looking almost beautiful, lit up as it was by an expression of veneration and love. It was no longer the Jözsef sitting on the box, doggedly smoking his long pipe, it was Jözsef actually with a soul, a spark of the divine love shining through even his usually stolid countenance.
We watched him long, wondering what was the secret that brought him hither to kneel beneath the shrine of this—to us—unprepossessing saint. What miracle had she wrought for him, or his? or what was he seeking from her, in his honest, simple heart?
He was still kneeling in the same position, evidently unconscious of all around him, when, leaving the hot, stuffy little chapel, we once more stepped into the street. It was now full of people returning to their homes, women in white head-gear, and short petticoats—oh, how short!
Notwithstanding the limited dimensions of their garments, however, the devout Magyars are always seen in muddy weather to gather them up over their top-boots in the exemplary manner before depicted, the children imitating their elders here as elsewhere. The men invariably head the family procession, Hungarian patres familiæ of a certain class inheriting, amongst other precious legacies bequeathed them by their Eastern subjugators, that of regarding the female sex as inferior to themselves.
Close to the hotel we met András, who, in reply to our inquiries as to which form of religion he belonged, replied that he professed the Magyar Vallás, thereby signifying that he was a Calvinist.
From his own subsequent description of it, however, his religion was not of a very intelligible kind; but then, as we have previously seen, András was occasionally deficient in the “art of putting things,”—in other words, he sometimes found it difficult to express himself; his idea of religion, he informed us, being that the Almighty was not so hard as He was said to be, and that the devil (őrdőg) was blamed for a great deal he did not deserve, and that if a man harmed no one, and was kind and gentle to women and children and such weak things, he would not find himself far out at the last. And our thoughts involuntarily turned towards András’s wife and her magnificent proportions, and we wondered whether he regarded her as a “weak vessel.” In fact, this theology in gatyas, whether Protestant or Roman Catholic, is of a very free-and-easy kind. It has nothing austere about it. Its teachers exact little self-denial or sacrifice; impose few penances, and indulgences are granted even without the asking.
Later in the day, the streets having dried up, the Magyars turn out in great force, Magyar-Miska and his “inferior half,” the latter in all the splendour of her Sunday attire, the two now walking side by side— an amiable concession made by her lord, by way, doubtless, of holiday indulgence.
The beautiful Magyar girls too, the “kisleány” or “bright-eyed little Alfőld maidens,” trip along in their top-boots, the sides of which are not only embroidered, but ornamented with leather of various colours; their hair drawn behind the ears, hanging down the back in one long plait, and lengthened by numerous streamers of many-coloured ribbons. The beauty of the Hungarian women has not been exaggerated. Their features, as a rule, are not regular, but the type is refined, and there is a blending of the European with the Oriental, the traces of which are manifest even at the present day. They possess, moreover, in every movement, a grace and nobility of bearing, that make every woman one meets appear a lady.
The rough, hard visages of the men, too, tanned by the scorching heat of summer, and furrowed with a thousand lines by exposure to the frost and bitter winds of winter, grow upon one marvellously, and the stranger soon learns to love these weather-beaten faces, and to recognise under a rugged exterior, and a manner sometimes brusque, real goodness and kindness of heart.
The term “Magyar-Miska” is applied to a man of the precise type of our English “Hodge.” But let no one look down upon the homely garb of a peasant in this country, for though he wear a sheepskin cloak, huge white linen trousers (gatya), and a shirt that scarcely reaches to the waist—which part of the body is generally exposed to the elements—its wearer may be the owner of thousands of acres of Alfőld soil. The dress of Bagi Jözsef—a man not so named on account of his baggy nether habiliments, but Jözsef Bagi, as we should call him, the surname in Hungary being invariably placed before the Christian—is none other, although his income is not less than half a million florins a year. These gatya are so full that they often consist of ten and sometimes fifteen yards of linen; and it is in this costume, together with the short jacket-like shirt with its voluminous sleeves, that Bagi Jözsef, the “Nabob of the Alfőld,” as he is appropriately called, wanders over his vast domain. Both sexes, winter and summer, wear by way of outer clothing a short sheepskin jacket, called a kődmőny, embroidered on the smooth side with bright-coloured silk or wool. But whatever be the outer garment, so far as the men are concerned, the sleeves are a purely ornamental arrangement, for the arms are seldom put through them, and the jacket is worn loosely over the shoulder.
The costumes vary slightly in every town and village, each having its distinguishing mark whereby the wearer is at once recognisable as belonging to a particular place. These peculiarities, however, are too slight to arrest the notice of the traveller, and often consist in such insignificant signs as the position or number of the buttons on the kődmőny, some persons having one row, others two, others again wearing them in a pattern, instead of in a straight line down the front. But however slight the difference may be, the Magyar rustic never deviates from it, and is as proud of the distinction as a soldier of his badges, whilst a girl who is married to a man from another town or village continues to wear her own distinguishing dress as long as she lives.
Notwithstanding our first impressions of the hotel, which were by no means favourable, and in spite of its plain exterior and homely internal arrangements, we found it exceedingly comfortable, and were entertained in it right royally.
In Hungarian hotels, meals are never served in the visitor’s own room, and he is expected to descend for the purpose to the restaurant. Following the custom of the country, therefore, at the Gothic hour of two—the Magyar’s usual dinner hour—we made our appearance in the speise-saal, and were ushered to a table luxuriously arranged for us at the top of the room. In the centre of the table stood a large silver épergne, tastefully filled with forget-me-nots and white water-lilies; whilst two talnok (waiters) waited on us obsequiously in white cotton gloves. They also—and this to our no small annoyance—addressed us as úr and úrnö (lord and lady), as, indeed, did the landlord himself. We did not waken up to the full significance of all these proceedings and their practical bearing on our resources until we paid for our first dinner—a thing always done at once in this country, where the food is not charged for with the other items on the bill—when the truth all at once dawned upon us. András, in his usual ostentatious manner, had doubtless been impressing the good people of the house with false notions of our grandeur.
Summoning him at once to our room, we talked to him very seriously on the subject. He was a truthful little man, and at once confessed the fact, adding in his chagrin that in these democratic “tingle-tangle”—a word used in the North of Germany to denote a low restaurant where music is performed, and which he persisted in calling this clean and well-appointed little hotel—they were incapable of recognising any distinction below the rank of “noble;” ending by saying, with tears in his eyes, that he wished his édes uram and édes asszony (sweet master and sweet mistress)—a very frequent mode of address made use of in Hungary, not only by servants to their masters and mistresses, but vice versâ—to be shown all the respect, whilst passing through his country, that was their due.
The inns in Hungary are nearly always kept by Jews, but costly as was our dinner, viz. 30s. calculated by our English currency, the charge was by no means exorbitant, considering the excellence of the repast. We tried to make our guide understand, however, that unless he turned over a new leaf we must send him back to his master; that every English gentleman was not an úr, neither was every English lady an úrnö. We were, in fact, spending money with a prodigality which, if unchecked, would very soon bring us to the doors of a Hungarian workhouse, and his conduct forcibly reminded us of the friendly bear, who in attempting to brush away a fly from his sleeping master’s forehead is said to have knocked the top of his head off. After this serious admonition, András, I am happy to say, gave us no more annoyance of the like nature, but it was easy to see that it cost the proud little man many a struggle, if not many a tear.
We were, however, less fortunate in the case of the landlord and the waiters, who, upon our assuring them we had no handle to our names, only bowed more obsequiously than before. Our attempts at lessening our own importance, instead of having the desired effect, only made matters worse, and I shall always believe to my dying day that they regarded us as a prince and princess travelling in disguise.
In the evening, the sun setting crimson illuminated the domes and spires of this ecclesiastical little city; and as it wore by this time a less washed-out and bedraggled appearance, we walked round the square, where the demure but coquettish little Magyar maidens are walking in all their Sunday best, accompanied by their chaperons—grave-looking women, with heads muffled up in white kerchiefs—the honourable badge of the married state. The young betyárs too pace backwards and forwards in all the glory of their brand-new csizmák, or stand and make love to their “fair ones” beneath the statue of the poet Varósmarty—the Schiller of Hungary—quoting from his songs a description of the joys of home.
The term “betyár,” which will often be met with in these pages, possesses a twofold meaning, and, whilst frequently applied to a brigand, is also a sobriquet used to denote a rustic who dresses himself gaily and endeavours to render himself attractive to the fair sex; in short, a dandy. He may generally be seen with his hat set jauntily on one side, in which is stuck a bunch of fresh flowers or plume of the beautiful flowering grass, which at a slight distance looks just like the tail of a bird of paradise. Just such a man is András, and, as we watch him in the square in front of us, it is easy to see that he is making a great impression on the Székes Féjévar belles.
It has evidently been noised abroad that English persons have arrived, and our dress betrays that we are they. As the promenaders make room on the uneven pavement to let us pass they regard us furtively, with much apparent interest, and from more than one we hear the whispered words, “Bival Jankó,” that being the Hungarian’s euphonious appellation for that noblest of all animals, “John Bull.”
By some management of his own, András had engaged the horses that brought us hither for the whole journey to Pest; but they were such sorry beasts that we insisted on his sending them back and procuring others here.
Unhappily vorspann—a word derived from Fő-ispán, a commandant of a county banderium—has been abolished since the opening of the Alfőld railway. This method of travelling, universal in Hungary up to that period, consisted of an order from a magistrate to the Judges of the peasants, who were peasants themselves, and called in the Hungarian law-books Judices plebeii, to supply the holder with horses to transport him to the next station, the distance between each being about fifteen or twenty miles. In this manner even the journey from Vienna to Pest used to be accomplished, though it was one that occupied no less than a week. To obtain such an order was considered a great favour, it being vouchsafed as a rule to the military only, or to some one travelling on the public service. The conveyance consisted, as now, of a long country cart half filled with hay. On arrival at the various stages along the road, the traveller had simply to send his vorspann to the Judge’s house, who saw that the peasant whose turn it was to furnish a relay of horses fulfilled his duty.
Although this obligatory state of things has passed away, we found little difficulty in obtaining horses, which are by no means an expensive luxury in Hungary, where they are often caught fresh from the puszta and harnessed to the traveller’s conveyance. On this occasion, however, the horses which András engaged to take us on to Pest came direct from the inn stables.
It was a right jolly little team that we found waiting at the door of the hotel the morning of our departure, and this time we anticipated our journey with something like pleasure and satisfaction. Our departure was considerably delayed, however, by an altercation that had taken place between our new driver and another, engaged at the time in harnessing his team to an empty leiterwagen. We had witnessed the quarrel from the window of our room without understanding them, and had heard the angry words which passed between the two drivers, and which András interpreted to us as he strapped our rugs and portmanteaus preparatory to the start.
The driver of the leiterwagen team had intimated to our Jehu that his horses were screws, and that with such a heavy carriage he would not reach Pest by nightfall. This was a challenge. As we took our seats we observed a dark cloud settle on the face of our charioteer, who, justly proud of his horses, will not take the statement as a joke. The two drivers shower complimentary expletives at each other, and then our coachman cracks his whip and drives through the archway at full gallop, and whizz past the shops, and over the rough paving stones until we reach the open country and pass through boundless fields of wheat and rye.
Before many minutes are over we hear the clatter of hoofs behind us. The insulted Sándor—our new coachman—stands up and looks back over the hood of the carriage. He utters not a word, but as he resumes his seat, he pulls himself together significantly, “sits tight,” and gives a shake to the reins. He is a Magyar, and we know full well how passionate and determined they are when once aroused, and instinctively we realise what is about to happen. The leiterwagen gains upon us sensibly, but Sándor gives his sturdy little nags their heads and a sharp touch of the whip at the same time,—a double reminder, the meaning of which they fully comprehend, for we go flying over the ground at a pace that would astonish a sober English driver and make his hair stand on end, now plunging into a hole a foot deep in sand, now ploughing our way through boggy soil, but tearing along through it all at a maddening and ever-increasing gallop. Sándor “sits tighter” still, but turns his head round sharply now and then and utters cutting epithets between his clenched teeth at his antagonist, now close upon our heels, or sharp savage cries to the horses.
The leiterwagen overtakes us quite, and we race side by side for a few seconds. Its pilot is skilful and its weight light. We come to a quagmire, and here the leiterwagen has the advantage over us; great are its contortions, but, possessed of a snake-like vertebræ, it has the capacity of writhing, twisting and doubling itself up without being the worse for it, and overcoming by its plastic nature all difficulties. It is ahead of us now by fully fifty yards, its long supple body swaying from side to side. Our carriage, on the contrary, is heavy, and its draught is beginning to tell severely upon our willing steeds. The lines about Sándor’s mouth contract, and his aspect grows more fierce; he will die rather than surrender. Seconded by our guide, we shriek, implore, expostulate, but entreaties and remonstrances are alike unheeded and unheard; Sándor regards us no more than if we had been children. He stands up now, and his countenance is fierce like that of a wild Indian hastening on to battle, as he urges his horses onwards by gesture, expletive, and force of the lash. Crack, crack, hi! hi! jolt, bump; we once more overtake the leiterwagen, and the contest grows hotter and hotter each instant. There is a deep hole before us, and we hold our breath, for surely we must upset this time. But no; a severe jolting, and a violent struggle on the part of our team to extricate themselves, and on we go again, but—alone, for on looking back we find our opponent has come to ignominious smash; one of his leaders having fallen. Then reining in his plucky steeds, whose flanks are steaming, Sándor once more looks over the hood of the carriage, and, taking off his broad-brimmed hat, exclaims as he regards the signal overthrow of his antagonist:
“So my horses were screws, were they, and we shan’t get to Pest by nightfall, shan’t we? Teremtette! Ejnye!” he continued, with a derisive laugh; “you won’t call a man’s horses screws again, I take it.”
Whilst giving the horses rest, Sándor slowly draws from his boot his long pipe, and taking from his pocket his leather pouch, filled with home-grown tobacco-leaves coarsely cut, begins smoking the well-earned pipe of peace.
As we proceed on our way again, we are more than ever impressed both with the wonderful fertility of these plains and the thinness of the population—in some districts that we pass through, vast tracts of uncultivated land many miles in extent, consisting of soil so rich that it only needs to be turned and sown with grain to yield rich increase; and as we gaze from horizon to horizon and see only one solitary farmhouse, we marvel that English colonists do not emigrate here instead of exiling themselves to the Antipodes.
Our approach to the Hungarian capital is indicated by the Danube spreading itself out over its low sandy shore, against which numerous rafts and floating water-mills are moored. But first we reach Promentorium, with its curious subterranean dwellings hewn out of the limestone rock, and then pass through the outskirts of Buda. Splash, jolt, creak, crack, shake, bump, rattle, bang, screw—eugh! the hood of our unfortunate carriage is nearly wrenched off this time. Squeak go the wheels as they grind heavily through the mud, for it has been raining here also and the road is little better than a ploughed field. Past one-storied houses in which lights shine brightly, for the sun set long ago, and day has succumbed to night. Over a good road now, and dashing down a hill we enter a long tunnel which passes under the Schlossberg. Here other carriages meet us, thundering and rumbling on their way to the railway station, and we make our exit close to the suspension bridge, where the great lions couchant look grimly forth upon the night.