"Magyarland" Volume 1 (of 2)

In these northern localities persons are not only given to be a trifle vague in their measurement of time, but are also extremely patriarchal in their manner of computing distances.

Thus, these simple Carpathian folk do not say a place is so many miles away, but a day’s journey, or half a day’s journey, and so on as the case may be. We were consequently told at Tátra-Fűred before starting this morning that Neumarkt was a long day’s journey off, but that if we made good speed we might reach it before nightfall. As however it was four o’clock by the time we lost sight of the village of Altendorf, which is scarcely more than one-third of the way, we are scarcely likely to see Neumarkt before to-morrow’s sunrise, even if we journey on from now till then.

It is true that we had loitered in the company of those “little vulgar boys,” wasting our time and substance upon their amusement, but this only delayed us half an hour beyond the time required to rest our horses. The map showed that we should be passing several villages on the road, so that, although the prospect of putting up at a Slovak inn for the night was not very inviting, we pushed on, hoping for the best. We are so experienced by this time in the vicissitudes of Hungarian travel that, in the language of the Revenue Officer when alluding to the gipsy menu, “nothing comes amiss” to us; and if we cannot meet with an inn on our way, well, then we can “out-span.” Nor will it be for the first time, for we have done so on more than one occasion when travelling in the plains on a previous visit.

We still continue to follow the post-road, and our spirited little nags, although they have already covered thirty-five miles of road, appear as fresh as possible as they trundle us along. It is wonderful what these Hungarian horses can accomplish with proper care and feeding.

On our way, however, we meet the Royal Hungarian Mail, to which a horse of quite a different type is harnessed, and which, judging from the way it was progressing—being that moment engaged in the lively act of jibbing—was scarcely likely to reach Altendorf before to-morrow morning.

To our left rises a bold and almost perpendicular cliff, densely clothed with majestic pines. At their feet flows rapidly but silently the Dunajecz—the river boundary between Hungary and Poland—with its waters, though perfectly clear, almost black, on account of the deep shadow thrown upon their surface by the sombre foliage.

Crossing the stream by a covered wooden bridge, with its roof supported on enormous beams, through which we obtain, as in a rustic framework, exquisite pictures of rock and river and mountain peaks, we see immediately before us to our right a series of barren volcanic rocks, resembling gigantic cinders, and in colour almost vermilion. On their summits not a tuft of grass is growing; but on the highest pinnacle of all, perched on its extreme point, stand the ancient ruins of the Rothe Kloster, or Red Convent; whilst beyond the river, raising its crowned head proudly, lies the picturesque Kronenberg, so called on account of its jagged summit, which resembles a diadem. The whole forms the most striking scene in Hungary, and is in itself alone well worth coming all the way to see.

Ascending the steep rock on which the noble ruin stands, we are met halfway by a monk,—a stranger to this district, he informs us, like ourselves,—who turns back and accompanies us to the ancient building.

From its red colour the castle is evidently built of the soft tufaceous stone found in the surrounding rocks, which would probably account for its massive walls being in such a complete state of decay, the cells and refectory having ceased to exist. Following our guide, we tread softly, recalling the time when the outer walls enclosed a tide of human life now in the land of silence; we hear the gentle footfall, and hushed voices of the saintly throng who once inhabited these cloisters, and a solemn and almost supernatural peace and stillness seem to hang about the place, as if long centuries had not been permitted to wrest them from its crumbling walls.

As we stand gazing through an arch upon the wondrous scene beneath, and across at the Kronenberg, the “Angelus” tolls, and instantly the monk who accompanies us falls upon his knees.

A visit to the Convent Church, which is still in a good state of preservation, concludes our ramble amongst these interesting ruins. They belong to the Bishop of Eperies, of the United Greek Church, and a pilgrimage is made to them once a year, when mass is said in Greek.

Everywhere around us lie fragments of tufaceous matter, declaring the volcanic origin of this singular group of rocks, one of the many instances demonstrating the gigantic scale on which volcanic agency once operated in this country, there being no fewer than seven or eight mountain groups which are clearly distinguishable as owing their existence to that cause.

Fain would we have lingered longer on these sacred heights, but day is on the wane, evening’s shadows are already beginning to fall, and, bidding the monk adieu, we journey on our way again.

A little beyond the convent two roads meet; and uncertain which we are to follow, Jankó stops to ask the way of a woman who comes trudging along, picturesquely clad in a blue skirt, red bodice, and red kerchief round her head, and who forms the very object in the foreground which the eye needed to render the picture complete.

We are now in Poland, and already, though we have only just crossed the frontier, we perceive a great difference in the appearance of the villages, which are much cleaner than those of the Slovaks. The houses, too, are differently built, being roofed with long thin planks placed one upon the other instead of shingles; whilst to add to the danger in case of fire, the inhabitants must needs cover half of the roof with thatch.

Rural life in Gallicia is very picturesque. At every turn, we pass little roadside pictures which in their colouring and composition remind us of Cuyp. At this instant we come upon just one of those scenes which the old masters so loved to depict—a rustic bridge standing out against an expanse of moorland, which stretches away to the distant hills. In the foreground a girl in an “arrangement” of red is tending sheep and goats, some of which are drinking from a trough. The sun is setting, there is a rich saffron glow in the evening sky, and the whole scene is full of tranquillity and repose.

On past lonely wooden churches with open belfries, and more pastoral pictures—girls driving sheep, goats, and oxen, or flocks of geese, which crane their long necks as we drive by; past curious doorways, half Chinese, in which women stand or sit spinning; past melancholy little cemeteries, lying all alone under the darkening sky. Then we leave all villages behind and enter a broad valley, bounded on one side by low pine-clad hills, and on the other by a long range of barren mountains, which constitute the peaks of the Northern Tátra. By and by solitary groups of houses show black against the horizon, and lonely farms, from the small deep-set windows of which a light here and there burns dim, and then we begin to ascend a hill. Halfway up we see standing in the roadway three men wearing large slouching hats, such as are worn by the typical brigand. And my heart beats faster when I find they are keeping pace with us. Presently one of them lays hold of the iron rod connected with the box of the carriage, and begins talking to Jankó—but there is no harm in him. He and his companions are, after all, only dear, honest, tired peasants, returning from their toil in distant pastures, and they are asking him, by way of friendly greeting, where we have come from, for we hear him answer “Schmecks.” They speak Polish, of which Jankó happily understands a little.

“How far is it to Neumarkt?” he inquires, and then turns round, and, leaning over the box, interprets their answer in German.

“Zwei gute Stunden.” (Two good hours.)

Now, had the answer been “Zwei Stunden” only, we might, late as it was, have tried to push on, but when spoken by a German or Pole the small adjective gute becomes so indefinite in its signification, as we had many a time learnt to our cost, that we resolved to come to a halt at the next village. Our plucky little steeds, too, are at last beginning to give in, as well they may; the night is dark, and there are of course no candles in the lamps. Candles would have been an instance of forethought wholly unprecedented in a Hungarian coachman beyond the realm of Pest.

Such heavy clouds have gathered over the sky that neither moon nor stars are visible, but coming in a short time to a wayside farm, whose light gleams hospitably across the road, we pull up and inquire how far it is to the next village. The door opens, and a man comes out with long hair hanging over his shoulders and drawn behind his ears like a woman’s. He is followed by the buxom Hausfrau herself, clad in a black velvet bodice laced loosely over a scarlet stomacher, and large white sleeves. How pretty she looks with the bright light from within shining upon her! and what a sweet bit of concentrated colour she affords, very cheering to the eye amidst the surrounding darkness! Through the open doorway we can see into the room, which is clean and tidy; whilst nearly in the centre, not far from a table on which the evening meal is spread, is a cradle containing a small Polish baby fast asleep, pretty much like other babies, but it is the first real, live Polish baby we have seen, and we make the most of it.

There is a village, they inform us, where we can find accommodation, ten minutes farther on, but will we not stay and take some refreshment? “the strangers have travelled far, they must be weary.” With the prospect however of shelter at last so near, we do not accept their proffered kindness. Then very gently, but not until we have really started, the door closes, and the darkness seems twice as great as before—not so much, we fancy, because of the contrast the light afforded and which had dimmed our vision by the glare, but by reason of the halo of happiness and comfort that appeared to surround that secluded home. The very remembrance of it cheers us on our way.

On, till many lights gleam red in the distance, and we pass a turnpike,—a primitive construction, consisting of a pine-log, suspended over the road,—which brings another, similarly dressed but younger, woman out into the darkness, and we enter the village, the houses of which are much better than any we had seen whilst travelling through the North of Hungary. Within the fence that surrounds them, large fires are burning in the “open,” near which the people sit in groups; giving to the scene a very wild, weird, and un-European look.

Presently we stop to inquire of two men crouching round one of these fires the way to an inn. They come towards us instantly, and bare their heads, holding their hats while answering the questions of the coachman, just as all had done on the road earlier in the day. They direct us to a house a little farther on, and volunteer to accompany us. It is a large one-storied building standing in a kind of yard. At the unexpected sound of wheels—travellers are evidently not very frequent here—a little knot of persons appear at the doorway, their figures standing out black against the bright light inside.

“Have they a room, and can they accommodate us for the night?” inquires Jankó in Polish.

A rather long parley ensues, It is not an inn, after all, there being in fact none in the village; but strangers are sometimes accommodated here. A woman comes to the carriage and addresses us in German. We are welcome to her roof, but the accommodation she has to offer is of the humblest description, and not suitable for “hochgeborene Herrschaft wie Sie.” But would we enter and see it for ourselves?

The house was a rambling old place, built entirely of wood, and entered by a verandah raised some steps from the ground. The outer room was beautifully clean, the bright “batterie de cuisine” suspended from the kitchen walls smiling a welcome to us as we crossed the threshold. We are shown at once to the guest-room, which every moderately well-to-do family keeps ready for the stranger in this hospitable country as well as in Hungary. The furniture, as we anticipated, was of the most modest description, but perfectly clean, and we wanted nothing more. Outside the room was a sort of dairy, in which large pails of milk were standing, and there was a pleasant odour of cream and butter pervading the whole house. Beyond this was a large shed, in which were several cows with their calves, and into which the window of our room looked, apparently the only light it possessed. A lantern was suspended from a beam, and an old man was giving Indian corn to Jankó for the horses.

On returning to the general room, a young woman comes forward out of the shadow of the inner porch and kisses our hands.

“The Herrschaft are English,” remarked our trim hostess by way of introduction, to whom we had previously confided that interesting fact; “they come from the country where the sugar and the coffee grow. Such a long way off. Ach! I recollect learning all about it in der Schule when I was a child.”

Saying which, she took from her capacious pocket a bunch of keys, and unlocking a Schrank (wardrobe) took thence a quantity of clean homespun linen.

A cloth was already spread on a long table at the side of the apartment, and it was evident that we were expected to join the common meal. The evenings are exceedingly cold on the northern side of the Tátra, however hot the days may be, and there are only six weeks in the whole year when it does not freeze by night. The warmth of the fire was therefore very pleasant.

Sitting by the broad hearth, we watch the movements of the two women, mother and daughter, as they trip about in their short petticoats and laced red bodices preparing supper, neither of them appearing in the smallest degree disconcerted at the presence of strangers. A place of honour is however set apart for ourselves at the top of the table, where a small white cloth of finer linen is spread, together with the best china, which the younger woman had reached from the shelf of a little glazed cupboard. As soon as the simple meal was ready, consisting of a huge dish of fried slices of potato, some kind of stewed meat and a Pfannkuchen (pancake), the old man whom we had seen in the adjoining shed came in, his white hair, drawn behind the ears, hanging over his shoulders in snowy locks. He also kissed our hands and welcomed us warmly, saying in German, in which more than one Sláv word was intermingled, “Happy are they who welcome to their humble roof the homeless and the stranger.” He was evidently a man who, like any other peasant, had spent his life in the labours of husbandry, but he spoke these words with a dignity and courtesy of manner that would have done credit to a “noble” with a pedigree of sixty generations.

Then followed a short “grace” in an unknown tongue, at which all stood, after which we were invited to take our seats.

Supper ended, and whilst the women were flitting about as they performed the household duties for the night, a priest came in, a more intelligent man than the priests usually are in these remote districts, and from him we were enabled to glean a great deal of information concerning the country we are now visiting.

Gallicia, besides its own native population, contains no fewer than two millions and a half of Rusniaks, here called Ruthenians, a people speaking a dialect of the Russian, and belonging, like the Slovaks, to the Greek Church. The Poles however, as we had ample opportunity of ascertaining before we left this province, are the most bigoted of Roman Catholics, not only deeply attached to their Church, but most observant of its rites; a people full of religious zeal, and very intolerant of the faith of those who differ from them. Since the partition of Poland in the latter part of the last century and the occupation by Austria of Cracow (the ancient capital) together with the whole of Gallicia, the German language has been growing more and more general amongst the better classes; but the lower classes still cling to their Sláv dialects, occasionally, however, interlarding them with German words.

Whilst we were conversing with the priest, two young men, apparently brothers, strolled in and took their seats on the other side of the hearth, but seemed rather taken aback on finding themselves in the presence of strangers. They appeared to have been expected, for no sooner had they arrived than a sweet warm drink, something akin to our national beverage “punch,” was handed round to each person, including the hostess and her daughter, who had now joined the circle. The latter was a young girl of about seventeen or eighteen, and she, avoiding the opposite side of the hearth occupied by the new arrivals, seated herself shyly on the settle beside her grandfather,—a circumstance which called forth a facetious remonstrance from the old man, which caused her to turn away her head, whilst a crimson blush suffused her whole countenance. There was an awkward pause, broken at last by the priest, who, evidently trying to restore the girl’s tranquillity, remarked with a twinkle in his eye:

“Martcha! your Gebräude (brew) is not as good as usual to-night. Make another, and help us all again!”

At this juncture, fearing our presence might be a restraint upon the little company, we retired for the night, feeling very glad that circumstances had compelled our remaining here, and afforded us an opportunity of making the acquaintance of a Polish family.

Several hours’ sound sleep not only refreshed but made us feel equal to any emergency that might arise during our next stage. Dawn however was ushered in by a most unaccountable succession of noises, accompanied by the clatter of women’s tongues, with frequent titterings and mention of the name of Yetta, the reason of which we afterwards learnt was the young girl’s marriage, which was to take place that very day, the “happy man” being one of the village swains whom we had seen last evening.

Although our inclination prompted us to remain and witness the novel spectacle of a Polish wedding, we feared our longer sojourn would be an intrusion, and at ten o’clock, our carriage being at the door, we took leave of these, to us, interesting people with their simple and idyllic lives. From the first we felt that they would make no direct charge for the accommodation afforded. We therefore placed, at the moment of parting, a gratuity in Martcha’s hand, but even this was declined with such a look of pain from each one that we saw it would be vain to press anything upon them; nor was it until after I had succeeded in assuring them it was not offered by way of payment, but as a souvenir and wedding present, that I prevailed on Yetta to accept a small trinket which I happened to have attached to my watch-chain.

“Andenken! Andenken!” (Remembrance! Remembrance!) “Ah, surely we want none to keep alive within us the memory of the gute Engländer. We will never forget you, never! never!” and with much kissing of the hand on their part, and expressions of gratitude on ours, we bid adieu to the village.