"Magyarland" Volume 1 (of 2)

We reached Kesmark in time for the evening service at the Lutheran church; the curious old building, with its grotesquely painted roof and walls, taking us back to mediæval times; whilst the officiating minister, wearing a costume of the sixteenth century, looked as though he had just stepped out of some old picture-frame. It was all exceedingly quaint and interesting, and we were glad to have witnessed a service in one of these ancient edifices—so few of which now remain—that connect the present with the past, and tell more eloquently than words of the struggles of the people in the cause of religious freedom, so hardly won. As we watched these honest Zipsers peacefully thronging to the church in which their fathers worshipped and who fought so nobly for their faith, and listened to their lusty singing, our minds could not help reverting to that troublous time when, at a Diet held at Buda in 1523, an edict was passed empowering the government “to hang or, if of noble lineage, to behead all Lutheran heretics and their abettors found in the Apostolic Kingdom of St. Stephen.”

How bravely they held their own against the intolerance of the Roman Church of that period may be inferred from the fact of there existing no fewer than 1,100,000 Lutherans in Hungary at the present time, irrespective of other Protestant sects, which number in all 3,124,000 members.

The service ended, we were walking about the old building, when we were accosted by the woman who had been so horrified at our supposing the church to be other than Protestant. She asked us to walk into the vestry, just vacated by the minister, who, having doffed his ecclesiastical robes, now looked like an ordinary mortal of the nineteenth century.

What a conglomeration of relics of a bygone era awaited us here! To enumerate them would be impossible. Suffice it to say that an antiquary would have gone mad with delight over the bric-à-brac which the room and its vestibule contained, and I doubt whether the contents of all the shops in Wardour Street could have produced a greater display of “art treasures,” in the shape of sacred vessels and other antiquities, of the Roman Catholic period. They are all so old that, in comparison, two ancient life-size portraits of the great Reformers, Luther and Calvin, appeared but the work of yesterday; and who, forgetting in the mellowing influence of three and a half centuries their bitter antagonism in matters of religion, here hang side by side, and ogle each other with Christian benignity.

We found a letter awaiting us here from András, containing many expressions of devotion to our service, and informing us in somewhat florid German that he should hold himself in readiness to accompany us on our further travels from to-day. We had given him leave to go home during our absence in the Northern Tátra, a leave which extended almost a week beyond the present time, in consequence of our having purposed making excursions in the neighbourhood of Kesmark; but as he has already returned to Poprád, we decide to journey on to that place this evening.

Having dismissed our Zakopane coachman, we hire another carriage to take us on, and bid farewell to this interesting old town at five o’clock. The roads are excellent the whole way; and the horses this time spinning along at an exhilarating pace, we have a splendid drive, and do not once lose sight of the Tátra, whose peaks, rising above us in lonely majesty, appear in the clear atmosphere to be scarcely more than a stone’s throw off. As we near Poprád, the sun is setting, and they tower above us bathed in all the tender roseate hues of evening; whilst the dense pine-forests reposing at their base, which cross them in one magnificent sweep, stand out blue and sombre and cold.

Entering the town or village, or whatever Poprád may be called, the first person we recognise is András himself, looking more “betyár” than ever; his moustache—after the fortnight’s growth, and careful manipulation he has been able to bestow upon it during our absence—extending far beyond his cheeks, and twisted into a lovely curl at each end. Great at all times in ties and top-boots, he is so altogether “chic” now that he is out for a holiday, that as he walks down the street with that peculiar swagger which he invariably assumes when he is decked out in all his “war-paint,” the little children look up at him wonderingly with open mouths and reverently kiss his hand, thinking, as they see their small round faces reflected in his shining boots as in the bowl of a tea-spoon, that he is quite a superior being; whilst the Zipser damsels sitting out of doors in the cool evening air evidently regard him with unfeigned admiration, as the very perfection of a “Magyar-miska.” Although he had written to say he had returned to Poprád and was at our service, he had no reason to expect our arrival for several days to come, so he was not a little surprised when, pulling up, we made our presence known to him. But kissing our hands reverently, and expressing in Magyar idiom his great joy at once more beholding the face of his “sweet master and sweet mistress,” he mounted the box, and directed the driver to take us to “Hôtel Tátra.”

Hôtel Tátra is well named, the only objects visible from its windows, besides the ugly little station of the Oderberg and Kaschau railway, being the great mountains rearing their jagged and denticulated summits into the purpling sky. We purpose remaining here, however, one night only, and starting early on the morrow for Neusohl, a few miles beyond which friends reside to whom we have a letter of introduction, and who have asked us to spend a few days with them on our way from the mountains.

Whilst András was making the necessary arrangements for the journey, which chiefly consisted in procuring horses and driver, together with laying in a small store of provisions for our roadside bivouacs, there was a gentle knock at the door, and in response to our “Herein!” a tall man, dressed in shabby black, entered hat in hand. That we were greatly puzzled at receiving such a visit may readily be imagined; his appearance, too, added not a little to our wonderment. He might have been a tract-distributor, or a colporteur, if he had only had his pack; or a detective in disguise, or an “undertaker,” or Methodist parson. He looked demure enough for anything.

It was not long, however, before he unfolded the object of his mission. Could we tell him whether the person in our service was aufrichtig (upright), and the kind of man to whom a devoted father would like to entrust his daughter’s happiness? This odd inquiry subsequently elicited the fact that András had not been spending his time during our absence in the bosom of his family, as we had all along imagined, but had remained here instead, lodging with our visitor, who possessed a daughter, to whom he was said to have engaged himself in marriage, and, to use the words of the “devoted father,” sie waren verlobt—they were betrothed.

We were quite taken aback by this astounding and most improbable declaration. That András was a little prone to “butterflying” with the opposite sex we already knew by experience, but that there was any real harm in our little “betyár” we did not believe for an instant; for, having accompanied us on two of our previous journeys through Hungary, we had known him long. In vain we assured the demure man in black that he must be labouring under a delusion, informing him that our guide was married, and the possessor of several olive-branches. He insisted on the fact with such earnestness and gravity, and talked about compensation and redress in such a fierce and determined manner, that we began to fear it must be true.

I need scarcely say, however, that we soon proved that our good little guide had been guilty of no such enormity. That he had been spending his time here pour s’amuser, and had not thought it necessary to impart to the fair ones of Poprád the fact of his being ineligible as a “partner for life,” I fear there is not much doubt; probably acting on the casuistic principle contained in the French proverb, “On est obligé de parler toujours sincèrement; mais on n’est pas toujours obligé de parler;” for, on the matter having been brought to the notice of the “pandúr,” to whom we were obliged to have recourse by way of intimidating András’s traducer—who we subsequently discovered to be a Jew, and who went so far as to threaten to prosecute him for his alleged fraudulent conduct—the whole thing fell to nothing like the fabled fox-track in the snow, which “dwindled to a rabbit-track, and then to a squirrel-track, and finally ran up a tree,” and was doubtless, as the “pandúr” hinted, only a device to gain money under false pretences.

“Why did you not go home to your wife?” we inquired of András later in the evening, as—the unpleasant little episode over—he came to wish us “good-night” and receive the latest orders for the morrow.

“Ah! if my sweet master and mistress only knew”—tears came into his eyes, and he sighed piteously—“if they only knew how Katicza treats me!”—all the starch and perkyness dying out of him at once as the image of that charming female rose before him in all her magnificent proportions. As it did so, he stood before us a wrinkled, cowed, and thoroughly submissive man; and we realised the situation in an instant, and regarding him under his changed aspect we learnt a moral. Here was a man, small of stature, it is true, and usually dauntless in spirit, who could hold his own, and assert himself with men, but who nevertheless, under the irresistible and all-powerful hierarchy of womankind, was reduced mentally to the condition of a subdued kitten. Poor András, thou art, after all, but an example of a judiciously henpecked husband!

It was, however, impossible to allow this incident, so indicative of András’s weaknesses, to pass without “improving the occasion,” and bestowing on him a few platitudes relative to his general behaviour towards other goddesses than his own, and I sincerely trust that he retired to rest that night if a “sadder,” yet a “wiser” man.

As gloriously as it had sunk to rest, the sun rose out of the plains, calling men from their slumber to the toils of day. We too were up early, and saw the rugged summits of the mountains start into awful life—the snows looking in the morning light like glittering flames of gold.

We have broken our morning’s slumber so effectually by habitual early startings, that we can no longer sleep much after five o’clock; and the immortal “ode to the sluggard” can scarcely, therefore, be said to be applicable to ourselves, in these days at any rate. Distances are great in Hungary, and the fresh morning air breathed as we bowl along is well worth the effort of turning out—even if it were an effort, which in our case it has long ceased to be. Our hope is to reach Neusohl by nightfall, a distance of about sixty miles, to accomplish which we start to-day with four horses.

Journeying towards the western slopes of the Tátra, we find that the mountains at their base have been ruthlessly robbed of their beautiful pine-trees, and they appear wretchedly barren after those we have left behind. And we tremble at the possibility of a day arriving when, the forests on the outer declivities of the Tátra once exhausted, the forest department may be compelled to have recourse to those of the interior, in which event the aspect of these wild and beautiful regions will soon be totally changed.

Having, to András’s intense satisfaction, left the district of the Zips behind—he declares that having shaken from his feet the dust of das Land der Juden, as he persists in calling that peaceful country, nothing shall ever induce him to enter it again—we find ourselves once more in the region of big hats, and reach a province inhabited entirely by Slovaks; our approach to each village being indicated by a steeple peeping above the gentle undulations. First appears the small round ball supporting the cross, then the metal cupola, shimmering like a star in the morning sun, then the tall white tower, and lastly the sleepy little village itself comes in sight, with its sombre houses, and semi-circular windows in the wooden roofs, like eyes half open. Here and there in these villages we see women standing on high ladders, engaged in repairing the shingled roofs, plastering the corners of the houses, or otherwise busily occupied; for these operations, which in other countries pertain unto men, are evidently confided in this locality to the “weaker sex,”—if that term can with truth be applied to these Slovak matrons, whose muscular development is of the very highest order.

The pigs, too, afford instructive examples of the Darwinian theory of mental development by “hereditary experience,” their constant association with the creature man—with whom they live in close fellowship—having made them almost human. As we drive through the villages, they rise from their wallowing in the dust on either side of the road, droop their tails, and then with a peculiar squeak, half grunt, half speech, gallop off to their respective cottages to inform the dwellers therein that interlopers have arrived to disturb the tranquillity of their borders. These quadrupeds however, though in a high state of cerebral development, are, I should say, in regard to physical anatomy, the very lowest type of their class. Covered with scanty red hair, and possessed of an erect and scrubby mane which extends down the nape of the neck, an immense head, high back and short body, they resemble hyenas far more than the domestic and familiar mammal of our styes.

Never can I forget the indignation of one of these animals, or the expression of its countenance, as we passed a little colony of charcoal-burners. First looking at us full in the face, as though about to charge, it almost swore at us. Then, as if thinking it would be hardly a match for us, it turned round with a look of injured innocence, and with a series of grunts, whose intonation was almost like that of the human voice, ran home to complain in the most deprecatory accents of our raid upon the village. We had often heard of the fine pigs of Hungary dignified with the royal title of “Palatine,” but we venture to hope that the Slovak species does not belong to that noble order.

Passing now over a very bad road, our progress is exceedingly slow; the carriage rocking to such an extent that we tremble lest in its old age it should break up entirely and land us on the ground, which is covered with stones sharp as needles. Opposite, lashed to the front seat, is the provision-basket, in which stands a bottle of wine, and which occasionally takes such a leap into the air that we have serious fears, not only for the safety of its contents, but lest the quality of the wine itself be impaired by the perpetual churning to which it is subjected; a process which has caused us long ago to refrain from bringing milk, experience having taught us that that fluid under similar circumstances is without human agency occasionally given to exchanging its properties for those of butter.

For some time past we have been winding round the buttresses of rugged mountains, whose trees have only recently been cut down; but on proceeding a mile or two farther, we welcome the existence of a nursery of young pines—seedlings just peeping above the soil, showing that the forest department are not wholly unmindful of their duty to the future. We are again surrounded by vegetation, and, coming to an unusually steep ascent, András jumps off the box and climbs the outskirts of the forest in search of Pilzen, or edible fungi, which abound in Hungary, and are of the most beautiful colour and form. In some places the mossy banks are thickly sown with what appear at first sight to be daisies, an effect produced by the white Jungfernsschwämme. In others it is covered with the golden omphaleák, which hold aloft their small and variously painted heads on slender, half-transparent stems. Besides these, there are the canary-coloured Clitocybe and the exquisitely adorned Täublinge, standing together like soldiers on parade, with their purple, green, or violet caps; whilst here and there, like gnomes amongst the elves, a fat Cortinaria may be seen, almost bursting through its leathery outer garment; nor must the scarlet Fliegenschwämme be forgotten, one of the most beautiful of all.

These fungi, which in many instances are quite as splendid in both form and colour as flowers, are not all edible. The peasants however easily distinguish the one from the other; the edible, with the exception of the maschlare, the flesh of which is too soft, being much esteemed.

András, who now rejoins us, bearing a quantity of Pilzen, which he informs us are of the best kind, calls our attention to the existence of a number of enormous slugs lying amongst the damp moss and lichen on either side of the road, with bright emerald-green heads and dark-blue bodies, which he declares to be a Leckerbissen (dainty), and recommends our trying them as an accompaniment to our Pilzen at the end of the journey, when he assures us our prejudices will vanish for ever.

Zigzagging down the steep mountains come long waggons laden with charcoal, and driven by our old friends the Slovaks with the large hats. But we are nearing a larger village than usual, and our driver, lashing his horses, takes us bodily into the middle of an álás, where alighting we arouse the anger of a number of turkeys, who spread their broad fans and make for us with indignant gesture. It had occurred to us that we might possibly find something to eat at this place, but on going over to the adjoining inn we find they can as usual offer us nothing but rye bread and Slovak cheese. In a few minutes we are joined by our guide, who informs us that there is also some difficulty in procuring a relay of horses to take us on, and that he fears it will be some time before any are forthcoming, all the animals belonging to the village being engaged in the fields many miles away. This being the case, we request him to find a pleasant and retired spot for a bivouac, to make the fire and prepare our meal, and to leave for once the arrangements about horses to ourselves.

Sending for the village “pandúr,” we ascertain that the inhabitants have spoken quite correctly; neither love nor money could procure horses for us that day; and upon his suggesting a yoke of oxen as the only possible solution of the difficulty, we set off together in search of a benevolent peasant who may be induced to lend us four for the purpose. For to-morrow’s journey the pandúr proposes sending a messenger over the mountains to the next village by a nearer route, to obtain horses there if possible, and have them ready for our arrival.

As we walk down the village, so great is the curiosity concerning us that a face is peeping from every window or half-opened doorway; dogs, too, which appear to consider themselves a kind of rural police, rush out of sheds, show their teeth and bark at us furiously, until they see that we are already in the company of a functionary of the law, when they slink off again as though they felt they might safely consign us to his surveillance, and that in this instance the duty which they owed to their Slovak masters, in the protection of the village from the incursions of suspicious characters, no longer devolved upon themselves.

At length, reaching the end of the long street, we observe a rustic leaning out of a window smoking a pipe. He is evidently the immediate object of the pandúr’s quest, for he accosts him, and after a short conversation, carried on in the Slovak language, he informs us that in an hour’s time a team of strong oxen will be at our disposal.

Hastening back to András with this intelligence, we find him busily occupied with his culinary utensils, and looking—crouched round the fire and peering into his stew-pans—like a wizard engaged on some unholy philtre or mystic spell, whilst the cazarola was sending forth the most appetising odours.

He had chosen for our refectory a sweet green spot under the cool shadow of a tree. What though on the journey the mustard had invaded the territories of the butter? What though the omelette, when it came smoking from the frying-pan, resembled Australian damper and was gritty from the all-pervading sand? What though the faithful András, cumbered with many things, had forgotten before starting to bring the salt? Our good appetites compensated for everything.

The wine, however, though it had the tint of rubies, was both a delusion and a snare—whether from the exhilarating effects of the severe process of churning to which it had been subjected on the way, or from the nature of the wine itself, I know not. But I incline to the latter theory. Bad Hungarian wine, especially if it happen to be new, has a vicious habit of going at once to the head; and before either of us had imbibed more than half a glass of this, we are almost taken off our balance, and subjected to the humiliating consciousness of considerable difficulty in the power of articulation!

Having seen that the wants of our excellent chef were well supplied, and taken care, by consigning it as a libation to the river at our feet, that he did not himself partake of the wine, we repair to the álás, where we find our carriage already attached to its novel team.

Patriarchal and primitive as our wanderings have been hitherto, travelling through the country with a yoke of oxen is an entirely new experience. In all this “vale of tears” there is nothing so slow and dreary, and, crawling along the road in our lumbering old chariot, we seem to be carried back to a remote period of the world’s history, even to the drowsy old times of the ancient Seers. As we pass through the sleepy little villages, people come out of their houses and follow us, asking questions of András and the driver, who we are and whence we have come; the more intelligent addressing them in German, and taking no more heed of our presence than if we had been deaf.

In process of time we reach the village where the horses were to await us, and, suddenly aroused by the stentorian shout of the owner of the oxen, who brings them to an abrupt standstill, we see three bony animals standing in the middle of the road.

At eight o’clock we reach Neusohl, and are driven at once to the Hôtel ——. We had stayed here with András on our previous visit to Hungary; and the moment he enters the inn to make the necessary inquiries as to accommodation, he is recognised. The landlord, a German Jew, embraces him with effusion. He is his “long-lost brother.” The landlady almost repeats the ceremony, but suppresses her emotions with a dignity and fortitude that do her credit.

“Und die Engländer?—They are here too? Ach! It is too much. Accommodation?” They should think so. The whole house was ours. The best guest-chamber, where the King himself had slept; and if the hotel had been full, why then we should have had their own. Yes! their very own room. “Ach!”

The preamble happily coming to an abrupt conclusion with the utterance of this guttural, we are permitted to alight from the carriage and enter the hotel, which not being full, the hospitable alternative above mentioned had no need to be taken advantage of—a distinction which, having been favoured with it on our last visit, we did not appreciate sufficiently to desire its repetition on the present occasion.