CHAPTER VI.
DÉLI-BÁB.
The ordinary travelling conveyance of Hungary is the leiterwagen or szekér, a long skeleton cart, with sides like ladders, already described, which, from the convenient habit it has of accommodating itself to the manifold vicissitudes of Hungarian travel, and of wriggling and writhing itself into shape under circumstances that would utterly break up any English vehicle, together with the capacity it possesses of being dragged through quagmires that in this country bear the name of roads, is admirably adapted to its purpose.
They know only part of a country who study it merely in its outward aspects and do not acquaint themselves with the lives and characteristics of its inhabitants. Before leaving England, therefore, we determined to throw off our national prejudices and mix with the people as much as possible, becoming Magyars on the plains, Slovaks and Rusniaks in the northern and north-eastern Carpathians, Wallachs in Transylvania and Yougo-Slávs in Croatia. For this reason too we determined not to keep to the iron-roads, but to travel across country by szekér—curiously enough pronounced shaker—or any other conveyance to be met with. The szekér is by no means so uncomfortable a vehicle as might be imagined, for well filled with hay in addition to a couple of air-pillows—which no traveller in Hungary should omit to carry—one may journey in it day after day without very much fatigue.
Starting from so small a place as Fűred—where thus early in the season we feared nothing else could be obtained—our expectations at any rate did not soar beyond that humble means of locomotion even if our ambition took a loftier flight. But our guide, on the contrary, threw, figuratively speaking, cold water upon that modest vehicle—in fact, very cold water indeed—venturing to insinuate at the anomaly that would be presented by an august Ángol, and his tekintetes asszony (worshipful lady), as he persisted in styling us, travelling in so undignified a manner, and did his utmost to dissuade us from proceeding across-country by inducing us to return to Sió-Fok, and there take the train to Pest, at which place we could purchase a travelling carriage if we would, and journey through Hungary in a manner becoming an “illustrious family” from Ángolország (England).
Talleyrand says somewhere in his philosophy that “the tongue was given to conceal the thoughts,” and András’s opposition to our travelling in a “shaker” bore, we felt sure, no reference to the maintenance of our dignity, but simply to that of his own. The Hungarians are proverbially proud, ostentatious and fond of display, and there never was a truer proverb than that of their own creation: “Sallangos a Magyar” (the Magyars are fond of trappings). This being the case, the prospect of sitting side by side with the driver on the bench of a paraszt-kosci, or peasant’s carriage, as a szekér is often designated—it was amusing to hear the scornful way in which he pronounced the word—was far more than so pompous an individual as a Magyar guide could view with complacency. It was to him therefore a source of no small chagrin that we intimated our intention of persisting in our contemplated cross-country journey to Pest.
András in his ordinary attire, and András dressed in the livery of his master, were two entirely different personages. We could scarcely recognise him when he presented himself on the morning of the day on which we were to start, arrayed in the tightest of pantaloons of dark green cloth, braided with yellow, and hussar-jacket of the same. The livery was somewhat faded, it is true, but he presented, notwithstanding, quite a martial appearance; his moustache by the agency of some external application stood out perfectly straight, and, extending far beyond the region of his face, added a fierce and Mephistophelean character to his countenance.
To the eyes of the English traveller the costumes or rather liveries of the servants of the “nobles” and gentry are very striking. There was a time however, and not so long ago, when they wore a full military uniform, resplendent with gold and silver lace, each gentleman having his valet, who was dressed and armed like a hussar, and who waited on him with the soldier-like accompaniments of sabre and spurs. The other men-servants of his establishment were similarly equipped; whilst the ordinary costume of their masters consisted of gay-coloured broad-cloth richly embroidered with gold, a velvet fur-lined mantle thrown over one shoulder, a girdle or sash of some costly material encircling the waist, and a hat adorned with splendid plumes.
These beautiful “relics of barbarism” are, alas! fast dying out. The ladies have relinquished their national costumes for those of Western Europe, and the nobles only wear theirs on festive and grand occasions, unless they desire to make, as in 1870, a political demonstration against some Imperial laws, when to a man the Hungarians present themselves in all their former glory of plume, embroidered sash, and kingly mantle, and cause the streets of Pest to look like scenes from an opera.
We were just starting for an early cruise on the lake, when András overtook us bristling with importance, his very hair standing erect in his eagerness to communicate something. He had that moment, so he informed us, by a piece of unprecedented good luck, heard of a britzska belonging to a dead Pole from Gallicia; that is to say, trying to correct himself, it had once belonged to a dead Pole. Here, getting hopelessly entangled in speech, and unable to right himself, he came to a standstill, till growing calm by degrees he at length explained that a Polish gentleman, who had sought health in the healing waters of Fűred, had not only failed to find it, but had committed the misdemeanour of dying in a certain inn in the neighbourhood before he had paid the bill. The britzska consequently became the property of the landlord, and was for sale.
Although the sum demanded was four hundred gulden, he, András, believed that by judicious bargaining it might be obtained for three hundred. At any rate would “their Graces” only come and see it? It was in an álás, or shed, in the village hard by.
Following him, we soon came to the place where it was reposing,—a heavy, time-worn, battered, and oppressed-looking thing, typical, doubtless, of the fortunes of its late owner, whilst so ancient was its general appearance that it might have conveyed Arpád or even Attila himself across the Carpathians when they and their conquering armies made their first entry into Hungary. It possessed, however, the modern luxury of a hood and glass shutters, and was constructed so as to enable the traveller to lie down in it at full length, and we were forced to admit that the whole did unquestionably form a very snug arrangement for journeying through a country like this, where there are such violent and rapid changes in the temperature.
The paper currency of Hungary was at this time more than usually depressed. We obtained everywhere twelve florins and about eighty kreuzers in exchange for our English sovereign, so that three hundred gulden—a gulden being equivalent to two shillings—represented in reality only £25 10s.; we therefore informed him that if he could strike the bargain for that sum he might, and left him to do the haggling.
We were doubtless not a little influenced in our compliance with András’s wishes by a conversation we had had that morning with a German, whom we happened to meet whilst walking on the shores of the lake.
“Brigandage in Hungary,” he remarked, “is not yet a thing of the past. You will be journeying across the lonely Alfőld, and doing so in a manner befitting a person of distinction is, believe me, the only thing that will exempt you from an attack, should chance lead you in their way. You English have a proverb, ‘There is honour amongst thieves;’ and it is one that might well have emanated from this country, for the innate pride of these Magyar ruffians causes them to regard with such respect and veneration all whom they conceive to be of pure blood, that instead of robbing them they will often afford them safe conduct through their fastnesses; and whilst a caravan of merchants crossing the Alfőld in broad day may fall a victim to their avarice, the haughty noble driving in his carriage, attended by one solitary servant, may travel in perfect safety throughout the livelong night. If you travel in your own carriage, you may be mistaken for one of these nobles; and rather than rob you, they will probably help you on your journey.”
It is scarcely necessary to say that András succeeded in his negotiations, and in little more than an hour’s time—instead of the much-despised paraszt-kosci—our britzska, to which were harnessed four miserable-looking horses, quite in keeping with the equipage itself, drew up to the hotel.
Our charioteer, a man of sinister appearance with deep-set eyes and raven hair, is smoking a pipe. He wears the usual hussar-jacket thrown rakishly over one shoulder and a bunch of flowers in his hat. Giving half-a-dozen flourishes with his whip, he tickles the ears of the leaders. The last bag has been deposited. The hamper containing the cold fowls, the yard of bread, the half yard of garlicky sausage and the bottles of badacsony, reposes safely in a net beneath the carriage. We take our places: a struggle ensues on the part of the four lean, long-tailed horses at starting, all of which manifest a decided will of their own—but suddenly we are off.
Between Fűred and the mountains of Transylvania stretches an uninterrupted plain. The country in this locality, however, is less thinly populated than that of the Pettaurfeld, which we passed through on entering Hungary from Venice. On the road we meet waggons containing barrels and piles of merchandise drawn by beautiful white, meek-eyed oxen, and often driven by Jews, who all over Hungary are the “middlemen” between the producer and the consumer. It is to the Jews that the farmer sells the wool from his numerous flocks, and the “noble” the produce of his estates. They are Jews who buy the grapes and the wheat and the maize, and who drive hard bargains with the lowly peasant for his little plot of sunflowers, poppies or hemp, and who are the medium of nearly all the commerce in the country.
Our route now leads us in a northerly direction. At first the plains softly undulating are dimpled here and there with shady hollows; whilst like golden islands in an ocean of vivid green lie long stretches of yellow colza and ripening corn. On the gently rising upland yonder a dark round speck appears against the sunlit sky; gradually it elongates, and we hear a voice singing in a quivering treble some national idyll. It is a husbandman emerging from the hollow and trudging homewards along the crest of the undulation. Then all is silence and solitude once more, till coming to a standstill at one of the primitive wells by the roadside, we hear the distant rumble of a waggon as its wheels grind heavily along, the driver of it singing, as he goes, a melancholy ditty in the minor key. Then one by one the villages and solitary farms lying on the horizon die away; and we enter the boundless plains. How lonely we feel, and what tiny atoms of creation, with no objects to measure ourselves by save birds of prey and the white clouds sailing far up in the great, blue, glorious sky!
Our carriage, though imposing only in the matter of size, proved very comfortable, its ponderous hood shielding us from the heat of the sun, save where, taking mean advantage of weak places in its constitution, it shot fiery arrows in upon us, scarcely less piercing than those that pour down upon the head of the traveller in the desert.
The sun reflects itself in the white and dusty road. Above the soil on either side there is a flickering motion of the air like the haze from a lime-kiln. Everything is hot and dusty; not an insect is seen hovering about the low bushes which now and then skirt our pathway. All nature is taking its siesta in the dreamy noontide, and nothing is awake but the scarlet pimpernel that with wide-open unblinking eye looks straight up at the blazing sun. We now come to a marshy district, where a lonely heron is contemplating its lovely image in a small still pool, and then away we go again out into broad purple patches of newly upturned soil, bands of emerald corn, and speckled streaks of tobacco, with its large red and green leaves, and on through cool labyrinths of maize, till we come to vast tracts of uncultivated land, where wild horses with flying manes go scampering across its surface with all the natural grace of untamed things.
As day advances and the shadows of the clouds begin to lengthen across the plains, a breeze springs up and plays about us softly, rustling the large white, surplice-like sleeves of the driver’s garment, but not sufficiently strong to stir his black and flowing locks, which, weighted with some unctuous matter, rest calmly on his shoulders. Our nearest town is Veszprim, but at the pace we are at present going we are scarcely likely to reach it before nightfall, if then. But what does it matter, when we have the whole of to-morrow, and the next day, and the day after that, aye, and our whole lives, to do the distance in if necessary? How delightful to enjoy for once the true feeling of rest in this world of hurry-scurry, where we are but too often compelled to live at high pressure! Let, oh! let us for once take life easily under the broad and peaceful canopy of heaven, and reduce the dolce far niente to a science!
Borne leisurely onwards by the monotonous jog-trot of our steeds, the scream of a falcon now and then, as it whirls overhead, is the only sound that breaks the stillness. Nothing is here to remind us of that busy world which seems somewhere quite outside the atmosphere of our present lives, and which, so far as we are immediately concerned, might belong to some wholly different planet, even if it exists at all. Mother Earth here folds us in an entirely different lap; all the symbols of our old lives have vanished, and the present is far too vague and dreamy to be linked with any real memories. And as we recline languidly and luxuriously in the warm shade of our comfortable carriage, our past experiences are for the time buried in the Lethean stream; whilst the things of men—the tragedies of life and death, the deeds of cruelty and wrong, the hunger and struggle with hard times which exist in that world that lies beyond the circle of our visible horizon—seem no longer real, but only a hideous fancy.
Presently we espy what in the distance appears to be a river.
“Is it old Father Danube turning up unexpectedly?” we ask each other; exclaiming, after a pause, “No, it cannot be a river, it is a broad lake with a green island in its midst. See how the trees are reflected in the water!”
“What is the name of that lake yonder?” we inquire of András, who is half asleep on the box. “It surely cannot be the Platten-See again; it is the wrong side of us for that, and we must have left all sight of it behind us hours ago.”
“Déli-báb!” replied András laconically, in a drowsy voice, aroused from his half-somnolent state only to subside into it again.
Amongst the numerous myths which the fertile imagination of those pastoral nomads the ancient Magyars conjured up, dwelling on these vast steppes surrounded by rivers, trees and the ever-recurring phenomena of nature, not one is so poetical or so philosophical in its conception as Déli-báb, the “Fairy of the South,” and the ideal personification of a mirage.
How ingenious and at the same time suggestive is the parentage that is assigned to this national fairy of the Magyars!—“Daughter of old Puszta of the Alfőld”—her home; “Sister of Tenger” the sea—which form she most frequently represents. “Loved by Szél”—the wind, which, fanning the quivering haze—the chief cause of the phenomenon—perpetually changes its aspect.
How often too has she furnished a theme to the Hungarian poets! Have not Eötvös, Vörösmarty, and the impassioned Petőfi, sung of the deceptive beauty of this land sprite when—scarcely less delusive than the Sirens of ancient Greece, who from their rocky island called so sweetly to passing sailors “Come and rest! Come to our cool green caves, O men of many toils and many storms! and we will charm your cares away”—she lures the weary traveller onwards many a mile, and then, mocking, fades away?
It is impossible to travel far on the plains on a sultry day without observing this beautiful apparition. Often it pursues the traveller for many hours together, whilst not unfrequently it is seen to encircle the whole horizon. Now it simulates a steeple and houses poised in mid-air; now a river or a lake; but, generally, a broad expanse of ocean, with long stretches of sandy beach and narrow promontories of marshy shore, near which are masts of vessels, with tall trees and copses and stones reflected clearly in the water.
We have nothing in prosaic England to compare with the poetical superstition Déli-báb; but the resemblance between some of our national fables concerning good and bad fairies and those of Hungary, which are of Finnish origin, is very striking. Not to mention Mermaids and others, which until the middle of the last century were believed to inhabit the waters of the Theiss, there were sorcerers who were invariably accompanied by the conventional black cat; whilst Satan (őrdőg), whose particular personification in this case is supposed to be of Tartar or Persian origin, is always represented—though of ante-Christian era—with large ears and a long tail; his abode Pokol, where, amidst a band of numerous subjects, he dwells in heat and darkness.
We have passed the episcopal town of Veszprim, with its melancholy houses and grass-grown streets, passed its numerous vineyards, and once more, out on the broad and silent plains, see at long intervals little sleepy farms lying half-hidden amongst the green recesses of Indian corn, and surrounded by a blaze of wild flowers.
At still longer distances we come to small villages, almost every one of which is called Kis or Nagy—something; adjectives signifying “little” and “great,” and which, when reversed, apply to villages far beyond our sight.
All, whether Kis and Nagy, are exceedingly alike. Each house has a white gable pierced with its one small window; beneath which, on a bench placed against the wall precisely in the same position as that of its next door neighbour, sit peaceful women and girls knitting and gossiping. These benches, with one of which each house is provided, are called by the appropriate appellation of Szóhordók, “word-bearers.”
This uniformity in the villages of the Alfőld is very striking and peculiar, and cannot fail to arrest the attention of all who, leaving the iron-roads which now link all the large towns and cities of Hungary together, travel across the open country.