Is there anything in all this sinful world so irritating, uncomfortable, and sleep-preventing as a Hungarian bed? Not only is it so short, that, unless the would-be sleeper happens to be far below the average height of ordinary humanity, he will find it impossible to lie at full length in it, but also, from the exasperating nature of the bed-clothes, the process familiarly known as “tucking up” is wholly impracticable.
Regarded, however, from an external point of view, save in the matter of length, nothing could seem more luxurious. Even in these common roadside inns—“Juden Kneipe,” as András contemptuously calls them—the linen is of the finest, and the sheets and pillow-cases are embroidered at each end, but, alas! surely by the machinations of some mischievous sprite, the upper sheet is sewn to the counterpane; and as the latter is made the precise size of the bed, with nothing left to hang over the side, the whole thing subsides upon the floor, should the unfortunate occupant move ever so slightly during the night.
Our logement at the various hotels in Hungary is generally described on the bill as napi lakdij, and there never was a more appropriate, signification so far as English travellers are concerned, to whom the rest afforded is at best but a series of naps by jerks, and, in consequence of the abominable custom above referred to, a lop-sided conflict with the bed-clothes all night long.
In this “happy Arcadia,” however, even the mild term of napi was inappropriate, for we could get no sleep at all. By an unfortunate coincidence which befalls most things in this country of anomalies, the guest-rooms adjoined the stables, so that every time the horses kicked, they threatened to knock the wall in. Nor was this the only circumstance antagonistic to sleep, for the dragging of manger-chains throughout the livelong night and the hoarse shouts of the drivers making strenuous but ineffectual attempts to keep their animals quiet—they were evidently sharing the same apartment—were no less disagreeable. In the silent village a clock in the belfry tower tolled solemnly the hours which dragged wearily along, as they always do with those who are deprived of blessed sleep.
Before dawn, looking out of my window which commanded the whole of the eastern horizon, I watched the fires of night burn low. A thick pall of cloud, black as Erebus, seemed hanging over the firmament, for neither moon nor star was shining, and nothing was visible but the flickering fires in the distance, and the tall straight beam of an ágás across the village green, just showing like a sable spectre against the sky. No tinkling of bells or lowing of cattle was heard as in the day. All was silent under the drowsy spell of Night.
Then, as soon as night had culminated in the most complete darkness, an indescribable change came over nature, a change which at first seemed scarcely more than mere sensation, a palpable silence as of a world not dead—until this moment—but only asleep. Then eastward the darkness lost its opaqueness and became transparent. Behind night’s dusky curtain a streak of light shone faintly through the veil, and in the hush of dawn, that cold mysterious hour, the curtain with unseen hands was drawn asunder and light became a living thing. The eastern sky began to palpitate, and out of the void form gradually appeared. The traditionary cock crew, and from that moment as if by given signal all animate nature awoke from slumber, and made itself perceptible, first by soft and peaceful murmurings, then by louder bleatings of sheep and goats. Dogs barked, cows lowed,—sounds followed in due course by the milking of those latter mammalia, which little domestic operation we also heard distinctly from our room. See how silently and mysteriously the ágás yonder throws its giant arm about, as the shepherd—whose form is hidden in the distance—begins to draw water for his flocks! And now the sun himself begins to rise from out the bosom of the plains; first sending upwards his avant-garde of crimson cloudlets with gold-embroidered edges. There is a sudden flash of glory, and lo! the fiery monarch comes forth with slow and stately majesty. Gradually, the golden lustre spreads itself across the plains till, opening wide his arms, the god of day encloses all within his bright embrace.
By this time the villagers are not only awake, but surrounding the nearer ágás across the green; old women and maidens filling their crocks and pitchers for the day. A shepherd too is there, who, having deserted his little flock of shaggy sheep, is lowering the bucket for a Magyar dowager. The Hungarian, whether prince or peasant, is chivalrous, and the old and weak first claim the shepherd’s attention. In the fervour of his occupation he has doffed his hairy mantle, in which but a moment ago he looked like a huge ungainly bear. Observe how gently he takes the pitcher from that uncomely old woman who has just come tottering up, and offers to fill it for her; looking archly over his shoulder the while at a couple of merry, laughing girls, as much as to intimate that their turn—a sweet morsel he is reserving for the end—will likewise come ere long. What a smile bursts over his rugged sun-burnt countenance, as the old dowager thanks him for his kindness, and, bidding him “good morning,” totters away!
Now comes the kisbiró, or little judge of the village, walking leisurely along in the direction of the rising sun. What a splendid carriage he has, and a quiet dignity of manner quite patrician, every line of his face expressive of deep thought and firm determination! Look, also, at that man yonder in his long, full, embroidered cloak. He wears it with such a stately grace that it might be the imperial purple instead of the skins of beasts begrimed with the mud of years! Or that group of peasants coming down the road: what a noble bearing they too have, despite their full-fringed petticoat and full white sleeves, as with their primitive implements borne across the shoulders they go forth to their toil with a step as proud as if every inch of Alfőld soil were theirs by right of ownership!
The term paraszt (peasant), by which is meant agriculturist, is not necessarily applied to a possessor, or even to an occupier of the land, but refers in its primary sense to one who cultivates it, whether he be owner or tenant.
Before the reforms of 1848, the peasantry only were taxed, the “nobles” being free from taxation of every kind. There are three distinct classes of peasants: those who rent land in small or large allotments, those who own it, and those who cultivate it; each class possessing a distinct social status amongst his fellows, of which the true Magyar is very observant.
Yet although they are more highly taxed now than before 1848, the position of the Magyar peasant is far better than previous to that time, when the feudal system prevailed; during which, if not serfs in the strictest sense of the word, they were at any rate compelled by law to work on certain days of the week for the lord whose land they rented, as well as to pay him prescribed dues both in money and kind. The emancipation of the land from the forced labour of the peasantry was effected during this revolutionary period, together with the abolition of the exclusive right of the “nobles” to possess real estate. Before this, one nobleman could not sell any portion of his estate except to another nobleman, on account of all “noble-land” being free from seigneurial impost. It was this in fact which constituted the distinction between the nobleman and the peasant: the one possessed land and paid no taxes to government; the other occupied it, or laboured on it, and was subject to taxation. In like manner the money was wrung from the peasants for the various public works, whilst the “nobles” were exempt from any exaction whatever. An example of the unfairness of this law may be instanced in the bridge of boats at Pest which existed until 1849—when the magnificent suspension bridge that now crosses the Danube was completed—and which was open to the “nobles,” whilst the peasant and the beggar in his rags had to pay toll. All, “peasants” and “nobles” alike, are now equally taxed, and the former can even become landowners, a thing after which they strive. To possess a few jochs of land and some “jószag” (flocks and herds) to graze it, is the very height of the Magyar peasant’s ambition, the very aim and end of all he dreams of or hopes for in this life.
Until 1848 the State, the Church, and the “nobles” were the only landowners in the kingdom. The peasants however were granted the hereditary use of certain tracts of land designated “session lands,” for which they had not only to pay tithes to the owner in the shape of the tenth part of their produce, but were also compelled to work for him a certain number of days in the week or year; which forced labour, called “Rabot,” practically reduced the condition of the peasant to one of serfdom. The estates of the “noble” consisted of land farmed by himself, the feudal lord, and also that which was held by the feudal tenants. Perhaps the very worst part of this system existed in the fact of the feudal lord holding the position of judge or chief magistrate over his tenantry; even the bailiff (Ispán) having the right of administering on the peasant the punishment of twenty-five lashes if he saw fit to do so,—a right which, no doubt, was often abused.
Happily the feudal system in Hungary is a thing of the past. Already annulled in principle by the Hungarian Diet of 1848, it was practically put an end to in 1868 by a special law sanctioned by Ferdinand V.
The labourers on the large estates are much better paid than ours are in England, each man receiving about £27 per annum, besides board and lodging in the farm. On smaller estates, however, they are often paid in kind, more especially in produce such as kukoricza (Indian corn). When this is the case, arrangements are frequently made between the landlord and tenant whereby the latter undertakes to cultivate the land, furnish the seed and house the crop, in return for which he receives half the yield.
Journeying on through a boggy country, our carriage begins to lurch from side to side like a ship in an Atlantic storm. Some of these bogs abound with leeches,—a fact of which we were made painfully aware when bivouacking in the vicinity of one of those bogs on a previous visit. The Servians and Bulgarians carry on a considerable trade in these little creatures, which they collect principally here and in the districts of Bessarabia, whence they convey them to the chief markets of the West of Europe. At certain times of the year these merchants arrive from their southern provinces for the purpose; and, having collected the leeches, they preserve them in small tanks until they have a sufficient number to transmit to their several destinations.
Passing a shepherd’s hut, we are greeted by a wolfish-looking dog, which follows us with threatening aspect, but is brought to reason by a stick thrown after him by the shepherd. These dogs are sometimes very dangerous, and are known to attack the unoffending stranger. The sheep here, in consequence of a disease engendered by the marshy nature of the soil on which they graze, are nearly all lame. It is curious to observe how instinct teaches them to shield themselves from the fierce rays of the sun. About two o’clock, having ceased to browse, and the sun no longer vertical, they form a close circle, and, lying down one behind the other, each places its head in the shadow cast by the body of its nearest neighbour.
Away in the distance, faithful to her character, Déli-báb, “fair daughter of the Puszta,” presents her delusive objects to our view, and invites us towards her by the cool and refreshing scenes of placid lake and ocean shore which she spreads so temptingly before us. But we give no heed to her seductive charms, for the most poetical of travellers becomes prosaic when he is hungry, and the approach to a small village suggests a halt.
Our guide, whom we soon found to be great in the commissariat line, had replenished our larder at our last restingplace with a couple of roasted fowls, some Hungarian sausage, and a variety of other little et-cæteras, together with a bottle of excellent red wine, with the distinctive merits of which he was thoroughly conversant. We ourselves therefore were well provided for, but our tired horses wanted both rest and provender.
The village, however, at which we have just arrived, proves almost as illusory as the fair daughter of the Puszta herself, for on András going off to reconnoitre he ascertained there was neither inn nor álás. Besides which, the whole place seemed deserted. There were the whitewashed cottages on each side of the dusty highway; there were the empty “word-bearers” beneath each gable; there were the pigs lying down in the dust which they had hollowed out to fit their long lean forms; the poultry was swarming about the courtyards, and running in and out of their funny little straw coops, the precise model of a shepherd’s hut; but where were the inhabitants? Not a vestige of human life was visible.
Presently, just as we were about to drive away, hoping to be more fortunate at the next village, a door opened and a woman holding a distaff appeared, with whom, after some little parley, András returned with the gratifying intelligence that there was a shed behind the woman’s cottage at which the horses could be put up, adding in his usual pompous and grandiloquent style, that if the Tekintetes két (worshipful pair) would condescend to alight from their chariot, and, plunging their feet into the unworthy dust, honour with their presence the humble abode of the widow of a bérlö, etc. etc.; which rodomontade we understood to signify, in plain English, that, if we would get out of our vehicle, and, scrambling over the pigs, enter the dwelling of a defunct farmer, we should be able to rest there whilst the horses were being baited.
Yielding to his suggestion, we do plunge ankle-deep into the dusty road, and, scrambling over the pigs in question, enter the cottage; the woman, who meets us at the doorway, stooping to kiss our hands.
A Hungarian household of this description is prosaically and unpictorially clean: no delicious mingling of rich brown tints, no mud and muddle dear to the eye of an artist, greets the traveller as he enters. Everything is provokingly and unsentimentally neat. In the apartment into which the door opens, the first thing that will arrest his attention is the high stove in the centre; the next, a small bedstead, generally standing in a corner, supporting feather-beds, which are enclosed in the cleanest and prettiest linen casings, and so numerous that, piled one above the other, they reach the ceiling. So far as I could ascertain, these beds, of which the housewife is very proud, are simply kept as ornaments, and seldom or never used; their number being supposed to indicate the prosperity of the household. The windows, whose sills are painted bright green, contain flower-pots, half hidden by neat muslin curtains, whilst on the walls hang bright-coloured prints, depicting events in Hungarian history, and, if the dwellers are Roman Catholics, a picture of the Blessed Virgin and a crucifix. In addition to all of which, in this instance, hung a portrait in full Magyar costume—evidently executed by some local genius—of the defunct bérlö himself.
As we sit by the open doorway, the plains beyond the village seem to dance in the fervid heat. In the parched, sun-baked garden the tall reeds of the pampas-grass bow their plumed heads, and wave and rustle in the sultry air; butterflies and insects hover about the homely flowers; zephyrs wafting in upon us fan our cheeks, and then his away again to the corn-fields to fulfil the task allotted them by nature, and fertilise with soft pollen the young and tender blades.
By the time our horses are harnessed and we are jogging along the road again, shadows are lengthening. By windmills turning their endless somersaults; by salt marshes in which the corn-crake clacks a greeting as we pass; by sandhills, which the wind creates but to destroy, till suddenly a dark object appears above our heads. How majestically it cleaves the azure deeps, as with motionless outstretched wing it sails in the cloudless sky! It is an eagle which has caught sight of some prey; for see! it begins its downward flight by describing circles, which, wide at first, grow less and less, till from its dizzy height it falls to earth to settle on its trembling victim.
Only a few minutes ago from out the clover fields quails were rising here and there in peaceful coveys, and hawks scouring the translucent air, whilst in the marshes wild ducks and geese were paddling in and out amongst the green reeds and sedges, and dipping their snowy heads in search of tadpoles and smaller game. Where have they all gone? Not a bird is seen in air or water, not a sound is heard; the plovers have ceased to chatter, the hawks to scream; all are hushed in terror, every living thing has sought to hide itself from that piercing eye.
This monarch of the air—the imperial eagle—is very common in the plains, but is migratory, and roosts in forest trees, its favourite food being marmots, young foxes, and deer. Many of the forest birds in the plains of Hungary are very beautiful, and almost Oriental in the splendour of their plumage, the brilliant colouring of some surpassing any met with elsewhere in Europe. These, however, are songless, but in some districts the woods are full of nightingales that trill a carol all the livelong day and night.