Pest is a costly place to sojourn at, and our money absolutely flew, a gulden[1] scarcely going farther than a franc in Paris, or a lire in any part of Italy. No wonder is it then, as the porter told us on our arrival, that “fewer and fewer English travellers come each year.” Prices however vary considerably, according to the state of the currency; and are a barometer indicating the state of political affairs in Hungary, as well as external ones affecting the interest of the country, ascending with the depreciation of the paper currency, and descending as it increases in value. Thus the tradesman loses nothing by the fluctuations of the circulating medium; his gulden may not be worth so much at one time as at another, but he charges more for his wares, and thus keeps up for himself a wise and equitable balance.

What an aggravating and irritating currency is the Austro-Hungarian with its miserable kreuzers and paper gulden! Our purses will not hold sufficient even for our daily wants. Oh, to live in a world where there is no need of money! We have ceased to count the kreuzers, one hundred of which go to a gulden, and give them out promiscuously, a small handful of those little coins generally covering the cost of tickets for the steamers that ply all day between Buda and Pest, cab-hire, “pour-boires,” and the like.

Ordinary hackney carriages—which are here called “comfortables,” just as in Transylvania they are designated, more oddly still, by the German name of “Gelegenheiten” (opportunities)—are however both cheap and excellent. They consist of small broughams drawn by one horse, but besides these there are carriages of other kinds, always to be found waiting for hire in the Gasella Tir, to which two horses are attached, the carriages of all kinds being nearly as good as private ones. Let us jump into one and go off to the Stadt-Wäldchen. We have lunched sumptuously at the Jägerhorn, to the sound of plashing water and the fragrant perfume of flowers, and are ready for anything.

At what a pace the horses go, as they dash round the corners, and take us on through the crowded thoroughfares, into the long broad road which leads to the open country, at the end of which we can just descry, through the blue veil of atmosphere, the trees at the entrance to the People’s Park! It is a festival of some sort, and the streets are full of holiday-makers, in holiday attire. In vain the bells which with equal importunity summoned the faithful to church in the early morning now peal forth again, and clang and twang and nearly crack themselves in the anxious vehemence with which they strike against their clappers. The people refuse to hear the call, and still in never-ending stream make their way to the various piers, and crowd the steamers which every few minutes are seen cutting through the waters with a cool and pleasant splash to Buda, Alt-Ofen, or other places lower down the Danube, and, calling for passengers at Pest, come banging against the wooden framework of the piers and nearly knock them over.

All is hurry, bustle, and excitement. The sun shines fiercely, but a refreshing breeze is blowing down the river. If ever a day was made for a holiday, surely this one is. The Hungarian flag has a rare time of it, and its red, white, and green stripes wave and flash, not only from the sterns and masts of steamers, but from every available spot. The open omnibuses—which are here like two Victoria phaetons joined in one—are passing and repassing by the score, filled with quiet happy people seated under the clean brown-holland awnings. Every mortal thing is clean in Pest. On through the Sugár út, with its bordering of gilded mansions and pretty Italian villas, till we reach our destination, where dismissing our droszky on payment of the magnificent sum of one gulden for the “course,” and an equally magnificent sum of twenty kreuzers to the driver, we hasten away to “Arcadia’s green bowers,” not proof however against the seductions of the vendors of delicious sweetmeats (édességek), which, lying in small white muslin booths, like babies’ bassinets, waylay the weak-minded, sweet-toothed pleasure-seeker at each step on entering the domain.

This sylvan retreat, dear to the hearts of the people, as well it may, was not long ago a huge swamp, but, having been drained by an artificial lake, now contains “every requisite” for a pleasure resort. The sheet of water, with its swans and (moored to its banks) innumerable gaudily-painted canoes, is a great source of delight to the holiday-makers, who paddle about and fish for minnows and tadpoles with a gravity and perseverance quite astounding. Nothing short of an insurrection or an overflow of the Danube would prevent the Hungarian bourgeois from resorting hither on Sundays and week-day festivals: to them a tour in the “merry-go-rounds” and a saunter in the pleasant shady walks is a necessity of their lives, without which they could not digest their “gulyás hús” or “paprika hendl,” and would even lose relish for their “schoppen” of beer.

As we proceed, the discordant sounds of music, the spasmodic beating of drums, and hum of many voices greet us; for in the deep recesses of the Wäldchen itself, the Hungarian world is tout en fête. There are open-air theatres, Blondin feats, dancing on the tight-rope, and something to suit all comers, not to speak of the aforesaid “merry-go-rounds,” each rivalling the other in eccentric design.

Emerging from behind a group of trees, we find ourselves close to one of these popular sources of amusement and exercise, composed of an artificial menagerie—a “happy family” revolving in peaceful fellowship, as they carry their bold equestrians, male and female, whizzing in giddy circles.

A few steps farther on we find an opposition one, and, judging from the crowd of lookers-on which stands outside the gaily-fringed awning, a great favourite.

Managing to work our way through the throng of people, we behold the twelve signs of the Zodiac chasing each other with maddening velocity—objects sufficiently grotesque to send children both small and great back to their homes with a whole lifetime of nightmares on the brain. Farther still is another in which huge swans with gilded beaks are made to draw wondrous cars containing not only children but grown-up men and women of all ages, some sitting, some standing. So accustomed are the Magyars to this particular mode of exercise that they rotate with a speed positively astounding, doing so at the same time with the gravity of judges, scarcely the ghost of a smile breaking over the countenance of any one of them. Never can I forget one young woman in a pink dress with long golden hair flying out behind like a mermaid; as, standing bolt upright in one of the cars, her hands demurely folded and her eyes bent downwards, she managed to rotate about twenty times without moving a muscle of her body, or holding on to anything for support. In fact, so perfectly still was she, that we had just come to the conclusion that, like a figure-head at the bows of a vessel, she was simply placed there for effect, when the machinery came to a standstill, and she stepped out of the car with a pair of “understandings” of most unquestionable flesh and blood, and disappeared amongst the crowd. This part of the entertainment would seem to be regarded as a duty rather than an amusement; for still they go round and round to the grinding of an immense barrel-organ, the most popular instrument, seemingly, with the proprietors of these divertissements, combining as it does the greatest quantity of sound with the least possible motive power, and the people never stop—except to begin again.

The whole scene was headachy and bewildering; whilst the jumble of barrel-organs, each playing different tunes in a different key, soon sent us off in quest of a more peaceful locality.

Not far away, but a little out of the noise and tumult of voices, came the familiar squeak of the immortal Punch, sound irresistible at all times. But a Magyar Punch and Judy!—we must go and see it. Following the direction of the dulcet tones, we see before us, not the modest and itinerant arrangement of our childhood, but a permanent theatrical establishment. The performance proves to be a most elaborate and imposing rendering of the drama of the classic pair, consisting of a play in five acts, in which Judy leads the same miserable life, and receives the same number of wooden blows from the arms of her lord and master, who finally poisons her and marries again, but in which she comes to life again in the fourth act, and, imbued with supernatural powers, takes the form of a hideous monster,—a creature with huge jaws, half alligator, half shark, whose appearance frightens the little children, but preaches a wholesome lesson to Hungarian husbands, for it dodges the footsteps of the newly-wedded pair to such an extent, that the second Mrs. Judy takes leave of this mortal stage in a rapid consumption, and is buried with much pomp and ceremony, whilst the conscience-stricken Punch, after wasting to a mere shadow, is crushed to death in the animal’s jaws.

This tragic and melancholy ending of the hitherto victorious hero was accompanied by the most dolorous music, extracted with much difficulty by a young female in long plaits, who ground away with both hands at an asthmatic old organ, which sent forth spasmodic gasps and groans highly appropriate to the occasion.

At this juncture, the loud bell of the al-fresco theatre, about a hundred yards off, announces that another performance is going to begin there also. Let us throw our little heap of kreuzers into the greasy saucer which is now seen hovering above the heads of the people, and, having paid our modest tribute to the memory of the defunct Punch, follow yon hurrying throng in the direction of the theatre, take tickets at the rustic wicket-gate for the “dress circle,” and, entering, rest beneath the cool shade of waving trees.

As fate would have it, the hero of the piece was the typical Englishman, and in course of the performance we were treated to an exposure—most graphically rendered—of some of our national traits, which, though not particularly flattering to ourselves, were at any rate highly appreciated by the audience, who greeted their representation with immense applause.

In these al-fresco theatres the popular drama is not seen in its most recherché form, certainly; and the garish day, by laying bare many of its secrets, detracts not a little from its accessories, but there is seldom anything to offend eyes or ears the most fastidious. There are no coarse jests nor ribaldry. Everywhere there is merriment and happiness, but vulgarity and intemperance never; and the people greatly enjoy this source of amusement, often paying the price of their tickets over again, to witness a repetition of the same piece.

The last time we were in Pest a troupe of Italian pantomimists were performing here; but they could scarcely have come to a worse place than Hungary to find an appreciative audience, for the phlegmatic Magyar bourgeois seems incapable of taking in the full meaning of mute gesture, of which the Italians are so fond and which to them has all the power of language. In vain the supple bodies of the “mimi” rocked to and fro in their endeavours at simulating passion, or quivered in every nerve under the power of strong emotion; in vain they emitted electric flashes from their finger-tips expressive of disgust and indignation; in vain the lines and muscles of their faces worked convulsively as they endeavoured to give expression to the various sentiments. Love, hate, sorrow, joy, indignation, and contempt, all came alike to the Hungarians, who can only comprehend the force of pantomime when exhibited in their national dance.

On whatever side we gaze there is a stream of human life which has been augmenting each moment throughout the day. The greensward is covered with happy groups reclining beneath the shade of trees. Like a palace of the “Arabian Nights” lies the boat-house yonder, reflecting itself in the calm water over which swans white as snowflakes glide in spotless procession. Beyond all, in wavy curvature rise the hills of Buda. And now the little rustic bridges are crowded with persons crossing over to the island whence come the sounds of music, no longer that of barrel-organs, but of a gipsy band, and soon the broad surface of the lake is alive with canoes and brightly-painted boats, and the swans floating in graceful curves seem to keep time to its inspiriting strains.

Outside the various restaurants the people sit at the small marble-topped tables under the awnings, and eat ices or drink coffee whilst listening to the music. This is the people’s day, and the beau monde do not appear; but in spite of this we see some lovely faces, as well as figures of exquisite contour. Look at that Magyar girl yonder, leaning against a tree, her hat resting against her lap. What makes her look so sweetly sad as the gipsy band rings out one of its speaking melodies, and what is she thinking of whilst the butterflies with spangled wings play at hide-and-seek amongst the branches, and the sunlight like a shower of gold lingers about her head as though it loved it? She is only a shop-girl probably, out for a holiday, but how pretty she is with her tiny features, and what modesty and reserve there is in her whole bearing! Quietness without insipidity, and dignity without pride.

But now bidding adieu to this gay and festive scene, just as the fires of sunset are paling in the west, we jump into a droszky, scores of which crowd the entrance to the gates, and rattling off to the Danube, take a steamer to the fair green island of Marguerite.

Here the holiday-makers are of a far different type, and, consisting of the nil admirari class, take their pleasures tranquilly, a military band being the only source of amusement provided. Walking through shady alleys skirted by noble forest trees, across broad stretches of velvet lawn and past well-kept parterres, we reach a large restaurant at the end of the island—and here we dine.

This beautiful island of woods and flowers, which lies so peacefully in the Danube’s arms, belongs to the Archduke Joseph. Here in ancient days, so runs tradition, a lovesick maiden—the daughter of a king—was in the habit of retiring to pray. Her name was Margaret, that is “Pearl,” and it is after her that the island is so sweetly called the “Pearl of the Danube.”

Seated beneath the lime-trees, amongst which hundreds of lamps are gleaming, we listen to the melodious rhythm of the orchestra, and seem to be in fairy-land. The soft evening air blowing from the Danube fans our cheeks, and our prosaic Kalbs Schnitzel and Lämmerchen Braten no longer taste like either. We are partaking of ambrosial food, our “Turk’s blood” converted into nectar of the gods. We fall to earth again, however, with one fell swoop, when, having asked for the bill, it is presented—but who would think of grumbling after such a happy day? Restaurant-keepers must live, and money was made to spend, whilst the cuisine was excellent and the wine direct from the Archduke Joseph’s cellars.

To our right sit a group of buxom Germans, not dwellers in Hungary evidently, or they would have spoken Magyar; it being the highest aim and ambition of the German residents to be taken for the dominant race. So great, in fact, is the attempt of the Germans to repudiate their own nationality and pass for Hungarians, that they will often tell you they are Magyars, in a language which though Hungarian betrays a very unquestionable Teutonic accent, and swear that their ancestors came over with Árpád. The ladies in question therefore must be visitors to the fair capital, possibly from Vienna, where it is the fashion to speak ill of everything Hungarian, for they are abusing not only the country and its people, but all that is placed before them, in their harsh gutturals, and again and again we hear such words as “miserables Brod” and “schlechtes Fleisch;” but still they eat and drink, and we marvel at the quantity of “miserable” Speisen und Getränke (meat and drink) they manage, notwithstanding, to consume.

To our left sit a trio of slim Hungarian ladies prattling softly in their expressive language. How gentle in manner are they, and how modest and demure! What a charming absence of vanity and self-consciousness is there about these Magyar belles! and how unlike in these attributes—may I be forgiven for saying so?—are they to many of our English girls of the period!

In their beauty the Magyar women have been said to resemble the Circassians. Of this I have had no opportunity of judging. But lest it should be thought I have exaggerated, let me quote the opinion of a gentleman (M. Tissot) on the subject: “Those who want to see the true type of feminine Magyar beauty should come here (Margarethen Insel), seat themselves in the shade, and watch the women who pass by. What strikes one first among the Hungarians is the extreme freshness, delicacy, and purity of the complexion, whether they be brunette or blonde. Their wavy hair, as in all women of this race, is superb; in their large Oriental eyes, shaded with long lashes, reverie mingles with passion; their lips are the colour of roses, and their teeth have the brightness of pearls.... The figure is supple, the joints fine, and the feet arched and tiny. You recognise a Hungarian woman at once by her walk, so completely without affectation, so noble and full of ease. It is an indescribable stamp of aristocracy and of good manners, which makes the German women who live among them yellow with envy.”

Amongst these Magyar sirens the stranger will often recognise a face that is decidedly Hebraic, and often the Grecian and even Spanish type is manifest; whilst immediately opposite us a lovely woman is sitting, whose type might be a mingling of all three. Her complexion is a clear brunette, with a tint like the damask rose just showing through the delicately transparent skin, and her wavy clusters of dark brown hair drawn back in loose bands. She too has taken off her bonnet and is fanning herself, for the evening is sultry. She has already caught sight of my sketch-book, and knows by my fixed gaze that I am sketching her, but looking up she smiles sweetly, then resumes the same pose, remaining perfectly still, the expression of her face imbued in its every line with that unconscious grace and charm of indifference to admiration which great beauty so often adds to its possessor.

On the men of Hungary Nature has been less lavish in her gifts. They are tall, manly, and even stately in form, and handsome faces are very frequently observed, but they are not the rule, as amongst the women. Now and then, amidst these fine and well-formed people, one is seen who recalls to mind their Tartar origin, and anthropologists are puzzled not a little to account for the change which these once pastoral nomads—the Magyars dwelling in their northern steppes—have undergone both in face and feature since they migrated southwards and became a settled and agricultural people. They affirm that the admixture of Slavonian and other blood which has taken place from time to time is inadequate to account for the complete change of type evinced not only in external characteristics, but even in cranial formation. For whereas the Lapps and Finns, who have been ascertained by philological research, no less than by the guidance of ethnology, to form with them a common stock, still retain their ancient physical characteristics, and are “short of stature and uncouth,” with “pyramidal” skulls—a type which is said to distinguish in a great degree all the pastoral races of the North—the stature of the Magyars of the present day is stalwart, and the cranium has acquired the “elliptical” form, that denotes the dwellers in Western and Southern Europe.

Twilight had drawn its veil across the sky and the stars were peeping forth by the time we turned our backs upon this “Paradise of Houris,” and, taking the steamer, made for Pest. A celebrated gipsy band was to perform that night at the restaurant of the “Jägerhorn,” and we determined to go and hear it, and thus conclude our exciting day.

Entering the quadrangle of the hotel which formed the restaurant, we took our seats. The stars, dimmed by the lustre of the artificial lights, looked down upon us meekly, for we were seated in the open air. The fountain in the centre of the court merrily tossed its spray, and the gold-fish darted in and out of their miniature grottoes as they played at “hide-and-seek.”

The soul-stirring, madly exciting, and martial strains of the “Rákótzys”—one of the revolutionary airs—has just died upon the ear. A brief interval of rest has passed. Now listen with bated breath to that recitative in the minor key—that passionate wail, that touching story, the gipsies’ own music, which rises and falls on the air. Knives and forks are set down, hands and arms hang listless, all the seeming necessities of the moment being either suspended or forgotten—merged in the memories which those vibrations, so akin to human language, re-awaken in each heart. Eyes involuntarily fill with tears as those pathetic strains echo back and make present some sorrow of long ago, or rouse from slumber that of recent time.

Watch narrowly the countenances of the listeners one by one! Regard that phlegmatic and, as you thought but a few minutes ago, painfully prosaic man of threescore years sitting over his high glass of Lagerbier. See, he hangs his head and wipes away a tear! Now gaze furtively at the face of that fair one opposite, in all the rounded grace of early womanhood. What a look of pain is fixed upon her brow! how the eyebrows knit and the corners of the sweet mouth droop! And that younger form beside her, of a girl who has scarcely left her teens—what a pensive shadow passes over the expression of her face also; hers the unconscious foreshadowing of some future cloud! All are firmly held, grasped, enthralled as by a magic spell, every heart responding to those plaintive notes, and every sorrow stirred by the thrilling vibrations which hang upon the ear.

And now the recitative being ended and the last chord struck, the melody begins, of which the former was the prelude. Watch the movements of the supple figure of the “first violin,” standing in the centre of the other musicians, who accompany him softly. How every nerve is en rapport with his instrument, and how his very soul is speaking through it! See how gently he draws the bow across the trembling strings! and how lovingly he lays his cheek upon it, as if listening to some responsive echo of his heart’s inmost feeling, for it is his mystic language! How the instrument lives and answers to his every touch, sending forth in turn utterances tender, sad, wild and joyous! The audience once more hold their breath to catch the dying tones, as the melody so rich, so beautiful, so full of pathos, is drawing to a close. The tension is absolutely painful as the gipsy dwells on the last lingering note, and it is a relief when, with a loud and general burst of sound, every performer starts into life and motion. Then what crude and wild dissonances are made to resolve themselves into delicious harmony! What rapturous and fervid phrases, and what energy and impetuosity is there in every motion of the gipsies’ figures as their dark eyes glisten and emit flashes in unison with the tones! whilst in the restaurant itself everything is once more stir and motion. Knives and forks clatter, corks fly, and the cool fountain plashes with a merrier sound.

The deep-toned cymbals—a large kind of lyre laid flat upon a table and played with padded sticks—thrum and ring and vibrate; the strings of the double-bass thunder; the strains come thicker and faster, but in perfect time, till the performers, interrupting the regular measure by an inversion of the order of notes, glide into syncopated passages, and we think they must surely lose themselves in those intricate and subtle “quantities.” But no! “Thump, bang, crash, and squeak” rend the air, but in the din and clamour and fury of the wild rhythm they all come right again, and wind up in the greatest precision.

The fiddles are now placed upon the table; the “loud cymbals” are hushed; the double-bass and violoncello rest against the green trellis-work with which the walls of the restaurant are covered; the clarionet lies hidden amongst a labyrinth of leaves, and for a brief space the czigánok walk about the quadrangle, and receive the congratulations of the audience. But they never really tire, and would seem to be endowed with the power of perpetual motion, for they soon begin again, and “men may come, and men may go, but” they “go on for ever.”

No wonder is it that the Hungarians prefer their national music to any other, for the gipsies are not only gifted with an extraordinary genius for music, but their impetuous and passionate natures make them enter into it heart and soul; and this being the case, it is impossible for them to help communicating some of their ardour and enthusiasm to their impressionable listeners.

The cymbals (czimbalom), the most characteristic of all their instruments, possess great tone as well as capability of expression. They emit as much sound, in fact, as that of a grand piano, the lower strings possessing immense depth and power. We are so accustomed to associate the word cymbals with the circular brass plates which are clashed together, that it seemed odd to hear any other instrument called by that name; but I never heard the gipsies’ czimbalom without wondering whether they had inherited them from their ancestors, and whether, under a more simple form, this stringed instrument, in universal use amongst the Hungarian Ishmaelites—so infinitely more capable of expression than the sharp ringing sound produced by the kind of cymbals familiar to us in our own country—be not in reality the “loud cymbals” with which David told the Jewish people to “praise the Lord.”

Our last night in Pest has come for the present; our last bill is paid at the Jägerhorn restaurant; our farewell of the gipsy-band has been taken, and we return in regret to our hotel. Ascending the stairs, we meet Herr Dulovics, who demands our wishes concerning our early repast, previous to our journey on the morrow, observing—a fact we had already recognised—that the inns on the Alfőld are both few and indifferent. He suggests, therefore, the desirability of our fortifying ourselves with a substantial meal.

Seeing that we hesitate for an instant, he breaks in hurriedly, as though seized by a happy inspiration—

“Leave it to me; I will take care that you have a breakfast to please you,” and then disappears.

On the following morning, descending to the Speise-saal, we see the snowy cloth spread in readiness for us, and at the sound of our footsteps, peeping through a doorway at the end of the apartment, mine host’s head appears. He looks hot and busy, and his wig is all on one side in the very fervour and excitement of his occupation. The cook, clad in white, stands hard by, his arms folded. He is not deemed equal to the occasion evidently. Herr Dulovics himself undertakes the important office of preparing a savoury mess—a parting blessing in the flesh-pot way—such as he thinks the soul of the Ángolok loves.

The Magyars were called Ogres by the ancient Romans on account of a belief commonly existing amongst them that these heathen conquerors ate the hearts of their enemies and drank their blood, an idea possibly originating in the fact of their eating almost raw meat.

Surely Herr Dulovics must have been imbued with a similar notion with regard to the descendants of the Ancient Britons, for in a few minutes he is seen approaching bearing in each hand a small round silver dish. No other hands, not even those of the “black divinity,” shall present to us those time-honoured morsels.

“There!” he exclaims, a look of complete triumph animating his whole countenance, as removing the covers with a flourish he places before each of us a piece of half-cooked meat—“There! Bif-stek à l’Anglaise.”