Chapter XLI: Westward

Kolozsvár, situated in the valley of the Szamos, and surrounded by hills on every side, contains 25,000 inhabitants. Although enclosed on all sides by a Wallach population, that of the town itself is principally Magyar, with the exception, however, of one portion of it, which contains a little colony of “Saxons.”

Was there ever such a clatter as we made driving down the streets of this little Magyar capital of Transylvania? If the four hoofs of every horse had each been a vigorously played castanet, and each paving stone a cracker, I doubt whether we could have made more noise. If the railway locomotives take their time in Hungary, the horses make up for it by the pace they take the traveller--at any rate on starting. As they gallop through the streets we startle the whole neighbourhood. Waggoners, who, Hungarian-like, have left their teams in the middle of the road, come rushing out of wine-shops where they are leisurely sipping their morning’s _glässchen_ of _Slivovitz_. Frantic mothers are seen issuing from dark doorways, gazing distractedly up and down, in quest of their small “blessings,” who, as a rule, are squatting quite composedly in a nice cool puddle in the centre of the road. Pigs grunt and use unparliamentary language; whilst the genius of a group of youthful engineers, engaged in the erection of earthworks and fortifications at the side, is very nearly nipped for ever in the bud by the wheels of our chariot, as, deviating slightly to the left, we make room for a timber-waggon coming down the street.

As the four capital little horses which we have brought with us from the “Saxon” town of Shässburg, a place midway between this and Kronstadt, and the most spruce and _betyár_ of coachmen, pull up at the hotel archway, a crowd of spectators gathers to see the turn-out, and we once more hear the words “_Ángolok_” and “_Ángolorszag_,” spoken in an undertone--which have not greeted our ears since leaving the plains of the Magyars--proceeding from mouth to mouth in a “stage whisper.”

It is market-day, too, and in the square opposite the hotel and beneath the shadow of the fine old cathedral is a kaleidoscope of perpetually shifting colour. Unlike the market at Hermannstadt, the space devoted to the purpose is filled with booths and covered stalls, whilst to the left is a gipsy’s tent, close to which, squatting on the ground, are its owners, their simple wares of home manufacture displayed before them on a piece of matting.

_Bäuerinnen_, too, in scarlet top-boots, black skirts lined with yellow and looped up over scarlet petticoats, sit also by _their_ wares, whilst Koloszvár Bürger ladies, in black silk shawls worn cross-ways over the head, stand over them and haggle, as usual, for salads, flowers, vegetables, infantine chicken--yes! and _snails_--the large wood species being regarded by Hungarian epicures as an _objet de luxe_ in the gastronomic line. A Hungarian housewife’s ordinary winter supply of these little animals is several thousand. Here and there boys are carrying coloured candles for sale, and two Hungarian peasants with long corkscrew curls are bargaining for a long string of garlic, for which they eventually pay five kreuzers--a cheap luxury! On the ground are little islands of Transylvanian pottery and classical-shaped bowls and pitchers, resembling a coarse kind of Majolica. There is a penny theatre, also, the audience of which is principally composed of men; and booths innumerable for the sale of ready-made clothes and vestments of Hiltau frieze beautifully embroidered in green and red. We pass one in which hang hundreds of embroidered waistcoats of the cut, colour, and material of the costume of each neighbouring village. How amusing it is to stand and watch the purchasers try them on, and see how vain mankind is even when exhibited in the “Saxon” or Wallach peasant, and how difficult to please. Here is one negotiating for a baggy coat with large sleeves and a hood--an out-of-doors, red-letter-day garment that would fit anybody; but he tries it on notwithstanding, and views himself up and down to see how it hangs, then looks over his shoulder to judge of its effect behind, and finally regards himself intently in a glass provided for the purpose by the seller. He has already tried on eight or nine, when he fixes at last upon one which he thinks will do. The material is white frieze embroidered in black, and its price--fourteen gulden--is marked on the article, but he beats the seller down to thirteen gulden forty-seven kreuzers, and has almost decided to buy it, when the owner of the booth takes from his store one lined with scarlet and embroidered in green, the price of which is thirty-three gulden. The purchaser’s spirits sink. He is now quite put out of conceit with the unpretending black-embroidered garment and is caught in the trap. The seller, a wily “Saxon,” induces him to put it on, and, drawing the hood over his head, bids him look in the glass to see how it becomes him and judge of the charming effect. Passing on to other booths we have quite forgotten all about our Wallach purchaser, when, returning that way in half an hour’s time, we still witnessed the same little scene being enacted, at that moment, however, drawing to a conclusion. Slowly taking from his purse thirty gulden which, together with his pipe and tobacco-pouch, he kept in his topboot, the bargain was struck, and with a somewhat dejected air, for the Wallach loves not to part with his money, away he goes with his splendid garment tucked under his arm.

There are booths, too, where “_Kipfer_” and delicious Hungarian bread are sold, and gilded sweetmeats; and stalls pervaded by a strong odour of turpentine, where repose piles of Szekler cheese, the flavour of turpentine being imparted to it by the bark of the pine-wood in which it is packed. These stalls are presided over by Szeklers, a people occupying a large tract of country in the extreme east of Transylvania on the borders of Moldavia, and whose origin for a long time was one of the historical puzzles with which Hungary abounds. But they are now believed to be the remnant of the Huns of Attila, who, after the Romans in the time of Aurelian had retired from Dacia and left the country defenceless, perpetually menaced it from the north, and finally formed a colony where they now exist.

How it came to pass that this remnant of the great people, the Huns, who subjugated Pannonia, got left behind, does not appear, but it is determined beyond all controversy, that when the third Turanian horde--the Magyars--bore down upon the country in 886, they found a people settled in an eastern corner of Transylvania calling themselves Szeklers, who not only spoke their own language, but possessed the same characteristics.

Koloszvár possesses the honour of having given birth to the great Matthias, “Matthias the Good” as he is called by the grateful Hungarians. It was also on a mountain near here, overlooking the valley of the Szamos, where poor Rákótzy II., the last of Transylvania’s native princes, witnessed the defeat of his army under the overwhelming forces of Austria. Brought up as a Jesuit, he notwithstanding fought for religious freedom, but, on being defeated, he fled to Turkey, a country which has afforded an asylum to so many of Hungary’s patriots, where he died.

The Cathedral dates from the 13th century, but since its completion it has passed through many vicissitudes and into various hands, its chancel having been sadly mutilated and altered, to suit the requirements of the various forms of worship which have been celebrated within its walls. Originally Roman Catholic, it subsequently fell into the hands of the Lutherans, who discarded its statues, pictures, and shrines. In the 15th century its walls echoed to the doctrines of Unitarianism under the teaching of Francis David, after which it was given over to the Jesuits, but was soon regained by the Unitarians, who continued to hold it until 1716, when the altar was once more adorned with the great crucifix which had been strangely preserved through all its varied fortunes, and the church passed into the hands of its original possessors, the Roman Catholics, who retain it to the present day.

There are no fewer than 50,000 Unitarians in Transylvania, and they have erected a large brand-new church here, on which is inscribed in imposing letters their distinctive motto, “_Soli Deo Gloria_.” The doctrines of this sect were introduced into the country by Isabella, daughter of the King of Poland and wife of Zápolya I., and they are doing their utmost to extend their influence here, a deputation from England visiting both Koloszvár and Hermannstadt every year for this purpose. During the time we were at the former place we found it difficult to persuade its inhabitants that the English National Church was otherwise than “Unitarian.”

“What,” said they, “the English not ‘Unitarian’? Why, you send money to help to support them.”

The Transylvanian capital does small credit to the province, and the hotel at which we have put up is by far the worst we have encountered in our travels. How many a time as I walked up and down its stairs I wished that I wore top-boots and short petticoats like the _Bäuerinnen_.

Not far from the hotel, and just round the corner where women sit at stalls and sell parched Indian corn and “gipsy-roasts,” is a shop where ready-made coffins are sold, and where a woman, standing within, looks through the window and over her grim wares invitingly at the bystanders, and appears quite disappointed when they do not turn in.

In the winter season many of the “magnates” reside here, and their splendid equipages enliven the little city; but it is so dull during our present visit, that we have no inducement to prolong our stay. Summer is passing, and autumn, when heavy rains will render the roads almost impassable, is stealing upon us with noiseless wheels. The following morning, therefore, we bid adieu to the mountains, the domain of the Wallach, the “Saxon,” and the Szekler, and journey towards Debreczin, the very centre of Hungary, and the most Magyar portion of all Magyarland, and the exclusive realm of the Magyar.

Once more reaching the plains, we are seized with a sort of poetic enthusiasm akin to that which inspired Petöfi and Eötvös and Vorösmartz in their great love for their Mother Alfőld. Again beholding its immense breadth and length, and enwrapped in its wondrous repose, we no longer marvel at the affection entertained for it by its people--an affection which must grow upon all who travel long over its boundless tracts.

There again in the horizon is the Alfőld’s faithful daughter, “Deli-báb,” beguiling the traveller with her shifting slides of mystic pictures, now of pale and hazy lakes, as of those from which the morning mists are rising to greet the god of day; anon, of fair green islands surrounded by a golden shore--silent and majestic ever. Oh! immortal daughter of a mythic past!

There are some who call these plains monotonous. Monotonous! _That_ they are only to those who are blind to the ever-varying effects of light and shade; but to those who are alive to the Alfőld’s ever-changeful moods, “day unto day uttereth speech,” and each hour brings a new revelation.

Those who travel across the great Alfőld by the iron roads which, linking places together, follow only that portion of it where towns and villages are most frequent, can form no conception of the thinness of the population nor of the infinite vastness of the plains; but as we are borne onwards in our own carriage over these almost trackless wastes, we realise why this region, not only in ancient times, but even up to the seventeenth century, has been so peculiarly the theatre of barbarian incursion. It is no doubt due in a great measure to the geographical position of the country, but chiefly to its physical characteristics. Those vast plains watered by the great rivers, the Danube, the Marős, and the Theiss, offered great attractions to the pastoral nomads of the north and north-east.

No associations such as those which attend the cultivation of the ground amongst Aryan nations, bound them to their native soil. Freed from all the labours of husbandry, and living either by the chase or on the flocks and herds which grazed these steppes or prairies, they never attached themselves to any place in particular, but roamed from one to another as, the herbage around them exhausted, they were compelled to migrate to other pastures. The same may to some extent be said of the Osmanlis, to whom these plains with their rich pasture offered every facility for camping out.

Journeying steadily onwards we pass salt marshes, with which this part of the Alfőld abounds, with their tall, dark-green reeds, concealing snow-white waterfowl and endless peewits, and a little farther on an _ágas_ with the usual accompaniment of a shepherd’s hut. It is noon and the shepherd lies fast asleep. The sheep are likewise taking their noontide siesta. Another mile or so and we come upon a group of happy peasants surrounded by their “_jószág_”--a few goats, sheep, and cows, their sole possessions--dining like kings on black bread and bacon, and drinking water from a large gourd like the people in the Bible. Then we pass a village and drive out again into the great, silent, solitary plains, with nothing between us and the flickering horizon--which seems to melt into the sky--but a clump of trees. The plains are streaked here and there with golden stretches of sand and rich brown soil, and in other places with long miles of vivid green showing where the husbandman has sown his grain, now rapidly ripening unto harvest.

At two o’clock, beneath the very clump of trees we had seen from a distance, we come to a halt for lunch, and whilst absorbed in all the intricacies of a truffled chicken, which had been provided for us at Kolozsvár, we hear a slight rustle in the grass behind us, and looking round see a poor, lean, and apparently half-starved dog, which might easily have been mistaken for a wolf, had we made his acquaintance in the dusk of evening instead of in broad day. Dogs are so officious in Hungary and so much in the habit, as I have said, of considering themselves in the light of “rural police,” that we regarded this one as a member of that canine body simply come to request us to “move on.” F. consequently, by way of returning the compliment, threw his stick at him. He was not to be daunted long, however, for, emboldened by the sight of food, he soon made another advance, and this time it was evident that his feelings were those of friendship. Whether his instinct enabled him to detect in the expression of my face a feeling of sympathy towards him, I cannot tell, but as he stealthily approached us he wheedled round to my side; and there was something so human in the beseeching way he looked, first at us and then at the viands, that we could no longer find it in our hearts to repulse him and he was consequently allowed to share our repast. The poor creature must have come from a long distance too; for, look where we would, there was no sign either of habitation or of flocks grazing, the pastures all around us being one great and absolute void. Perhaps he had fled from the tyranny of an unkind master; for there were scars upon his body and his lean limbs bore witness to long fasting.

Quite at home by the time we had completed our meal, he attempted after canine fashion to assist in the process of “washing up,” and was so pressing in his offers of assistance that András was at length obliged to have recourse to the driver’s long whip.

The horses harnessed, and the pic-nic hamper safely deposited in the rumble--for we are again in our own carriage which was sent to await our arrival at Kolozsvár--we take our seats, and move on again. But here we are beset by an unexpected difficulty. The dog follows us, and that notwithstanding the most strenuous efforts to send him away. We console ourselves however by the pleasing assurance that in all probability he will leave us at the next village, which we now descry resting on the remote horizon. Having arrived at which comforting conclusion we one and all subside into the usual half-somnolent state produced by the heat and drowsy motion of the carriage as the horses drag it slowly along, and scarcely open our eyes again for another hour or two, when we see before us the same village in precisely the same position, the only difference being that its houses have grown larger and its steeples higher. At length we approach its outskirts, and a large straggling place it is.

We had by this time forgotten all about the dog which had been the source of so much annoyance to us on starting from our last place of bivouac; but happening to look over the side of the carriage, there we see him, no longer following as before at a becoming and respectful distance, but limping along on three legs close to the very wheels. Passing the village at last, which has been in sight for so many hours, with its one-storied houses and gables facing the same direction; passing its Magyar girls, with their long, many-coloured ribbons flying out behind, on whom the incorrigible András--sitting demurely, so far as bodily attitude is concerned, with his arms folded--smiles sweetly from his lofty eminence on the box, we shudder as we picture to ourselves our entry into Debrecen, accompanied by this disreputable “hanger-on.” Once there, however, we could give him in charge of András, and possibly by stealing away without his seeing us, we might get rid of him altogether; with which ungenerous and inhospitable intention, we take no further notice of him for the present.