The Carpathians and its Peoples in 1908

“I would not give up the mists that spiritualize our mountains for all the blue skies of Italy.”
- Wordsworth

W. B. Forster Bovill: Hungary and the Hungarians, 1908 - CHAPTER III

THE CARPATHIANS AND ITS PEOPLES

If you want to see Hungary and the Hungarians, begin where I did, away in the Carpathians. Come over from Berlin to Oderberg, thence to Tátra Lomnitz, where the very best hotel in Hungary may be found. How well I remember my first sight of those dim grey heights known as the High Tátra!

Here one instantly feels the atmosphere of reflection, and the quiet culminating strength of rest. What a day it was! “Isten Hozott!” (God has brought you here!), that most beautiful of Hungarian greetings, fell upon my ear with a fine sense of music, though with but a dim perception of meaning. My host smiled delicately at my embarrassment, and repeated the greeting, “Isten Hozott!” then almost reverently escorted me to my room. The room was expressively adequate, but it was the window that fascinated me - fascinated me not so much by what it was as by what it disclosed. Leaning upon my elbows, like the Jewish lover who grandly sang through his casement, “Until the day break and the shadows flee away,” I caught in a moment the infectious Magyar spirit. A peasant moved slowly with some oxen over a disturbed parcel of ground, and even here one was able to distinguish the undying temperament born of untraceable ancestry. How long I stayed at that window listening to the wild, untaught crying and laughing of the Hungarian gypsy music I know not, but I was summoned to earth by the first and last article of the Magyar creed - hospitality.

With quaking limbs I descended, to find a young Hungarian student who spoke English, and at once fear passed into joy. I was informed that a real Hungarian dinner had been prepared for me. Again fear arose, for I am a pagan mortal, and dislike variety - in food. Again my fears were dismissed, when I found that the national dishes were plainly prepared.

Even in the cooking one may discover some national traits. If you want real national dishes, you must go to Szeged. What a revelation that first dinner in Hungary was to me! - the curious and then unpronounceable names, not to say the ingenious treatment of meats and vegetables. We had “gulyás,” a sort of meat stew well seasoned with “paprika,” and “töltött káposzta,” a mixture of meat, rice, and spices, minced and rolled up in a cabbage leaf, quite a tasty dish. But what I most enjoyed, perhaps because it caused me the pleasantest recollections, was a weird something bearing the name of “csőröge-fánk,” a species of baked fritters with, which was served some preserve.

What I remember least of all was the wine. Suffice that it was golden-hued and plentiful. It was the early autumn, and after dinner we all went out into the night. What marvellous nights the Tátra region provides! The feeling was so uncommon, so unexpected. It was something more than mere mountains and plains. What a cynic the man was who said that anticipation was the forerunner of disappointment!

The stillness of the place enthralled me; I became awe-stricken, and my cigarette fell from my hand, as if ashamed to be alight. This is just how one feels at night amongst the Carpathians. Even the trees had caught a fine idea of the Magyar spirit, for I seemed to hear them croon out snatches of some never to-be-forgotten national song. Here is something, at least,, which is unconquerable, something beyond all parliaments and all kings; it is the heritage of nationality, the birthright of the Magyar nation. Few of the people so far North are pure Magyar - they are German, Slovak, and Ruthenian, but my host was a “tiszta Magyar”; but there, under the gaunt shadow of the mountains, he distinctly evidenced his race.

The Magyar is superstitious. It was the Tree-Spirit, which disturbed him, for he beheld the lighted fires on the marshes and shuddered. Mine eyes were closed that I could not see. They told me a few days after that they still worshipped the sun in this lonely region, and that even good Catholics will cross themselves when a shadow passes athwart the sunshine.

In the morning I searched in vain for some trace of glacial formation on the Magas Tátra. It was not a disappointment, for the compensations of my environment were too many to admit of that. It is like, yet unlike some parts of the Tyrol, and when snowbound in the winter equal to the best. But that subtle something you instantly perceive at Tátra Lomnitz is wanting both in Bavaria and Switzerland. Language undoubtedly has something to do with this. Both
Magyar and Slovak seem to blend more harmoniously with the wild scenery than guttural German. The sense of inactivity, the absence of strenuousness, and the presence of a patriotic acquiescence were all adjuncts to the elusive compound I describe as the Magyar spirit. Psychic forces unleashed abound here. There is no feeling of township, no hustling pedestrianism, no violating sound save that of the village smithy.

Tátra Lomnitz, therefore, is not for those who cannot endure being without the noisy emblems of modern civilisation. You may hunt, walk, climb, fish, drive, more than these are not promised. But I have written too hastily: there is a race meeting, in summer, tennis courts, and soon will be a golf ground, whilst winter brings its full meed of outdoor sports. It is the beauty and grandeur of the situation, which appeals and, which endures.

Driving back from Lake Csorba, which lies 1387 metres above the sea-level, one may often catch a glimpse of some furry animal capable of quickening the pulse of the hunter. Within a few miles of Tátra Lomnitz a fine chamois shot across our path one night, disturbed doubtless by some adventurous, intrepid wanderer, whilst those who penetrate the thicket may find bears, boars, foxes, polecats, and stags. Nature is lavish with her gifts here. The drive from Tátra Lomnitz to Csorba along the Clotilde road is one of the finest in Hungary. When I took this drive for the first time, I could not help feeling, as I looked down at the huge unpeopled plain below, with an occasional village huddled together as if for protection and warmth, what a terrible place it might prove for moving armies of men, what a battlefield it would make. On the other side, the mountains grim and sometimes forbidding act as a protector. Superstition may exist, but certainly not fear.

I was surprised to find the roads so good, for I had been told that in 1848 only 276 geographical miles of made-up roads existed in the whole country. Today, both for driving and motoring, the main road, particularly the road from Debreczen to Romania, is during the dry season as good as any of the best motoring roads in France. In Hungary, people rather than places are of more interest.

The virtues of the Carpathian region are inexhaustible from a Nature point of view, it is true, but the value of these is enhanced by man in his mystifying moods and costumes. It is the home of the Slovak. Today it seems as if this portion of the Hungarian irreconcilables were to be immortalised by the misguided but powerful pen of Bjornson. With no genuine grievance against the Hungarians, this dour, hardy race are continually being stirred into animosity today by wayward priests against Magyar rule. You see in their cold clear eyes the spirit of revolt, and when you get to know them you hear the rumblings of a growing discontent.

These descendants of the Moravians stand out in remarkable contrast with the picturesque district in which they live. The imprint of poverty lies heavily upon them. The memory of one of these sorrowing souls I shall ever carry with me. He stood at the end of the bridge, which leads from the more pretentious Kassa-Oderberg line to the circuitous cog-wheel railway connecting Csorba with Csorba-tó. With an almost reverential bow he wished me “dobra jutra,” his female companion joining him in the salutation. In appearance he resembled one on priestly errand bent. His hat was a picture, and he himself a perfect study
in black and white. All the slowness of his race seemed to envelop him. Beside him, upon, which a tiny child rested, were two parcels, one a box of strange and ambiguous workmanship, the other a long canvas bag such as soldiers carry. These formed a fitting base to such a column of human feeling.

For some moments I stood and watched this group, for I felt something of the pathos of departure. Then a mountain mist like a huge mantle gradually covered all, and a slow sweep of the arm over the entire country indicated the sense of farewell. Rising higher and higher into the mountain region, I heard the low wail of the emigrant as he sang that last terrible song of departure. No one seemed disturbed save myself. But the song of the peasant returned, and with the song came another glimpse and a lasting one of the wanderer. Slovak songs are full of tears.

The Slovaks have little or no independent history, have striven for no renown, but are as an American writer described them, “the stepchildren of fortune.”

Let me give you just a glimpse of a Slovak village. One of its distinguishing features is a brook, which invariably runs as a dividing line through its irregular and uneven street. At first sight it would seem that the population was composed of geese and women, for I scarcely remember ever passing through a village where I did not find a group of women knee-deep in the brook, pounding clothes out of shape, but into some degree of cleanliness. If you need a more complete picture, bring in some willows, and a wagoner contentedly watching his horse drink from the brook prior to driving through the shallow stream, with a horde of children, none too clean, gazing at all from a rickety foot-bridge. Such is a Slovak village. Outside most of these villages in the Carpathian region one may find a gypsy settlement, with all the essential accompaniments of dirt and beggary. In life the element of contrast counts for a great deal. Contrast, for instance, the hovels of these Romany wanderers outside the village with the long, low houses ranged so evenly by the Slovaks.

Peep inside, and you will find the walls hung with gay- flowered pottery, relics many of them of an old home art-industry now obsolete. What piles of white square pillows; and what a feather bed! No fewer than sixteen geese have been sacrificed to supply that bed. In one corner stands a sewing-machine, never idle in the winter; whilst many houses boast of a loom.

Characteristic ornaments are rare, but one struck me as unique. Hanging over the table I observed an object of decoration and interest, formed of a blown egg-shell, to, which was added a tail and wings of coloured pleated paper. This is supposed to represent a dove, and symbolises the Holy Ghost.

There is also a picturesqueness about the garb of the men, which reminds one of comic opera. But behind all the eccentricities of apparel, the archaic broad-brimmed black felt hat and enormous leathern belts of the men, and the marvellously embroidered garments of the women, one may easily discover the impress of a hardy race. The Slovak is by nature slow, wanting in initiative, inclined towards passivity, and constantly expecting either the gods or Parliament to do what is obviously the supreme duty of man. He is both sentimental and superstitious. The memory of another face that I saw at Csorba is always with me. The man belonged to that type which boasts of a long straight nose and lantern jaw, with bluish-grey eyes, and Slav light hair, never kept in order, but allowed to curl up menacingly above the collar; physically capable of the greatest exertion, with features powerful without being unduly heavy, and a grace of movement perfectly consonant with unlimited strength.

The women are equally hardy, and seem impervious to all the extremes of heat and cold. For instance, in summer you may find the men wearing, without the slightest sign of discomfort, heavy sheepskin cloaks, whilst during the winter months they are able to work in the woods with just an ordinary cotton vest on. I met scores of men who only sleep on an average four hours a night for weeks at a time.

Wandering down into Trencsén, a royal free borough with just over 7000 inhabitants, one day, on my way I heard some of the finest singing it was possible for man to listen to. The hot sun drove me to a shady knoll, where I rested a while. Drawing from my pocket a volume of Hazlitt’s Essays, I was soon so engrossed that I became oblivious of both time and place. Suddenly the whole air rang with the richest of melodies, and the book fell from my hands, so amazed was I. Whence cometh this song? Rising for a moment that I might discover the position of the singers, I was surprised to find such rich harmony emerging from a group of Slovak peasant harvesters, who, whilst continuing their labours, sang some of their wonderful folk-songs. All the fields rang with music that summer morning.

Trencsén and its environs is interesting. It was practically my introduction to ancient Hungary. There’s a “Lovers’ Well,” dug in the rock some 95 fathoms deep, with a story attached to it. The legend has it that a young Turk of high rank approached the commander of the ancient keep which overlooks the town, and offered a large ransom for his loved one, who was in captivity. Stephen Zápolyai, however, set the young Turk the task of digging a well through the solid rock, and this was to be the price of his loved one’s release. For seven weary years he laboured before his work was finished, but on its completion Zapolyai handed the industrious Turk his love. This is why it is called the “Lovers’ Well.”

Quite near, only seven kilometres distant, is Trencsén-Teplitz, famous for its warm medicinal
springs. For centuries the nobility of Northern Hungary have found relief from bodily ailments here.

Tradition rears its head proudly all round Trencsén. There are the ruins of the old castle at Bellus, overlooking the Lednicz valley. It is said that a powerful lion once devastated and terrorised this peaceful valley; so terrible was its power that a bribe of a huge portion of territory was offered to its slayer. In due season the good brave knight was found, and his family have lived in comfort ever since. Romance vies with romance along the road from Kötteső to Hricső. To get to this latter place one must needs pass through Rovne, which is, I think, the longest village in Hungary. Hricső was once a notorious robbers’ nest, and in the rarely visited subterranean dungeons one may still find chains, instruments of torture, and other emblems of the dark ages. Few visit this part of Hungary, and in some of the places they never remembered seeing an Englishman before. It is a tramping country, and most of the sights of interest have, so to speak, to be dug out. It is impossible for the man with only a week’s holiday to travel inland; he must keep to the main routes, and be content with cosmopolitanism.

In most of the villages I tramped through, especially those with a distinct Slovak flavour about them, a dark cloud hangs over. Just a piece of the cloud was present when my dear old Slovak friend wished me good-morning at Csorba. Sometimes whole villages are ruined by intemperance, sometimes by the poverty of the soil, sometimes by political discontent. Away
in the North I found more intemperance than elsewhere. All the influences that appear to count for anything seem to favour intemperance. Yet these three devastating influences - drink, sterility, and politics - strong as they are in one direction, are unable to rob the Slovak of his passion for race and patriotism for a cause. Slow peoples such as these, when once set moving, are most difficult to restrain.

Despite all that has been done by the Ministry of Agriculture, and Dr. Daranyi in particular, on all sides one may still hear Vayonsky’s pathetic song of the wandering Slovak - “Our native village does not give bread to her children.” Civilisation does not crowd the Slovaks, but the meagreness of it is depopulating Slovakland. What a lot the world owes to woman for keeping alive the spirit of patriotism!

This is peculiarly true of the Slovak mother, for she is the patriotic dynamic force of her race. She remains behind in the old country whilst the man tests the capacity of the new land. Tenaciously she holds on to the old but tiresome life. A friend took me to see a Slovak mother who twice had returned the passage-money her husband sent, preferring the drudgery and lack of recognition of the village to the civilising harmonies of towns in another hemisphere.

One day I was attracted by a pathetic little picture on the platform of one of the wayside stations in the Carpathian district. It was a mother with her baby and her bundles. Vainly had the husband in America pleaded for his wife to come out to him; but she loved the tiny village, and distrusted those whom she could not converse with. Finding every other scheme fail, the husband then cut off supplies, and the poor woman was forced into facing the long and difficult journey alone. The scene at that country station is indescribable. Everybody was in tears. Even the railway officials could not withstand the atmosphere of sorrow departure invariably creates. I, too, a mere idle spectator, plead guilty to a choking sensation of the throat. At last the train is ready to depart, and the poor broken mother stood at the doorway of the carriage. The priest, unmindful of punctuality, rushed again to the woman, and with tear-stained hands blessed her, then delivered an invocation to patriotism. The train slowly steamed out into what was, to most of those present, the Great Beyond. Another soldier had left, another producer departed.

More than 600,000 Slovaks have found their way to America. The Hungarians are now awakening to the need of retaining these units of national life, and steps are being taken to prevent the wholesale emigration of the last ten years. Remedial legislation is promised, special agricultural interest has commenced, and the ladies of Hungary have undertaken a campaign for the promotion of a real social life in those districts where drinking is abnormal. It would be a sin to remove from those quaint villages of the Carpathian slopes the picturesque figures of the Slovaks. There is a spirit, a pride of race, and a patriotism of equal measure to that of the Magyars, and they are to be captured and utilised by that generous recognition of right, which predominant peoples invariably display to those committed to their charge. A new song must be learned: it is the song of the returned Slovak, he who brings the fruits of sojourn and experience to his fearless and desolate land and people.

Trencsén is an excellent centre for the student of history, and it was luck, not knowledge, that led me to it. Striking out with a young friend whose linguistic capacity was then almost restricted to Hungarian, we were simply deluged with happy experiences. Once when frightfully tired, and soaked to the skin by one of those uncomfortable mountain showers, we found ourselves stranded in a mere hamlet, where scarcely a soul spoke Hungarian. It was night, and the small town we had hoped to make was of too great a distance for our tired limbs. For an hour we cast about for a shelter for the night, but, unable to meet anyone who understood German or Hungarian, we decided to seek shelter from the rain and sleep there.

On our voyage of discovery my friend, who had religious scruples, thought of the priest. The kitchen, or outhouse, of the priest’s abode was certainly preferable to the vermin-haunted farm- yard, so we wakened up the occupants of the next house we chanced to discover, and asked the location of the priest. Retracing our steps - for man invariably when beset with difficulties wanders away from the right track - we in less than half an hour had made the acquaintance of the priest, who, on hearing that I was English, immediately arranged for our comfort. He was a queer - looking, kindly soul, with every appearance of being well nurtured, and apologetic withal. To us weary pedestrians the cottage was a palace, and the hasty cold spread a banquet. Conversation was difficult, and a score times the merry little man apologised for being unable to converse with us save in Latin. In the morning he allowed us to depart with such a sad look that we both felt uncomfortable for hours. Since this first experience I have never hesitated to appeal to a priest, whatever his religion, for either a bed or a meal.

Victor Hugo wisely immortalised these quiet souls in whom is found the milk of human kindness. The usefulness of Latin was thus evidenced for the first time.

Taking the road, which led away from the High Tátra, we struck the beautiful valley of the Vág. Every step we now took resounded with some old-time story of chivalry, and ever and anon we saw where those predatory Bohemian knights held their orgies. Legend heaped on legend. At Csejte I was told the story of Elizabeth Báthory, consort of Francis Nádasdy, and sister to the King of Poland, in 1610. In the subterranean chambers of the castle here, it is said, Elizabeth, having been persuaded by an old witch that the secret of perennial youth was only to be achieved by bathing , in human blood, struck her maid and killed her, then washed in her victim’s blood, eventually caused to be killed no fewer than three hundred young girls in order to satisfy her superstition. The result was that she discovered the secret of perpetual imprisonment, for she was incarcerated there for life. A little farther on I caught a glimpse of Brunocz Castle, where the Jesuit Bohus composed “Hej Rákóczy-Bercsényi,” a famous military song of the Rákóczy period. Then, after looking at the fortress, which Leopold I. constructed in 1665 as a protection against the Turks at Lipótvár, I longed for mountain air and quietude, so rode back to Tátra Lomnitz. The Tátra always restores me.

To stand and look up at Gerlachfalva, the highest peak of the Carpathian range, 2663 metres high, is to feel something of the majesty of nature in its rugged calm. From the top of Lomnitz peak one may on a clear day see as far as Cracow. Climbing is easy, guides good and plentiful, and the air pure and transparent. Spring in the Tátra is neither hot nor cold, the summer distinctly warm, whilst autumn and winter offer exceptional attractions. Before saying good-bye to my dear friends of the Carpathians, I was introduced to two delightful excursion haunts, and there encountered experiences of no common order.

One was an ice cavern, the other a raft ride. Both were of the novelty order, and I, ever curious to see all, succumbed to the invitation. It was a grand day, and the drive from Poprad is one of the grandest in Hungary - just one of those drives, which make a man silent. It seemed almost a desecration to talk save in a whisper. If I remember right, we passed through the wonderful Valley of Flowers and the uncompromising looking village of Grenicz. Another picture vividly fixed upon my memory was the enormous number of scantily clad gipsy children who at every turn of the road rushed out for small coins. Halting to rest the horses just before we reached Dobsina, I tried to collect a group of these sun-tanned disreputables in order to photograph them, and one little urchin, a perfect combination of dirt, rags, and mischief, I particularly wanted as a centrepiece, but the rage of the mother was so terrible and lasting that I was forced to abandon the idea. Thinking some evil would befall the tribe if the white man photographed them, she ran immediately and informed the entire army of mothers, who came and snatched away with fierce gesticulations my group, much to the annoyance of the unthinking children. Curiosity in these parts does not often supersede custom.

Amid the beauty of the Dobsina ice cavern I forgot my failure of the morning. You have to take a somewhat circuitous walk before you arrive at the entrance, and once there you are soon in the immense hall. The cave itself has an area of 8874 square metres. When the lights were turned on it resembled Aladdin’s Fairy Hall, and one felt a child again in wonderment and surprise. There is an extraordinary variety of ice hangings and fantastic configurations. The following day I was promised a raft ride on the Dunajecz, and the possibility of an exciting experience thrilled me.

Leaving Szepes-Béla in a carriage for Szepes-Ófalu, we practically passed through the Magura Mountains, then made for the Red-Cloister, after spending the night at Szepes-Ófalu. Curiously enough, the Dunajecz flows from south to north. At Red-Cloister men awaited us with rafts formed of hollowed-out trees such as the district provides, in, which were arranged seats of a most comfortable order. With a few preliminaries, we were off. My Polish friend at the bow was ably seconded by the Slovak in the stern, and between them they succeeded in giving us some exciting moments. How we rushed along, until it seemed as if our frail barque had tired of control and was now determined to court disaster and independence of movement. Yet every time we looked like getting a good wetting our phlegmatic steersman deftly turned the primitive coracle into safer waters. The swiftness of movement Almost made one giddy, yet accidents are unknown here, so expert are the rafters. Any lover of speed, of rapid movement, must try this experiment.

It is obvious that, regarding natural beauty, Hungary in the Carpathian area is surpassed by many countries, but in no country can one find the historic, poetic, patriotic sense of peoples so peculiarly blending with Nature’s gifts, and so redolent of an elusive something,, which I must ever call the Magyar spirit. One cannot wander amongst the charms of the High Tátra and touch even in an inadequate form the life of the people in that region without being deeply impressed by the irresistible yearning for freedom - a yearning fostered in silent meditation, woven into the tissue of a thousand dreams, abounding in song, surcharged with tears, supported by literature and history, yet practical in its impracticability, and as pervasive as nationality. No one is forgotten. In Hungary names and dates live in the memory even of the inadequately educated.

Bound by ties unseen, linked by chains hammered in sorrow, the Magyar nation lives and moves - slowly, it may be - toward that day, the day of the minor nations.

With heartfelt regrets I left the Tátra for the men of the plains, and the larger centres of national activity.

From: W. B. Forster Bovill, Hungary and the Hungarians, 1908

Carpathians, nations, peoples, Hungary, Hungarians