Hungarian Puszta - 100 years ago

“Down there on the ocean expanse of the lowlands
I am at home, that is my world;
my soul is like an eagle freed from prison,
when I behold the limitless expanse of level country.”
- Petőfi

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

ON THE GREAT PLANE

Hortobágy and the Puszta 

The poet was right. How well he expressed in a single sentence all that I put into the last chapter! Petőfi sang as a Magyar feels. The puszta was his rightful home, for there beats the great heart of the race. When first I visited Hortobágy it was but to stand amazed. Just imagine the impression created by a consciousness of being on a vast plain 300 square miles in area, the characteristics of which are immensity and the cattle from a thousand hills. Its very treelessness strikes a silent note of appeal. You yearn for a something you are accustomed to, then when it is not forthcoming settle down cheerfully to the absences of the grassy plain, its quaint huts like oases, and those picturesque acacia groves.

Lovers of magnificent sunrises must go to Hortobágy whilst the Fata Morgana, which may frequently be seen on the Puszta in July and August, adds again to its attractions. Amid such surroundings the people change only slowly, but they do change.

In a measure the romantic element is disappearing from Hungarian life. On the Puszta the poetic state is keenly preserved.

This prairie-like area is used principally for cattle grazing and horse breeding. Yet it is not altogether beyond the sounds of approaching civilisation. The lowing of the patient oxen, the howl and bark of the shepherds’ dogs, the tinkling of the cattle bell, and the sharp crack of the csikós whip, all emblems of the pastoral life, often blend with the shrill whistle of the train.

It is surprising, however, how much of the old-time spirit and life lurks on the plain. Many tales I was told of the Betyár-virtus (brigand spirit), for the Puszta still has its szegény-legények - poor fellows whose manner of livelihood is not always explainable. Here again superstition is rife.

My last visit to Hortobágy was on a 40 horse-power Mercedes. It was the afternoon of the first day’s ride from Budapest, and, looking at the mileage table that I held in my hand, then at the sky, it resolved itself into a race with the light; for Debrecen was the halting-place for the night. Unhampered by speed regulations, we exceeded 68 miles an hour; yet without any warning, and with no real conception of what had happened, we found ourselves landed high and dry right in the centre of the great plain. Never shall I forget the weird feeling, which fell like a heavy mantle over all. Four hungry, tired souls stranded, and within 40 kilometres of Debrecen on the puszta and helpless. Not a soul was to be seen, not a sound heard, and only a perfect network of tracks to completely baffle a stranger. To attempt to move farther without advice would have been madness. Lighting our head-lamps, we discovered that we were not so very far from the habitation of man. Alas! how deceptive distances are here! Leaving the car, I trudged over a field or so to what I had imagined was a csárda; to my sorrow, I found it but a shadow of its former self, a vacated, tumble-down mass of mud and sticks. The sense of quiet the place engendered was positively appalling. Once I thought I caught a glimpse of the Betyár-virtus that restless spirit of the Turpin order; but it vanished, and again we were alone. Waiting, tiredly stretched out upon the ground, gradually preparing my mind for a bed on sweet mother earth, I caught the sound of horse’s hoofs and apparently coming in our direction.

Patiently did we await the approach of the csikós. Nearer and nearer drew the horse and its companion, but one was unable to distinguish the form of either. Suddenly the movement ceased and the man dismounted. I shouted. There was need in my every tone, and the answer reverberated with fear. Why did not the man advance? Not an inch farther would he come. I asked for advice, and the man, poor tremulous soul, asked if I was honest. Calling to me to approach him, I did so lamp in hand, for the track was very uneven. As I drew nearer I caught sight of the typical Magyar, clad in white linen trousers, and a dark, reddish-brown, metal-buttoned dolman.

How strangely he seemed to receive my story, how suspicious and inquisitive! My brain seemed to whirl with directions, yet supper and a bed depended upon my not forgetting the smallest detail.

At last, having mentally pocketed the final instructions, I stood awaiting an opportunity to thank him, when, evidencing his race, the man proceeded to describe the impression created in his mind by the adventure. With that freedom of expression common to the genuine Hungarian, he said that when he first beheld a light spreading itself over the plain, he thought it was but some csikós amusing themselves before going home. But on approaching, the single light developed into two, and appeared to him as the firelit eyes of a strange mammoth beast of evil intent. This explained his dismounting. In less than two hours we were out of our misery for the day; for, like an Indian, he knew all the sidetracks with, which the plain abounds, and Debrecen hove in sight.

Such represents the difficulties a stranger must needs encounter when overtaken by night on the plain. Here the cowboy life flourishes to perfection. It is another world, ruled over by a kind of governor on behalf of the corporation of Debrecen. How wonderfully both Jókai and Mikszáth (famous Hungarian writers of the ninteen’th century) have delineated the life here! Step inside the csárda and watch the boys eating their gulyás or making love to the hostess. In Hungary one must learn to make love; it is expected. The hideg Angol (cold English) are always assailed for their shortcomings in this direction.

Take another picture. A horse has been borrowed, for the robber objects to the term “stolen.” One of these szegény legények having whirled his fifteen-metre lasso amongst the horses, gallops off with his booty, and when the poor csikós awakes, a fast receding speck is only to be seen on the horizon. Night again protects these highwaymen, and failing night the women-folk of the small inns. The spirit of Mexico abounds amongst the boys. A distinct code of honour prevails here. Treachery when discovered is rewarded. Fire issuing from the windows and doors of one of the small inns reveals the fact that the owner has been weighed in the balances and found wanting.

I was told that the csikós drive away strange animals without compunction, and at the first offensive word will kill a man, if the fokos be in their hands. “A fokos is an instrument with the head of a tomahawk, and may be used as a walking-stick: it is to the szegény legény what the sword is to the soldier.”

Another custom is not without its interest. Supposing a csikós under the influence of drink unconsciously betrays one of his comrades, no sooner has the alcoholic spell spent itself than he of his own accord goes to the court and submits to the punishment.

Again, there is the love-duel. It sometimes happens that two men may fall in love with the same girl. Report hath it then that each go out into the terrible heat of the summer sun to fight a death-fight. “Each needs a sure eye and a steady hand, for upon one throw of the lasso life or death may depend.” The two best horses of the herd are selected, and each man, ever watchful, circles round and round awaiting his opportunity for the final throw. To the mere watcher the apparent unconcern of the combatants reveals much of character. Men who act like this make great soldiers. The hissing, the cruel hissing sound of the delivered lasso is heard, and in a second it falls on the neck of its victim, a cracking sound, a gurgle, then the brave soul falls. He has loved and lost.

In winter the great plain is terrible alike in its loneliness as in its coldness. Then you see the csikós wrapped up in his unkempt sheepskin dozing around the camp fire. Water is scarce, the waterways are frozen. Wells - those characteristic Hungarian draw-wells called gémeskút - are distant, and when found, good old King Frost has often played havoc with the rope and the bucket. Therefore your poor, kindly, isolated csikós is driven to the csárda where he passes the long chill nights in comparative warmth.

But there is also the pásztor, the shepherds who watch their flocks by day and night. They are of quite a different type to the csikós. The insignia of their office is not a karikás, but a crook-surmounted staff. It was ever a leisurely occupation in all times that of tending sheep, and the hours are made to pass swiftly by means of carving and music. Originality of design is possible where the great world imitators move not nor have their being. The stick handles, which these patient souls carve reveal a new mental world, and, crude and simple though they often are, they represent the aspirations and feelings of an unknown race in a form, which amounts to a masterpiece. Sit by the side of one of these men when he feels that he must play his tilinkó, or flute. It is an education, yet more, a religious service. With closed eyes he sees pictures, and in plaintive notes makes you feel what he has seen. You soon discover the ancestors of his actions.

That village over the hills, the plastered cottage by the stream, the grey-haired parents, the maiden who jilted him, or the sweet soul who loved and died. A scant, restricted language that he speaks; for a variety of words and phrases is not needed on the puszta, yet the depth of human feeling he is able to draw from his shepherd’s pipe is absorbing and enchanting. The man standing over him enwrapped in wonderment, with mind carried far away by the strange sounds, is the gulyás, or cattleherd. There is something of the aristocrat about this man. He has a manner with him. At the csárda he is found seated next the csikós.

Debrecen, the “Rome of the Kalvinist”

Once a year this strange and fascinating crowd troop into Debrecen to do their shopping, and a holiday indeed is made of the outing. Protestant Debrecen then wears a gay aspect, and the sounds of mirthfulness mingle with those of barter. Magyarism in excelsis. Patriotism unbounded.

In the distant past and the near present this marketing made Debrecen famous. Hungary’s intelligence foregathered here. I was told that this market was the forlorn hope of the young girls. “She who had not become betrothed either at the ball at Mád or at the parish fair of Pócs could only hope for a husband at the famous Debrecen market.”

Let me recommend the Debrecen sausages for there is no mystery concerning the quality of these. One of the greatest pork industries of the land flourishes here. To see the town at its best one must be there when a fair is in progress. These fairs usually last a fortnight, and take place four times a year. It is a pandemonium sometimes. Shouting hucksters, clattering crockery, merry unloosed tongues, fiery gipsy music, and the hissing of the spit upon, which turns the famous “gypsy roast” (cigánypecsenye). On such days experiences and impressions crowd in upon one.

A snapping of whips and you may behold the “five-in-hand” (ötösfogat). Here is another Debrecen speciality. Ribboned steeds draw a coach, from the top of, which a portly figure, pipe in mouth, manipulates the reins and conveys visitors of distinction to and from the station. Inexhaustible are the native beauties this town produces. Its one outstanding feature is that it is pure Hungarian.

Just as I was leaving, it was whispered in my ear that the first voluntary fire brigade in Europe was organised by the Protestant students of Debrecen. Though even now far from the West in many ways, Hungary has made contributions to civilisation, which ought to be known.

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

Photo album of Hortobagy and the Hungarian Puszta »

Puszta, Hortobágy, Debrecen, csárda, csikós, gulyás, betyár, Hungary, Hungarians, csarda, csikos, gulyas, betyar