Chapter XLV: DICKENS alias “BOSH.”

Nothing can be more charming than the town of Tokay from a distance. Lying snugly at the foot of the Hegyalja with its picturesque wooden roofs peeping above the forest of willows which here grow luxuriantly, it looks like an ideal spot where one might spend one’s days in pastoral tranquillity, a happy valley in which even Rasselas himself might have been contented to remain for ever.

Tokay is surrounded on one side by what appears to be a series of small lakes; they are, however, but the inundations of the Theiss, which here joins the Bodrog; and Tokay, notwithstanding its appearance from a distance, is a delusion and a snare, a long and inexpressibly dirty town whose houses are little better than hovels.

Besides the ordinary population of Hungary, Tokay is inhabited by an ethnological medley composed of Armenians, Greeks, and Jews, the latter being the “middle men” between the manufacturers of the wine and the merchants who purchase it. They consequently congregate in numbers at this place, and the Israelitish element is perhaps stronger here than elsewhere.

Although containing a population of five thousand souls, Tokay boasts of only one hotel--a straggling barrack-like building, with long, dark, cut-throat passages.

“Alas!” exclaimed András as he carried our portmanteaus up to our room--“to think that my sweet master and mistress should have to sleep in such a den, and that in my country too. It is a bad place, full of thieves and Jews; but they shall come to no harm, their faithful András will watch all night. Let not my master and mistress fear.”

We have reason at any rate to thank the kind priest at our last resting place for his present of the fowl, for the only thing we could meet with on arrival here was _halász lé_ or “fisherman’s soup,” a dish consisting of various kinds of fish stewed together in a gravy, thickened with red pepper, a celebrated Szegedin dish, at which place we had eaten it with relish two years previously; but we do not feel inclined to partake of it here, and having ordered a small bottle of Tokay, for which the charge was five gulden, we sallied forth to the town, staggering under the old archway and over the rough stones like drunken folk, not from the effects of our libations, but from the road being full of deep holes which were hidden in sand, and of which we did not know the existence till we found ourselves plunging headlong into them. Crossing the street and passing at length under another old archway that must have been built in the time of Moses, we found ourselves standing on the banks of the river.

The Theiss here, as elsewhere, is a muddy and sluggish stream, but there is a great deal of navigation on its waters. It contains fish in great variety, and the sturgeon caught in this neighbourhood, whether from the superior muddiness of the water, or from whatever cause, is said to exceed in richness of flavour that found even in the Danube. So great is the quantity of fish left behind on the subsiding of the waters after an inundation, that the people of the town collect it to feed their numerous pigs, and to manure their land.

This now wretched and mean little place has had, however, a glorious past, and was in olden time the site of one of Attila’s royal camps, who, barbarian though he was, united the splendour and magnificence of the East with the luxury and licentiousness of Rome. We are told by an ancient historian that his table was covered with goblets of silver and gold, wrought in divers rich devices, the dress of his warriors being embroidered with the same, whilst portions of their attire were studded with precious stones, as also were their sandals and the trappings of their horses. The entrance of the great chief to Tokay--then called “the royal village”--was celebrated with great solemnity and pomp. A numerous company of women, going forth to welcome their hero and their king, formed themselves into long and regular files, and held aloft a canopy of thin white muslin veils for him to pass under, whilst a number of maidens marched before him, chanting hymns in the Scythian language.

As we wander along the willow-fringed banks of the river, the basaltic Hegyalja with their vine-clad slopes, against which the town is built, rise above us.

These mountains extend for twenty miles in a northerly direction, and are separated from the plains by the river Bodrog, which, as I have said, falls into the Theiss at this spot.

Sauntering along, we were giving vent to our impressions of the place and its inhabitants in the most unguarded English, when a young man, the only respectable individual, by-the-way, we had yet seen in Tokay, whom we observed standing on the banks of the river as we passed, came toward us, and, taking off his hat, remarked abruptly--

“I sch-peak English.”

He wore some kind of uniform, and we began to fear we might have offended the sensitive ear of an Austrian spy who might possibly get us into trouble, but our minds were soon relieved by his informing us that he liked our English literature, from which fact we judged him to be a man of peace rather than of war.

“I like your _Boulvair_,” he continued, “but I cannot always understand your _Bosh_.”

This seemingly uncomplimentary statement was, at first, not a little astounding, until we remembered that Dickens is always spoken of in Germany--and that therefore he would most probably be so in Hungary likewise--by his _nom de plume_ of “Boz,” and that that word on the lips of a Hungarian, if he happened to mistake the final letter and substitute “s” for “z”--which in the Magyar language is invariably pronounced like “sh”--would result in “Bosh.”

“I hope we have not hurt your mind by anything we have spoken about this place and its inhabitants,” broke in F., wishing to be gracious. “If we have I trust you will forgive us; you must have heard much that we said.”

“You need not apologise,” he replied. “I am not a native of Tokay,”--speaking partly in English and partly in German--“and fully sympathise with your feelings concerning the place. There is some excuse for its inhabitants, however; Government, which takes care to receive the revenues, does nothing towards helping them to improve the condition of the town, a circumstance which naturally engenders apathy in the minds of the people themselves on the matter.”

“Probably,” we replied. “Yet it would cost them nothing to be clean; there is plenty of water in the river here, such as it is.”

“Eh!” rejoined he, after a pause, during which he was searching in the tablets of his memory for an English adjective, “the people are _faul_ (idle),”--a word which, being pronounced _foul_ in its own vernacular, was a much more suitable one in its present application than than of “idle,” which he was desirous of expressing in English.

As we were returning to the inn, the church nearest to it rang out the “Ave Maria,” and climbing the hill we entered the building by a side door. All was quiet and dark inside, for the evening light came feebly through the dusty windows. There were tapers on the altar, and a little lamp was glimmering here and there before some shrine. Few of us can go out of the daylight into a dimly lighted church without feeling subdued and solemnised, whatever creed be taught within its walls; and it was all very simple and impressive, and the contrast very great between its hush and peace and the noise and turmoil of busy life outside, which reached us in muffled tones, as though the sounds of earth were not permitted to enter the abode of peace and rest, save softly and subdued.

The door opens, and an old woman comes hobbling in, and setting down her crutches begins praying aloud; then the priest enters silently from the sacristy, and, kneeling on the lowest step, begins reciting in a monotonous voice, the “Rosary,” _Ave Maria_, _Gratia plena_, etc. The old woman and ourselves form the only congregation, and even she hobbles out again before the service is over, although it only lasted half an hour. We, however, remained to the end, by which time it was almost dark outside. As we reeled back to the hotel over the uneven pavement, there were sounds of drinking and revelry in almost every house; men singing Bacchanalian songs, or shouting at each other in argument; whilst passing beneath one window we heard, high above other voices, those of Jews--whose intonation we had ere this learnt to recognise--clamouring as usual about money. Again and again the words, “_gulden_,” “_hundert tausend_,” “_million gulden_,” “_joch_,” and “_massen von geld_,” reached our ears.

I dare say we did the inhabitants of Tokay great injustice, for they were doubtless harmless enough, but we took care on retiring for the night to double-lock our door and look well to the window fastenings, for the whole place somehow had a brigand look.

András’s room was next to ours, a fact in which _I_ at any rate took comfort. He had prepared a light supper for us by the time we returned, which we partook of pic-nic fashion, in our own room. Esk, our faithful _bányá_ (dog), was left in charge of the carriage in the _álas_ close by, and, howling terribly during the night, he must, I fear, have disturbed the slumbers of the whole town or village, whichever Tokay may happen to be; but beyond this, no sound broke the stillness of the hours of darkness, and the worthy inhabitants gave us no annoyance whatever.

The church bells awoke us at an early hour the following morning. Looking down into the yard at the rear of the hotel, we see servants walking to and fro, and wading through the mud right valiantly. It is too deep even for top-boots, and they plunge into it with naked feet; but a large dog with long brown hair stalks about gingerly, like a tame bear, and chooses the driest places. The ducks and geese have a fine time of it, and flourish accordingly. On one side of the yard is a shed where the cows are kept, and having seen them milked, we lose for once our relish for “white coffee.”

At seven o’clock, András comes to the door with the information that he has made arrangements for us to breakfast at the station restaurant, and recommends us to quit this _elendes dorf_ (wretched village) as soon as we can.

Leaving our room after a hasty toilet, and proceeding along the dingy passage, we see two dark objects ascending the stairs and “stopping the way.” Tourists possibly; but no! they turn out to be the pet pigs of the establishment, no doubt on their way to the _salle à manger_, situated on the landing. They are, however, checked in their bold career, for on catching sight of us they turn round, and with much demonstration of annoyance, a look of injured innocence, and many a grunt and squeak, they hastily retrace their steps.

Now, however much I may doat on a pig in its proper sphere, I do not quite like him as a domestic animal; but tastes differ, and the Hungarian pig, as we have already seen, is a much more civilised quadruped than his English brother.

At eight o’clock we make our triumphal departure from Tokay, and by dint of “sitting tight,” and holding on to the sides of the carriage, succeed in reaching the station without broken bones. We have had rather a hard time of it, taking it altogether, but, happily for us, our philosophy is of that practical kind that seeks, and invariably finds, consolation wherever a particle of it can be found. We had made the discovery of how much human nature can endure and live, which is a knowledge worth acquiring in this “vale of tears;” we had tasted “Imperial Tokay” in the place where it is manufactured, and had seen the worst of the “_honfoglalás_” (Kingdom of Hungary), which is a thing to be proud of.

The kind Hungarian friends with whom we had been lately staying, had made us promise, before leaving them, to pay them a visit on our return; but wishing to go down the Save--the second largest river in Hungary--before the setting in of the autumnal rains, we decide to send a messenger from this place with the dog, and a note of apology for ourselves.

And so, _bányá_ mine, we are going to label thee, “This side up, with care,” and send thee away, but thou art going to a better home.

For the first time since we had him, Esk refrained from wagging his shaggy tail when I spoke to him. There must have been something in my tone of voice that boded evil; for he looked up at me with his large, earnest eyes, and trembled from head to foot; then, putting his front paws on my knees, he buried his head in my lap.

Poor beast, he had won our affections, and it was hard to part with him now that the moment had come. Having given him a good breakfast, however, and commended him to the tender mercies of the man who was to take him to his new home, we arranged for our own journey south. The train from Kashau was due at ten o’clock, and we decided to travel in it as far as Schemnitz, and then cross the plains in a southerly direction towards the capital, our carriage following us to Miscólsz in the evening, a place at which we meant to break our journey.

As the train slid out of the station, the great basaltic rocks of the volcanic hill of Tokay frowned down upon us with forbidding aspect, and it remained in sight for nearly an hour, when it gradually faded from our view, and appeared but a faint grey cloud on the verge of the horizon.

The plains in the north of Hungary are much more fertile than in the south, and we pass through thousands of acres of waving corn, and pastures as smiling as those of the Bánat. There has been a great deal of rain here, which we have partially escaped in our more northern travels, and the roads, as we approach the towns and villages, are such quagmires that in one place we saw a “shaker” and party of travellers--who had evidently driven from some distant horizon to start by our train--literally buried in the mud, which was half way up the wheels. Whether the unfortunate occupants were able to extricate themselves from their ridiculous position we could not tell. Under the circumstances, it would have been impossible for them to get out and walk. It is therefore not unreasonable to assume, in the silence of history concerning them and their fate, that they are there still.

Wandering about the plains, in proximity to each village, are large families of geese, the parents waddling with sedate and solemn mien as they follow their tribe of yellow goslings. Whichever way one looks there are geese snowing the distant pastures or swimming in the marshes.

Approaching a village, we observed a vast concourse of people gathered together on its outskirts. A fair is being held, and the ground is inundated to such an extent that the booths are actually standing in water, a day or two’s rain being quite sufficient to cause it to lie on the surface, for the soil in this district is already saturated with moisture, in consequence of its proximity to the Theiss. Accustomed to this state of affairs, the people of both sexes, nothing daunted, hold up their petticoats and paddle through the water like ducks. Here and there, in the little patches of green that, like wet islands, rise above the water, are sellers of pottery displaying their wares, and a _colporteur_ his tracts, whilst, standing about in groups, are Jews, dragging their long togas in the mire, and gipsy children taking mud baths. Away beyond the fair, with its booths and wet islands and general slush and slipperiness, are thousands of horses, cattle, and pigs--_pet_ pigs, affectionately watched over by buxom Magyar females, ankle deep in water. The train stopped in full view of this scene, for no apparent reason so far as we could ascertain, for three-quarters of an hour, and then lumbered on again, and brought us to Mád Zomber--what _insane_ names these Hungarian villages have! Once more reaching the solitary plains, we pass through vast tracts of uncultivated land, roamed by immense herds of cattle, which form dark groups on the horizon. On, past a well, on one side of which are a countless number of horses, and on the other of cows; but they do not intermingle in the least. These vast herds are a never-ending source of astonishment to the English traveller journeying through these thinly-populated districts. Near them stand sheep-dogs, with long hair, pointed noses, and bushy tails, like wolves. Overhead, flights of birds are hovering in the sky. How gracefully they skim through the translucent air! and now they soar away, and hover, rising and falling, in the distance; whilst one or two, less rapid in their flight, get left behind. What is the reason they cry so piteously? See that large bird yonder, following in their wake with outstretched neck! It is a falcon in hot pursuit. It overtakes the one most distant from the rest, seizes it in its cruel grip, and they fall to earth together, the victim and its prey. A tall crane plumes itself on the border of a marsh. A windmill in the distance throws its big arms about languidly in the sultry breeze, and we reach districts cultivated with maize, tobacco, hemp, poppies, and flax, the flowers of the three latter creating with the golden shade of the ripe grain, an exquisite modulation of colour. Every now and then we see in the distance swelling tumuli, commonly called “_Kún halom_” (Cuman-hill), believed by some to contain the tombs of military chieftains of ancient times; by others to be Turkish mounds (_török domb_). The learned, however, attribute to them a still more ancient origin even than the former, and declare that they are the remains of the artificial boundary made by the Romans not only to define the borders of their empire, but also to protect themselves from the incursions of the warlike barbarians of the surrounding countries.

There is evidence that a similar frontier-line extended from Pest to the south-east, towards the mountains of Transylvania, and the green mounds which we here meet with at regular intervals are the places on which the watch-towers stood that protected the frontier-line. Beneath some of these mounds the dykes on the outside are still visible, which are called by the peasantry _Ördög árka_ (devil’s ditch).