Chapter XLIX: óbuda

Fair-time is by no means the most pleasant at which to visit the capital, and we were right glad to learn one morning soon after our arrival that it was over. Oh, the dust and muddle and hurry-skurry of the whole business of packing up! But even that too is almost over now. The booths have disappeared; the pedlars have shouldered their wares, and the acrobats their bundles; the young ladies in pink tights have resumed their top-boots; the Mesdames Jarley have packed up their wax-works, and the decapitated bodies of Bem, Kossuth, Matthias Corvinus, and Joan of Arc, stripped of their finery and with their heads carefully stowed away elsewhere, are lying in boxes filled with straw, and jogging along the road in dreary fellowship. All are gone off to the next fair. Nor will they have long to rest on their laurels, for there are two thousand fairs in Hungary every year. Little is left to remind us of the existence of this one but sundry heaps of dust and straw mingled with scraps of paper of various colours which the wind has benevolently blown under doorways and into safe snug corners, and all things have shaken down and resumed their wonted complexion in bright, beautiful Pest. Persons come and go as usual. In the markets, vendors of _Tisch-wein_ and hot macaroni soup assert their former sway, and Magyar women, once more left alone, shine forth in solitary glory, in all the convolutions of their short but voluminous petticoats.

It is amusing to linger about the square and regard the “common objects,” sturdy Magyar matrons bargaining over their purchases, as they stand at the stalls on which repose whole yards of bread and miles of sausage, or see them turning over the contents of the vegetable baskets guarded by female rustics, sitting under huge umbrellas. Equipped in their top-boots which extend above the knee, and which are well greased to resist the manifold vicissitudes of Hungarian roads, these Magyar females resemble groups of Amazons, rather than peaceful house-wives.

_A propos_ of these Magyar sisters of ours I never could determine at all satisfactorily to my own mind whether the enormous rotundity of hip is due to a peculiar type of human form, or to extraneous matter in the shape of pads or pillows. I incline to the latter theory, but I seldom saw a full-blown specimen of the _genus_ without wishing to solve the mystery. As they go marching home with their purchases, one cannot help thinking what admirable weapons the long, narrow, crusty loaves would make which they carry under their arms; these and three quarters of a yard of sausage--an edible made of raw meat, well flavoured with garlic, and so compressed as to assume almost the hardness and heaviness of iron--might furnish implements of warfare for an army; and appear to be exactly the kind of weapons with which the ancient inhabitants of Eastern Hungary defended themselves against the Romans in A.D. 103 as seen in the sculptures on Trajan’s Column at Rome.

Steamers ply constantly throughout the day between Pest and Ofen, as well as Promontorium and other towns and villages in the neighbourhood of Pest, and few things are more interesting than to stand on the long steps of the quays and watch their arrival and departure. Here stand or sit groups of men and women waiting for the steamers to take them to their respective destinations, and I never grew tired of sketching them, for they occasionally formed themselves into groups that were perfectly statuesque. I never knew people--to make use of artistic phraseology--who “composed” so well.

Embarking on these boats may sometimes be seen not only Bosnians, Servians, and natives of the Sublime Porte; but occasionally an Albanian in gay and martial attire with a sabre at his side and pistol in his girdle, and now and then a Dervish. Indeed at no hour of the day are these splendid quays devoid of interest; whilst lying close into the shore are gaily painted fishing-boats looking like exaggerated Dutch toys.

Sitting on one of the benches at the place of embarkation for Promontorium, enveloped from head to foot in his long black cloak, we often observed an exiled Pole--a refugee from that part of his hapless country upon which Russia has set her iron grasp. He never spoke, but sat moodily watching the river flowing by, his thoughts evidently far away, and was verily the saddest spectacle we saw the whole time we were at Pest. There are a number of Polish refugees in this charming little capital, and it is easy to recognise them, their downcast but resigned look, more eloquent far than any spoken demonstration of sorrow, plainly indicating who and what they were. Taciturn always, it was seldom we could engage them in conversation, but if fortunate enough to do so, their incessant themes were loss of nationality and love of country. “Unpaternal” as are most continental Governments in their treatment of political refugees, Austro-Hungary is a very favourite place of exile with the Poles; nor is this altogether strange, for the Hungarians naturally sympathise with the Poles as a people situated in some measure similarly to themselves, besides which it is said that the Austrian Government is far more indulgent to political refugees than the Prussian. Probably Austria is influenced in some degree--as well she may--by the remembrance of the assistance Poland once afforded her in the hour of her greatest need, when in 1683 she was almost overwhelmed by 300,000 Turks and Tartars who had already made a breach in her walls.

Every night as we retired to our room in Hôtel Dolovics we observed, resting on a door-mat on the same floor as that on which our own room was situated, a solitary boot. What silent pathos was there in it! It was a small boot too, a woman’s, and its loneliness haunted me somehow, and kept me awake thinking of it. I did not feel half so much for the wearer as for the lonely thing itself, which in the solitude of its _sole_ seemed even more than human. We never saw the wearer, though we watched long and patiently; at last, one night, we found it gone. It had moved off our stage, and was once more on its lonely walk through life. Upon inquiring of the manager of the hotel, who occupied a gloomy little office glazed in at the top of the stairs, he satisfied our curiosity by informing us that it belonged to a lady residing in the north of Hungary, whose leg had been amputated in childhood in consequence of injuries sustained from grape-shot, at the commencement of the bombardment of the city in 1849, during the war between the Imperial troops and the Revolutionists--a struggle which resulted in the gallant Magyars making themselves masters of the Citadel of Buda, on whose ramparts, after a three-weeks’ heavily-sustained combat on both sides, the Hungarian flag floated over the city.

During the troublous annals of their history the Magyars have invariably displayed dashing heroism, noble self-sacrifice, and loving devotion to their country, but in no instance, perhaps, so notably as in the struggles of 1848–9, when, although numbering as a nation only six millions and a quarter, they fought for their independence against the combined forces of Russia and Austria, and notwithstanding the immense resources at their foes’ command, succeeded for a while in not only asserting their national independence, but in quelling at the same time the insurrection of their own subjects the Wallachians, Slavonians, and “Saxons” of Transylvania.

In the square at Buda there stands a cross erected in memory of General Henzi and his Croatian compatriots who, fighting on the side of the Imperialists, fell during that sanguinary conflict. Pest suffered severely on this occasion, and its wretched inhabitants, who had so often been driven away by the inundations--a foe scarcely less terrible--now fled in terror by thousands and tens of thousands from the shells which--the Austrians once more in possession of the fortress--were directed towards the city by one hundred pieces of ordnance stationed on the heights of Buda.

The Hungarians are scarcely likely, I should say, to unite in another struggle for their national independence, unless they are indifferent to the fate of their magnificent city, for, since the last revolution when they succeeded in becoming masters for a while of their citadel, the Austrian Government has taken warning and erected fortifications on the summit of the Blocksberg which command not only the city but the fortress itself. The Hungarians speak of these fortifications with contempt, but this, I fancy, is a piece of very natural bravado, for the position of these ramparts not only renders them invulnerable in themselves, but the capital thus menaced could not possibly hold its own against a bombardment from the heights which command it on all sides.

I was sitting on the banks of the Danube one morning, opposite the Blocksberg, peacefully sketching the boats on the river, when I was startled by a voice behind me saying in German:

“I will thank you for your card.”

I had been conscious for some time past that I was not alone, but, thinking I was merely surrounded by the usual curious spectators, I went on quietly with my occupation; but now turning round I see standing beside me a soldier in the Austrian uniform.

“For what purpose do you wish my card?” I demanded.

“You are taking the plan of our new fortress yonder,” was the reply.

“Well, and what if I am?”

“You must have some object in doing so. What may it be?”

“I do not like to see it there,” I replied, just to hear what he would say. “It is an ugly object, and I would like to have it knocked down.”

He coloured deeply, and again demanded my card, or name and address.

“_Jó Isten!_” here broke in an old woman piously, setting down her basket, and elevating her hands and eyes the better to give full expression to her feelings,--“as though we hadn’t trouble enough in ’48! the _Nagyságos Asszony_ (foreign lady) must needs take the measure of the fortress;” whilst a child squatting down beside me set up a piteous howl. One of the spruce young waiters from the _café_ at the corner of the Petőfi tér also came out to see what could be the matter, together with a cook, and sundry other menials from other establishments hard by, all of whom, taking their stations on the steps in front of me, appeared to think I was gifted with the power of seeing through opaque substances, till I was finally hemmed in by a hot and eager crowd, all anxious to hear the upshot of the parley.

Beginning to fear I might have gone too far in thus venturing to jest with an Austrian soldier, on such an awful subject as the fortifications of the Imperial Government, I endeavoured to pour oil on the troubled waters by at once declaring my nationality, and informing him that I was an English lady.

“You speak German too well to be English,” he retorted curtly. “Show me your passport, _Madame_.”

“I do not usually carry it about with me,” I replied meekly; “but if you do not mind waiting a few moments till I have finished sketching these boats, you can, if you will, accompany me to my hotel, where I can show it you, or, if you prefer it, you can come with me to the British Consulate, which is nearer. My nationality is known there, for the Vice-Consul signed a document for us this very morning.”

He waited patiently and civilly whilst I coolly put the finishing touches to my sketch, when, having packed up, we walked off together.

Before we had proceeded very far, however, I saw F. coming down the Pfarr Kirche Platz, on his way to meet me. As may be imagined he was greatly astonished to see me in the company of an Austrian gendarme; but fortunately having our passport with him, he was able at once to convince my interrogator as to my nationality, who, after inscribing our names in his pocket-book, made a polite bow, and went on his way.

During our stay at this pleasant city, we often made excursions up and down the river, scarcely a day passing without our going by steamer to Óbuda or Alt Ofen, the latter being the German appellation for this straggling town or village, which being literally interpreted means “Old Stove,” a name given to it probably on account of the hot springs which since time immemorial have existed here, or else from there having formerly been numerous lime-kilns in the neighbourhood. Of much more ancient origin than even Buda itself, it somehow had a strange and weird sort of fascination for us, such an odd old place as it is, so still, so silent, everything in it so arid and parched, that it looked as though it had been baking for centuries past in its own oven! Surely time must have passed it by with folded wing, for, as we wander through its almost deserted thoroughfares, the very atmosphere seems to tell of a long-forgotten past. Yet, silent as it now is, these hills must at one time have resounded to the murmur of many voices, as well as to bright music and revelry, for Alt Ofen was once, as we have seen, a city of kings.

Recent excavations bear witness to the fact that a city formerly stood here capable of containing two hundred thousand inhabitants, a number equalling the population of Buda and Pest together at the present time. It was known to the Romans as Aquincum, and there exist in the vicinity many interesting Roman remains, amongst which is an aqueduct, one mile and a half long, whose pillars are still partially standing, together with a Roman amphitheatre larger than that of Pompeii, containing numerous Roman inscriptions, proving that a temple of Nemesis once existed in its immediate vicinity. A bust of the goddess has also been discovered, together with one of Jupiter, whilst in the amphitheatre itself, some of the stone benches are not only inscribed with numbers, but with the names of the persons to whom the seats belonged. But our days began to be numbered, and the time sped only too swiftly, as we loitered now on the banks of the river, now in the beautiful Margarethen Island or Stadtwäldchen, eating ices in the _kiosks_, till at length the time not only drew near but the last day of our visit had actually arrived, and an excursion to the Kaiserbad was all that was left for us.

It is not easy to tear oneself away from this interesting place, with all its historical associations and elements of novelty to the stranger; for there is an individuality about it which renders it unlike every other city in the world. The Hungarians, too, with their singular pedigree, how different they are in themselves from the dwellers of all other cities in Europe! and what warm and kindly natures they possess! Verily, all things conspire to render Pest a charming place of sojourn.