Chapter XXXV: The “queen of the Alfőld.”

The terrible catastrophe which overtook Szegedin in the spring of 1879 must still be within the recollection of every English person. No surer destruction fell upon that other great City of the Plain than that which lately visited the “Queen of the Alfőld,”--as Szegedin was called--by an element no less omnipotent, and through whose destructive power seven thousand houses were utterly destroyed, many more rendered uninhabitable, and seventy thousand persons--the whole once thriving population--rendered homeless.

The floods which converted no fewer than nine hundred English square miles of rich pasture, and tracts of land cultivated with maize, into a turbid ocean, were caused by the bursting of the dykes.

The position of Szegedin had always been a most perilous one. Situated in the centre of an alluvial plain, which lies even below the surface of the river, it was impossible not to foresee that a time might, and no doubt would, come, when the Theiss, no longer capable of being restrained by any human barrier, would gain the mastery, and the imprisoned waters by bursting through the artificial boundaries must render the condition, not only of Szegedin itself, but of all the towns and villages in its vicinity, one of extreme danger.

The greater number of the inhabitants of the unfortunate city, however, “laughed at the idea” of such a calamity befalling them, and pointed to the dykes of Percsora, which enclosed for thirty miles the windings of the river in a northerly direction, and also to that other means of defence, the dam of the Alfőld railway, which likewise afforded the city protection from the north.

But whilst the majority of its dwellers denied the probability, like men who close their minds to a distant danger and will not allow it to take possession of their senses, there were others in whose hearts there always existed a latent dread that it would not be very long before a disaster of the kind would befal them. In the vain hope of averting the calamity, the dykes were raised to keep pace with the increase of the river’s bed each year, but none--not even the most gloomy of Szegedin’s prophets, anticipated how soon Nemesis would indeed descend upon them, or how terrible a catastrophe it would bring when it at length overtook the city.

The river Theiss--the Tibiscus of the ancients--a broad and navigable river, takes its rise in the Carpathian Mountains not far from the provinces of Gallicia and Bukovina; and the inundations, which in a greater or less degree are of annual occurrence in some part or other of the Alfőld, are primarily due to the melting of the snow on the higher peaks, and the wearing away of the rocks through which the infant river passes, together with the sand it necessarily brings with it in its progress southwards, all of which cause its bed to rise slightly year by year. Flowing to meet the Theiss from the eastern frontier of Hungary come the waters of the Marős--the principal river in Transylvania, whose birth-place is in the Transylvanian Alps, and which empties itself into the Theiss at Szegedin. It was in the triangular space formed by the junction of these two great rivers, the Theiss flowing due south, and the Marős due west, that the fearful disaster occurred, the space in question being, as we have already shown, an immense alluvial plain.

Our fellow traveller, before alluded to as a native of Szegedin, spoke German fluently, and we had consequently no difficulty in conversing with him.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, referring to the fall of the city, “you see me an old man and my hair is grey, though before that time it was not so. Scarcely more than two years have passed since it happened, yet full twenty have been added to my life.”

His appearance truly bore out his words; he was one who looked prematurely old, as those do on whom some overwhelming shock has passed, and whose nervous system has no strength to rally from the blow. He had somehow a kind of scared look, and as the harrowing memory of those long nights and days came over him his face grew inexpressibly sad.

“Did you lose any friend during the floods?” we asked, not liking to cause him pain, yet at the same time unwilling to appear unsympathising in forbearing to make the inquiry.

“Yes,” he replied after a pause, sighing deeply, “yes, I lost--a _friend_,”--adding, “It was not only the loss of kith and kin--which, considering the colossal nature of the catastrophe, was comparatively small--that made shipwreck of the lives of so many of us big, strong fellows; it was the sight of the women and the children. Ah! there were scenes by the hundred occurring every day during that period that were dreadful enough to turn the hair of men far younger than I am as white as snow. Would you learn a little of the melancholy story from an eyewitness? It will make you sad, for you English have kind hearts as we in very truth experienced then.”--“Yes.”

“Well, it was on the fourth day of March that the danger began. The waters which had already inundated the surrounding country, impatient of restraint, made a wide breach in the dyke running to the north of the river, and rushed towards the one which extended to the eastern extremity of the town. From this moment the peril to the city became imminent, and measures were immediately taken to provide for the safety of other parts of the dykes, as well as to repair the ruptures already caused. Soldiers were summoned from Temesvár, and lifeboats from distant ports to rescue, in case of need, the threatened lives of the inhabitants. Every man in Szegedin worked night and day to barricade the dams, but all was vain, for after eight days’ agonising suspense, during which the water like a greedy monster continued to rise and swallow up the land, a fearful tempest of wind and rain, like a visitation from the avenging powers of Heaven, broke over the condemned city, and added to the might of the rivers.

“In the darkness of the following night, just before dawn began to break, the Alfőld dam, the very bulwark of Szegedin, gave way also, and the inundation of the town itself began. The waters burst in upon us with a roar, like that of a mighty cataract. Alarm-bells sounded to warn the citizens to flee the danger, and from that moment the scene was one of wild confusion, for all knew then that their beloved homes were doomed.

“As soon as daylight enabled those who manned the pontoons to see their way through the turbid, seething volume of water, which tore through the thoroughfares, many thousands were borne in comparative safety to New Szegedin on the opposite side of the river, but most of the poor, frightened, panic-stricken souls clung with tenacity to their homes in the vain hope that the tempest might abate and the waters subside, till they were compelled at length to take refuge on the house-tops from the cruel death that assailed them on every side. But even here they found no safety, for the foundations of their dwellings--sapped by the raging current which tore up everything before it--gave way one by one, and their houses, crumbling beneath their feet, fell with a dull crash.

“A boat having capsized, belonging to one of the rescuing parties, and all hands having perished, I volunteered to join the band. I had lost sight of my wife and children on that first terrible night, and knew not where they were, or if alive. Of the latter’s safety, however, I learnt two days after; for they had been found, and carried to a village six miles distant. It was quite impossible in those awful days of confusion and turmoil for families to keep together. Some lost their reason from the fright, whilst others--children especially--got overwhelmed and separated from their parents by the very vehemence and pressure of the crowd.

“But as I have said I was alone, and having none to care for, I joined those who went to the rescue with an aching heart, yet hoping that in this way I might chance to light upon my dear ones, and maybe save them. The shrieks of women and children were dreadful to hear above the terrific roar of waters, the deafening noise of the falling buildings, and the shouts of the rescuing parties as they poled their way along. It needed a strong, clear head, and a steady hand to steer through the floating timber and avoid the numerous objects that, collecting as they went, heaped themselves one upon another, and formed eddies and whirlpools strong enough to suck us under if we had not taken care. The piteous cries for help, too, that greeted us on every side were bewildering; sometimes we knew not to whose rescue first to go. Nor only this. Often, when we had succeeded in getting the pontoon alongside, and were just about to take a family on board, the swift current bearing down upon us with tremendous force, bringing down with it a tangled heap of household goods, with now and then a human body in the midst, would come against it, and hurl us ten or twenty yards away. My God! to hear the shrieks of the women then, as we were borne thus irresistibly away, and they knew that with us their hopes of safety vanished! The men, though, uttered not a groan, but as we left them, folded their arms as if to confront the king of terrors with a steady gaze, whilst others took the swooning women in their arms, and gently laid them down beside them, and chafed their hands and feet, as if, poor souls, it were better to bring life to them again, than to leave them to die all unconscious as they were.

“Never can I forget one poor woman who was standing alone upon some scaffolding which, with a child in her arms, she had managed to climb. Carried along by the swift current we were passing down the middle of a broad thoroughfare with fearful speed, when looking up I saw her preparing to throw herself into the surging waters under the belief that we should be able to take her into the boat. We had lost our rope, however, the pontoon having been almost swamped a moment before, and without this it would have been impossible to save her.

“‘Stay where you are,’ I shouted, ‘and wait for the next. It is your only chance of safety.’

“Tearing the child from her bosom and uttering a despairing cry she threw it down in the direction of the boat. ‘Then, save my child,’ she cried, ‘or it will fall from my grasp, my strength is gone.’

“One of my comrades caught it in his arms, and taking off his jacket he wrapped the little creature in it--it was but a mere infant--and laid it in the bottom of the boat, half dead as it seemed from long exposure to the cold.

“As night wore on the horrors of the situation increased tenfold. Complete darkness reigned. There was no gas nor light of any kind to lessen the all-pervading gloom. The waters still rose, whilst, to add to our cup of misery already more than full, another hurricane more terrific than the first burst over us and ceased not to rage till morning broke. As I sit here and look back upon that awful night I wonder how any of us survived it, so exhausted were we by hunger and fatigue.”

“But what of the child?” we enquired, interrupting him; for we were anxious to hear its fate.

“Washed away,” was the reply. “Our pontoon struck against a raft that came bearing down upon us, and upon which we ourselves had to take refuge whilst we baled the water out, for we had again been well-nigh capsized, and when we had accomplished this we found the little bundle--_Häufchen_, as our narrator called it--_gone_, washed away, though we perceived it not in the din, confusion, and difficulty consequent upon righting ourselves, for we were this time nearly made a wreck.

“Hearing the following morning from the crew of a passing boat that numbers of persons had fled to the woods on the previous day, and knowing what their fate must be, we hastened to their rescue. As the waters rose they had climbed the trees, where, exhausted by fatigue and benumbed with cold, they were dropping off the branches one by one like flies. Some few poor creatures with a harrowing scream appeared to _throw_ themselves in voluntarily to put an end to their misery, whilst others fell quietly with no sound beyond a dull, dull ‘plash’ which will haunt me to my dying day.

“We had managed to save several, and were just poling off with our human freight, when a woman floating in the water clutched violently at the boat.

“In an instant I realised the danger. She would drown us all, for we were so heavily laden that the boat was scarce above the surface of the water. Stooping I seized her hands and wrenching them off the boat I pushed her back with all my strength. She recognised and called me by my name, but it was _too late_, she sank, and was--may Heaven forgive me!--_my wife_.”

He was, alas! but one out of many, who, during this our last visit to Hungary--when men’s minds were still full of bitter recollections connected with the catastrophe--gave us a thrilling account of the fearful tragedies which occurred during that prolonged period of agony. Parents lost their children and husbands their wives, and in some instances were uncertain of their fate for weeks together, so great was the confusion that existed long after the source of the disaster had passed away.

As we listened to these sad tales, feeling thankful our own lot had been cast in a more favoured land, we were gradually nearing Arád, and it was not long ere we reached the station, when with a hearty shake of the hand the Hungarian left us for a train that would take him on to Szegedin.

* * * * *

A group of men were here engaged in the construction of a new line, and as we watched them we marvelled that anything was ever completed in this land of slow workers. Every man was smoking. Leisurely taking up a small shovel-full of earth he deposited it on the heap; then leaning on his implement he paused to take a whiff at his pipe to enable him to gather the needful strength to take up another shovel-full; after which followed another pause, and so on. These slow but strong, broad-shouldered, and muscular Hungarian navvies would soon drive an English engineer absolutely mad.

At Arád we stay to dine, and ere we journey on again, the shadows have begun to lengthen on the plains, and peasants are returning from their toil. The pastures, which an hour ago were full of life, are now almost deserted, and by the time we see the first dim outline of the Transylvanian Alps, the sky’s deep orange has paled into citron, citron into faint green, green into pink and violet. Each moment the hills grow higher, bluer they rest their summits on the sky, and evening is falling fast. A long row of stately poplars rearing their heads aloft guard the entrance to a peaceful village, where women in short red petticoats and blue kerchiefs round their heads are driving home herds of long-haired goats. At the station men in large, high lamb’s wool caps like mops come in groups to meet their friends, greeting them with words that sound like “_Sobosh! sobosh!_” An aged “pilgrim father” descends from the train and walks across the platform leaning on his staff, his long white hair hanging in tangled masses over his shoulders. Girls bring water in classical-shaped pitchers, and hold up glasses of it to the thirsty passengers, crying “_Frisches Wasser!_” And again starting on our way we reach the Marős, a beautiful stream, bounded on either side by lofty mountains. On the spur of a rocky promontory stands what appears to be an imposing castle, but which on nearer approach proves to be one of those fortified Burgher citadels of which we shall see so many in Transylvania and which add so great an interest to that land. The sun is setting behind the loftiest peak and casting its crimson reflection into the deep and winding river, on the margin of which some fishermen, having moored their boat, are cooking their evening meal. Away, beneath the mountain summits, and behind us out in the solitary plains, long belts of fires are gleaming red. Are the people burning down the precious forests as the Wallachs are known to do in the mountains of the Danube, or are they merely those of the thoughtful husbandmen burning the useless stubble of last year’s maize?

In the marshes the frogs begin their concert, each tribe inhabiting one marsh doing its best to outdo their neighbours like “loud-contending factions;” whilst in the moist warm grasses of the surrounding plains the locusts do the same, and we are everywhere favoured with a deafening serenade.

About eight o’clock the following morning we reach Karlsburg, the fortress of which stands on a prominent hill surrounded by mountains of very singular and unquestionably volcanic origin. It is here that the gold found in the districts of Abrudbánya and Verespatak is sent to be coined. The mineral riches of Transylvania are both various and abundant, gold, silver, and nearly all the less precious metals being found in these mountains.

It is only 170 miles from Arád to Hermannstadt--our first stopping-place in Transylvania--but it takes eighteen hours to accomplish that distance, and we shall not reach the pleasant little capital till to-morrow morning if we ever do. Fortunately a gentleman with whom we travelled from a place called Radna-Lippa, and who alighted at a lonely little village containing nothing, so far as we could see in the moonlight, but a few wattled huts and a wayside shrine, bestowed upon us ere he left the carriage a bottle of old Tokay which he had brought with him for his own refection. How we blessed him afterwards for the generous gift which alone imparted the necessary strength to enable us to survive the tedium of the journey. Were I but a poet and a man I would write an ode to thee, oh, thou fragrant, topaz-coloured wine of wines, sweet, full-bodied, but never-cloying “pick-me-up,” immortal Tokay!

At length dawn comes creeping over the mountain-tops, followed by little crimson cloudlets winging their messages to man that night is over, and the toils of day must soon begin. One by one the sleepy villages awake, smoke curls upwards through the roofs of the wattled huts, and we pass a crucifix beneath which two persons are already kneeling. It is only in “Christian England” where men are ashamed to be seen praying.

It is another saint’s day. Every day would seem to be one in Hungary! “Tinkle, tinkle” go the cracked bells from the small steeples which rise above the melancholy cemeteries filled with large square ungainly mounds, one of the peculiarities of the Greek Church in this part of Hungary, for we have now entered Transylvania which constitutes its most eastern portion, “The land beyond the forest,” as its name implies. On the low wall of a hut sits a youthful shepherd playing his pastoral pipe--a simple little instrument made of a piece of green stick, whilst his swine feed below on the hard dry stalks of last year’s maize and the thistles which grow between.

Beyond all is a glorious background of snow-clad Alps; till, arriving at a junction, at which we learn we have to wait two mortal hours for another train, we alight for breakfast, after which, lumbering on again, we enter a barren country surrounded by immense sand-hills, covered with stunted grass on which herds of buffalo are grazing.

The lowlands are white with deposits of salt, which lying upon the soil greatly impairs its fertility. In some places the earth is honey-combed with salt mines, and we crawl along at the magnificent and exciting speed of four miles an hour. In other places the line has been artificially raised to admit of our passing over many miles of bog; the whole country consisting of a huge morass in which grow clumps of pampas-grass, ten and twelve feet high. In the carriage with us is an Austrian engineer on his way to a part of the line where attempts are being made to build a bridge, but which as yet have been unsuccessful on account of the difficulty experienced in laying the foundations, the bog in the majority of places proving almost fathomless. Although constructed by an English company, this railway is said to be the very slowest line in Europe; but after twenty-four hours’ prolonged torture, for our train is of course two hours behind its time, our miseries are ended at last by its arrival at our destination.