IN THE LAND OF THE MAGYAR

Otago Witness, Issue 3149, 22 July 1914, Page 79

IN THE LAND OF THE MAGYAR

By Malcolm Ross, F.R.G.S.

No. IV. Our next journey was to Tapolcza, the township in which Stefan’s father lived in his declining years and in which he died. We found ourselves with about an hour to spare before our train came along, so we strolled down to the great lake, -and there, in the distance, near the end of a long wharf, we saw a man fishing. At last we had discovered a Hungarian who was a disciple of old Izaac ! He had a long, slender wand, at the end of which was a piece o.f string, and, at the end of that, a hook about an, inch long. But his manner of fishing was strange inoeed, and we found that he was not after fish at all, but was grappling for a parasol that, his little niece had dropped __ into the water that day. She was at home malting many tears about the lost parasol, and the old man, with all the patience of Izaac himself, was fishing away, pushfirst in one direction, and then in another, now shortening his cast and again lengthening it, but all to no purpose. We turned and resumed our walk towards the railway, and, just as we were at the end of the wharf, we heard a mighty shout, and, looking back, saw the old man waving the recovered and dripping parasol in triumph in the air. Thus are virtue and patience sometimes rewarded in a hard and unfeeling world; and we, too, being quite pleased at his success, and thinking of the tears of the little girl turned to joy, joined in his gladness, and shouted •and waved back.to him in recognition of his triumph. And with that we boarded the train, and steamed out in the direction of Tapolcza, along the reed-fringed shore of the great lake and through rich laud in which the grass was high and succulent, the cattle; fat, and the vines and the maize luxuriant. Stefan was at the window all the time, recalling incidents in the happy days he spent in this place as a boy in his father’s company. Here was a cottage he knew well; yonder fields over which he marched as a young soldier ; and away there, on the hillside, in a sort of Puck-of-Rook's Hill Country, a cave where, with maize taken from a neighbouring farmer’s field—when the farmer was not looking —he and his companions, the world forgetting and by the world forgot, cooked themselves a meal in true brigand style. And there were other tales of boyhood days such as a man never forgets. Of how on one occasion he wandered away and, seeing a crowd about a house, crept in, and, all unnoticed, was witness, at the age of four, to a- post mortem examination, until the regimental surgeon, recognising him as the little son of the old colonel, took him home, where the child with great glee told them how the doctor had taken out Male’s heart, and had held it. admiringly in his hand. Mak was a bricklayer, who had fallen into burning lime. ' INCIDENTS AT A STATION. We stopped at a station, with a long name, that serves two small villages here. The only passenger to disembark was a young girl, slender and good-looking, with dark hair and fine blue eyes, such as one sees often in this country. She was evidently the daughter of the stationraaster, for the first thing she did on landing was to go up to him and kiss him affectionately on the lips. Then she devoted her attention to a fox that was chained to a tree in front of the house, but who was still very wild, and apparently not at all in love with his mistress, or in the least degree pleased with his own loss of liberty. But a young fox-terrier that met her on the doorstep leaped with joy at her approach, and gave her a welcome as warm as that of the fox was frigid. There' was a little boy of four at this place wearing, proudly, the old cap of a Hussar. He was already imagining himself as a soldier. There,“also., was a- youth wearing on his ordinary felt hat the red, white, and green ribbon (the colours of the country), indicating that he had been chosen to serve his time as a soldier. He, also, was quite proud, and was holding a levee on a small scale, the girls of the village being* quite pleased to speak with him. He has now a holiday of a week or so before he leaves his village to join the colours and do his three years’ training. Unlike the anti-militarists of our land, he is only too proud to serve. He knows that defence is necessary, and that, to prevent the horrors of war, you must be not only strong but prepared. His country has a dark history of years behind it,’ and he will do what he can to prevent a recurrence of those black days. “Strong frontiers make good friends,” Stefie very aptly puts it, and so this young chosen one goes on his way rejoicing, with head erect, an inch taller in stature, and ready to look any man or woman straight in the eye. But should he have failed to pass the necessary examination of fitness, his lot Avould, indeed, have been a miserable one. He would have been looked at askance by all the village maidens, and lucky, indeed, would he be if his late male companions asked him to drink a glass of wine with them in the inn, instead of leaving him to sit apart at another table. To such an extent does this ostracism extend, in case of the man who has failed to pass for service, that there have been frequent instances in which the rejected one has been driven to commit sujcide. Thus would it appear that the question of compulsory military training in a country might in time, perhaps even in England, come to be settled by the young women of the country. NECESSITY FOR DEFENCE. There can be no doubt about it that Continental travel thrusts the necessity for universal training very strongly upon

the attention of the British visitor. Tire history of these nations,, their past feuds, and wars, and tyrannies, their standing armies, and their strong frontiers are all a lesson for England and the Outer Empire to be prepared. As one goes East through Europe and finds even the cities of the uninvolved countries seriouslyaffected, commercially and financially', through this ugly -Balkan business, one realises a little more forcibly that war must be avoided, and that the only way to avoid it is to be strong. At all events, if you be strong, you will avert its darkest and deadliest results. Sailing along the peaceful, blue Adriatic, one could scarcely realise that, not far away over the border, peoples were at deadly grips, and that bloodshed and rapine, starvation, and disease were devastating the country. Even here, in Hungary, cholera had come from the trail of battle to claim its innocent victims in a peaceful land, and one might not drink the water in the villages nor eat fruit that he could not peel. Even for the brushing of one’s teeth one used a mineral water, because it was better to be sure than sorry. z A PASTORAL SCENE. But we have now, come far past our little country station, with the paprika, a gorgeous red, drying on the white walls of the houses, and the stationmaster’s daughter, with her fox and her dog, and the young man with his ribbon round his hat. Ahead, there are some tree-fringed conical hills, on one an old ruined castle of the fourteenth century, and other hills rugged and square topped, with white houses among the vineyards, dotted over their sunny slopes, and on a plain at the foot of all these is Tapolcza, where the people are Jews and Catholics in religion, but all Hungarians in nationality. We pass a woman with a bullock cart; she does not drive her oxen, she simply walks in front, and they follow her. A little girl with a small whip sits in the hay in tile cart, pretending to urge the team along. Another team led by a woman has harnessed to it a bullock and a cow. A rough-haired little Hungarian shepherd’s dog, with a bar of wood hanging from his neck, to prevent him from running too fast after the sheep, is with his master in the held. There are no fences, and each herd of cattle, or swine, or flock of sheep has its attendant watching all day to keep the animals out of the corn. Only the geese, which are innumerable, seem to wander and fly at their own sweet will In the evening, wnen the animals are driven home into the village, each cow knows its own gateway, and the pigs, nearing their houses, run briskly now, for they know that just outside their comfortable, clean-bedded sties an evening meal of cooked maize and vegetable scraps is awaiting thefn. The Hungarian pig is, certainly, gn educated pig! At the station, my friend Stefan was quickly recognised, and soon the news of his arrival was spread throughout the town. We climbed into a vehicle with our luggage, and drove to our hotel. Stefan saw us safely there, and then, without loss of time, went off, late in the evening, to visit the grave of his father, who was the patriarch, the adviser, and the beloved one of the town. They called him not by his military title of colonel, but simply Uncle—a title of endearment. As we went up to our rooms in the hotel, barefooted serving women were scrubbing passages and cleansing all the rooms, because this was a Jewish house, and the next day was “ Roshhashonu.” No one in all the place spoke a word of English. Thus came I into the heart of my friend’s country. (To be continued.)