The story of Hungary

by Ármin Vámbéry

A dangerous movement was at this time gaining strength throughout Europe. The peasantry, weary of the servitude in which they were held, resorted to arms against their former oppressors. In Hungary, especially, this movement assumed ominous proportions. The rebellion broke out in 1514, and was commonly called either the Kurucz rebellion, from the fact that those who took part in it were originally intended to be soldiers of the cross (cruciferi), or, after the name of their leader, the Dózsa rebellion.

Julius II., one of the most distinguished popes, died at Rome in 1513. Amongst the aspirants to the papal see we find a Hungarian archbishop, Thomas Bakacs. He is said to have spent fabulous sums in the eternal city to further his object. In order to ingratiate himself with the populace he had his horses’ feet shod with silver shoes, but so loosely that they were dropped on the road and picked up by the people. Being unsuccessful at the papal election, he begged of the new pope, Leo X., to be allowed, as a solace for his disappointment, to organize a crusade against the Turks on his return to Hungary. The arrival of Bakacs was the signal for a fierce struggle in the ranks of the Diet. A portion of the oligarchy, who hoped to derive some profit from this venture, warmly advocated his scheme, while by others, who were too much burdened already, it was violently opposed. Stephen Telegdy, the keeper of the treasure, stood at the head of the latter and threw the whole weight of his authority into the scale in order to prevent the passing of the law sanctioning the crusade. He vividly pictured the miserable condition of the peasantry, and resolutely objected to providing them with arms, saying that it would be equivalent to arming their own enemies. The law was passed in spite of this remonstrance, and the crusade was proclaimed on the 16th of July, 1514.

The condition of the Hungarian peasants at that period was a most wretched one. Those who inhabited the border were beggared by the incessant plundering expeditions of the Turks, while the remainder fared hardly better at the hands of their lords. Their masters were always in need of large sums of money to cover their enormous expenditures. A German contemporary, who lived for some time in Hungary, wrote of the landed gentry that they were in the habit of spending whole nights in riotous living, and passing the days with sleeping off the effects of their nocturnal orgies. The money required for this mode of life had to be wrung from the hard labor of the poor peasant, who was also weighed down by other burdens. The Hungarian nobility enjoyed privileges only; their shoulders knew no burdens. It was the peasantry who paid all the taxes, who had to pay out of their hard-earned farthings tithes to support the clergy; and over and beyond all this, they had to provide for their lords and masters. The peasant had to till the soil if he did not wish to starve, and in time of war he was compelled to ransom himself from military service. Against oppressions on the part of his lord he had no remedy, for his master was his judge. The lords’ tribunal sat in judgment over the peasant, and it can be easily imagined what kind of justice was meted out to him.

Such was the sad condition of the peasantry when the crusade was proclaimed. No wonder that the oppressed peasants flocked in great numbers into the camps ready to exchange the abject drudgery of their daily life for the perils of crusading. A large portion of the nobility were from the first arrayed against this movement, all the more so as it happened during the season when there was most work to do in the field, and it was very difficult for them to get along without the laborers. The peasants looked with indifference upon the distress of their masters, and deserted them in daily increasing numbers to take up the holy cross. Bakacs had already provided a leader for them, singling out for that position a simple gentleman from Transylvania. His name was George Dózsa, a name which, coupled with a doubtful fame, will, nevertheless, continue to figure for all times in the history of his country. Hungarian historians of our days are fond of ascribing to him high and patriotic schemes, and love to portray him as a hero in the cause of liberty and one animated by a lofty spirit. Yet, if we attentively scan his actions, we are compelled to admit that he was little better than a brave and desperate peasant, whose whole conduct proves him to have bitterly hated the nobility. Nor was he indebted to any great qualities for the distinction he had won. His chief merit consisted in being a bold man, of a fine and martial appearance, in possessing a voice fit for command, and in having a few years before, in a skirmish, cleft in twain a Turkish pasha. The officers placed under him were for the most part poor nobles like himself, together with a few citizens from Pesth, and a certain Lawrence Mészáros, a priest from Czegléd. In a few days there were collected at the camp of Pesth no less than 40,000 men, who were to be marched against the Turks. But the army did not need to go so far to find an enemy—namely, their old oppressors, their Hungarian masters. The more hot-headed amongst the peasants were haranguing the others with vehemence, exciting their passions. Their chief, Dózsa, was himself swept into the new movement. Bakacs himself became terror-stricken at the direction things were taking. He called upon Dózsa to lead the army to their place of destination, and as the latter hesitated to obey, he was placed by this high church dignitary under the ecclesiastical ban. Dózsa, in answer to the archbishop’s anathema, changed his programme, and led his men against the nobility. The struggle was short but bitter. It was fear rather than the badly armed troops of peasants that, at first, defeated the great nobles. As soon as the first shock was over, every member of the nobility felt that to avoid the general ruin of all, they must stand together, in a well organized force. They gathered under the leadership of Stephen Báthory, the chief Comes (count) of Temes, and Nicholas Csáky, bishop of Csanád, but were destined to meet with yet another defeat. The cruelties then perpetrated by the blood-thirsty peasantry beggar all description. They overran the whole country, burning one castle after another, and massacred, by the light of the flames, all the noblemen with their families who were so unfortunate as to fall into their hands. Stephen Telegdy, who had so vehemently opposed the crusade, himself lost his life in this shocking manner, and Nicholas Csáky was captured on the battle-field, and was, to the delight of the whole camp, killed with torture.

Dózsa now proceeded to lay siege to Temesvár. He had singled out this fortified place as the point from which he would conquer the country for his peasants, but at this very spot he had to learn by painful experience that it was not an easy task to cope with the established power, no matter how demoralized for the time it be. The factions, admonished by the common peril, ceased for the time their party strife, and the chief Comes of Temes, a partisan of the king, did not hesitate to invoke the support of John Szapolyai, the vayvode of Transylvania, who was the leader of the national party. The vayvode, together with a strong force of the yeomanry of Transylvania, came to his assistance, and the struggle soon approached its termination. At the first engagement the army of Dózsa was utterly defeated, those who survived were scattered, and the leader with a few of his companions was taken captive. The savage work of retaliation now followed. The vayvode Szapolyai was the president of the tribunal. The victory he had achieved raised his authority with the nobility, who looked upon the late struggle as a war waged for their extermination, and he thought it would add to his glory if he presented to the excited nobles a harrowing spectacle. Mercy was shown only to Gregory, the brother of George Dózsa, inasmuch as he was merely beheaded. The remaining rebel leaders, including Dózsa, were thrown into prison, and were not permitted to taste any food for a fortnight. Nine of them still remained amongst the living. Dózsa was seated on a red hot iron throne, a red hot crown was placed on his forehead, and a red hot sceptre forced into his hand. Not a murmur of pain escaped him during this dreadful torture. Only when his famished companions in arms rushed upon him and tore the charred flesh from his body to appease their craving for food, he exclaimed: “These hounds are of my own training.” This was the end of one of the episodes of this sanguinary domestic war. Four months of civil strife had cost the country the lives of 50,000 men. At a future period, not very distant, the nation might have made a much better use of these lives, but there seemed to be a fatality impelling the people to become their own destroyers. The Hungarian popular feeling has always sympathized with the peasantry in this bloody rebellion. Thus the story is, to this day, current amongst the people, that, as often as the Lord’s body was raised, during mass, Szapolyai became maddened for a few minutes, because by his deeds he had rendered himself unworthy of beholding the sacred host. History, on the other hand, still cherishes the names of John Gosztonyi, bishop of Raab, and Gotthard Sükey, a captain from Pápa, of whom it is recorded that in order to scatter the peasantry with as little bloodshed as possible they loaded their guns with grass and rags instead of cannon balls. The 50,000 victims, however, did not suffice to appease the vindictive spirit of the victors, for in their opinion the crimes of the peasantry called for a sterner expiation. The crime of the fathers must be visited on all generations to come. The Diet, which met on the 18th of October, 1514, seemed to think that the peasants had been treated too mildly, and that all of them deserved death. The wise fathers of the land reflected, however, that if all were exterminated no one would be left to work for the nobles and to provide them with food and drink. They therefore let mercy prevail—but mercy as they understood it was the most refined cruelty. The peasants were to be allowed to live, but their life should become a calamity to them. The perpetual servitude of the peasantry was proclaimed, and it was ordained that they should be chained down to the soil.

This iniquitous law was passed and sanctioned by the king on the 19th of November, on the same day that he confirmed the celebrated tripartite code compiled by Stephen Verböczy, the Chief-Justice of the land. Truly a most remarkable contrast in legislation. On the one hand, a code which established law and order in the kingdom; on the other hand, the most inhuman measure in European history dictated by savage vindictiveness. Verböczy’s tripartite code, or, as its title runs, “Decretum tripartitum juris consuetudinarii,” is the most famous and the most important work of Hungarian jurisprudence, shedding also an interesting light on the social condition of the country at a remoter period. The tripartitum is a strong advocate of the privileges and immunities of the nobility. It establishes equal rights for all the members of the Hungarian nobility, acknowledging no difference between them except on grounds of personal merit. Every Hungarian noble accordingly was entitled to the privileges accorded to the whole body; he could not be deprived of his liberty without due conviction; above him there was but one lord and master, and that was the king, and he was exempt from taxation. It further limits the authority of the clergy over lay nobles, and denies the right of the Pope to the disposal of church benefices. After endeavoring in this manner to claim for the nobles independence as to those above them, the code at the same time tries to enlarge their rights as to those below them. The recent uprising of the peasantry offered a good opportunity for this tendency. It says: “The recent rebellion, aimed, under the pretext of a crusade, against the whole nobility, and led by a robber chief, has, for all days to come, put the stain of faithlessness on the peasants, and they have thereby forfeited their liberty and become subject to their landlords in unconditional and perpetual servitude. The peasant has no sort of right over his master’s land save bare compensation for his labor and such other reward that he may obtain. Every species of property belongs to the landlords, and the peasant has no right to invoke justice and the law against a noble.” This was the view taken by the nobility at that period, a view which they succeeded in forcing upon the feeble king.

The king, indeed was indifferent to the political and social changes which injured the best interests of the nation. His main purpose was to secure the throne to his family, and as long as he succeeded in this all the rest was “dobzse” to him. He had his sickly son crowned when he was but an infant of two years, and obtained for him the powerful protection of the imperial family. In 1506 his queen, Anna of Candal, an intelligent and energetic woman, the niece of Louis XI., King of France, died. The sorrow of the widowed king was boundless; for days he remained in his rooms weeping and moaning. Ten years later he followed the queen he had so much mourned, and his son, Louis II., succeeded him. Louis was a mere boy, but ten years old, when he ascended the throne, and his youth was another misfortune to the weakened and divided country. The events of his reign are usually summed up in one sentence: “He was prematurely born, married young, ascended the throne young, and died young.” We shall, however, devote a larger space to this kind-hearted but unfortunate youth. Louis, as was stated, came prematurely into the world, and it required all the skill the medical science of the time afforded to keep alive the royal infant, who hardly breathed when he was ushered into the world. For weeks he was kept lying in the warm carcasses of animals slaughtered and cut open for that purpose, and in this manner was saved from death. But little attention was paid to his education during his father’s life; it is reported that at a later period he blamed the latter for his neglect, and strove hard by redoubled exertions to make up for lost time. Although prematurely born he developed quite early in life, and was a tall and strong youth at the time his father died. Cardinal Thomas Bakacs, John Bornemisza, the castellan of Buda, and George of Brandenburg, Margrave of Anspach, were, by the king’s last will, appointed his guardians. George became the ruin of the ambitious young king. The good lessons taught him by Jacob Piso, his excellent teacher, were set at naught by this guardian. He was not actuated by sinister motives in spoiling his ward; his conduct was the effect rather of a life-long habit of riotous living, of which he could not divest himself, and it was no wonder that the youthful king was quick to imitate the unworthy example. The more serious studies soon gave way to amusements of all kinds, and the boy-king spent his life in riding, hunting, and feasting, as long as his means would allow. Some of the frolicsome eccentricities recorded of him best illustrate his giddiness. He had among his courtiers a man named Peter Korogi, whose indestructible stomach was far-famed for its utter want of squeamishness. It was his great delight to summon before him Korogi, and see him devour living mice, cats’ tails, carrion found in the streets, and inkstands with the ink in them. Poor Korogi lost his life afterwards at the battle of Mohács.

A glance at Louis’ court and at his personal surroundings will suffice to give us a picture of the condition of the country. Uladislaus had already repeatedly complained that but a small portion of the revenues of the state ever reached his hands, and that his income during three years did not amount to as much as King Matthias used to spend on his clerks. Louis, who, besides, had to defray the expenses of his education, fared infinitely worse. He had to put off from day to day his journey to Prague, the capital of his Bohemian kingdom, because he was unable to procure the funds necessary for his travelling expenses. Things came to such a pass that the king could not provide decently for the royal table, which was all the more unfortunate for him, as he boasted of an excellent appetite; his contemporaries relating of him that when his resources permitted, seven meals were daily served at his court. His penury finally reached such a point that he lacked the means of paying the wages of his household servants, and then it was that a certain sum was set apart for royal expenses, to be paid into the hands of the treasurer and not of the king, a contrivance which was of little avail, the treasurers themselves being untrustworthy. King Louis remained as poor as he was before, and we read that at a reception given to the ambassadors of foreign powers, where the most brilliant display would have been in place, the young king sat on his throne in dilapidated boots. In spite of his poverty Louis found a way to indulge in pastimes and to squander money. At a time when they write of him that he could not call a sound pair of boots his own, he remitted to one of his courtiers a debt of 40,000 ducats in exchange for a trained falcon. George of Brandenburg wrote on one occasion that although the court was dreadfully poor, yet they managed to carouse all the time. These entertainments were marked by scenes and occurrences which but ill comport with the dignity of a court. The king was excessively fond of amusements, and on one occasion he wrote three months before the carnival: “Wherever we shall happen to be, even on a journey, we intend to make merry and to pass gayly our days.” The carousing at the court, however, was not confined to the carnival season, for we read that on the very eve of the battle of Mohács, the king and queen were enjoying themselves right royally. The queen, too, was fond of gayeties. No one would have foretold of her that she should ever become so versed in matters of state. The difference between Mary the queen and Mary the widow might well elicit universal surprise. The eventful battle of Mohács sobered her. While her husband lived she so freely entered into the pastimes and frolics of the king that the partisans of the king himself were compelled to remind her more than once of the rules of decency and propriety.