If the Budapest audience knew what treasure they had near their capital! A real primeval forest that neither Vienna nor Paris can boast of: perhaps only Munich, it covers so many mountains adjacent to the Buda border,-31-in which man can still wander all day, without a fence, a tree of prohibition blocking his path; silent valleys in which migration has not yet grazed wild flowers; baits that have not yet been scattered with ludfer-tier cover papers. I could still find myself in the hidden corners of the lily of the valley in the spring and the clicking strawberry room in the summer: the dark hemispherical spots on the pagan lawn are familiar to me, in which to find the gorgeous mushroom mushroom after every rainy weather. I know where to find the white-fruited soma in the fall; where the serpents still bask among the stones; where the giant chicken frog hides, which has the sound of a kicked calf. I even found an eagle’s nest and was horrified in this woods. No way I would have betrayed them to some hunter. And I’m familiar with three species of squirrels. One is flame red, the other is dark brown, and the third is gray with a shaggy tail. Those are the beech forest.
Then I also know the path through the woods, which is indicated by nothing more than a cross drawn with lime on the waist of the ancient trees. No human trail trampled on the path in the soft ravine. This is how age-old tree leaf debris is called in old forests. As the lone wanderer walks along this path, he is greeted by a silence, like in a church: what is just the flute sound of a blackbird, the screaming of a jay, and the knocking of a woodpecker woodpecker are sometimes interrupted. There are no other people on this path, only those who live down there in the other valley, and those who know about them and decide to visit them once a year.
The valley is believed to be the «Valley of Mary Makkos», in German «Maria Eichel».
Once upon a time, a pious order of monks chose this quiet valley of secrets as the place of his devout hermit: the Paulines. They built the monastery there, and the big room-32-apple trees there on the slopes are still their plantations. II. This monk fell victim to Joseph’s great thinning operation, and the monastery was drummed along with the garden: it was bought by an honest Swabian from Budakeszi. The surname is not very often remembered in this landscape; the first customer dried the name «Kloster-Michl» on it, but his son was already revered as «Krumpirn Hansl» because he brought the potatoes into the Buda hills; and his son was already known as «Meier Seppl», which was justified by the fact that he kept a dairy farm. His wife herself carried the milk to her regular customers, not even holding a donkey; he made the long journey from the valley of Mary Makkos to the city every day, whether it was winter or summer. She may once have been a beautiful woman: a real red-succulent, round-faced, blue-eyed Swabian physiognomy; cheerful, friendly creation, who is weary and working because it is a pleasure for him, not as if he were in need. Their estate was worth fifty thousand forints.
When we were out on Swabian Mountain in the summer, Anna Midi was carrying the milk for us; he was already there by six o’clock in the morning. Even in fruit ripening, he brought us his very first fruit; if it was time for the clicking strawberry, the tin mushroom, he didn’t take it to anyone else. Then we took the firewood from them too: they had a nice big forest, from which they cut down the forest oak tree every year according to the turn. That’s when Meier Seppi came with the cart himself.
He didn’t know a word of Hungarian. But he was an impeccable waist Hungarian man, despite his smooth shaved face. It happened to him that when he came to the Windischgrätz in Buda in 48 with the deputies (decrees) from Budakeszi, to the huge warlord, to the question, “So how emotional are you?” he replied, “we would all just be emotional, but our priest”… – “Well – the priest?” – “That’s a real embodied Schwarzgelb!”
He was shut down for two weeks. Because it was great -33-whole brotherhood. At the time, the man was taxed as “waist man, he was closed.”
I also got my plum trees from him, with which the slope of my garden is planted. He himself helped put them away.
At each meeting, paralyzing large ones into each other’s palms, he promised me that we would visit his little forest homestead once with my entire household. One day we fulfilled our promise and set off on a nice afternoon for the trip.
I only knew the way to the slaughter in Budakeszi, but then there are a lot of things that can only be adjusted after signs. Of course, it also leads a carriage ride to the valley of the Makkos Mária, but it makes a great detour and can only be walked with a peasant cart. However, Meier Seppi promised to send Jancsi’s son halfway to us; it will be there waiting for us at the Norma tree.
It was at the set hour that we were at the Norma tree, from where the view of the beautiful Pheasant Valley.
We seemed to arrive early; for there was no other human figure visible around the Norma tree than a small child sitting there under a bush and carving a whistle of elderwood. Looking at it, it could be estimated as a four-year-old boy, and the man’s first thought was that how could they send such a small brat into the woods without parental supervision?
In the meantime, we settled on the grass.
For this the little boy stopped whistling and came to us, greeting him humanely.
– Good afternoon. Aren’t you the guests preparing for the Makkos Mary Valley? He asked me.
“But they are, my boy.” We are waiting for the son of Meier Seppi, who will lead us there.
At this the little man threw his head back, stretched his shoulders, broke the elderberry pipe between his fists and threw it away and said:-34-
– «Meier Seppi» is just a nickname for the old man: it is called Joseph Groll. I am the son of John Groll (sic!), Who will lead you to Mary Makkos.
This poppy-acorn man was full of food when he performed with such proud self-esteem in favor of his family’s honor.
“God bless you, John Groll, if you are the one who will guide us!” But your father doesn’t have a son bigger than you that sent you?
– Yes, but half to walk alone in the woods.
– Aren’t you afraid?
The tiny man had big eyes. They became even bigger from this question.
– What would I be afraid of?
I could have told him: that the squirrel would catch him; but I did not want to offend.
– If you like it, let’s go. My mother is waiting for you.
And he started in front of us, stepping so big with his tiny feet that he almost approached the steps of the adult man with them.
“You’ll get tired of stepping up so big.”
– That’s how I always go.
It occurred to me that when I was such a little boy, my father took me with him to the island, to our garden, and to avoid feeling tired, he cut two willow sticks for me, one was the paripa, the other the whip; then I happily won the long journey. I told this memory to the walking company. This little boy should also cut such a cane.
To this the little guide turned back and replied in Hungarian:
– I ride on a real horse.
Even more surprised by the answer was that he gave it in Hungarian.
– Do you know Hungarian?
– It’s natural.
– Where did you learn it? Believe neither your father nor your mother is the master of a Hungarian word.-35-
– They were sent to Pomáz to Hungarians in return.
– Oh, that was a long time ago.
A long time ago? Maybe this little thing isn’t even four years old?
The road began to turn down, it was easy to walk under a mountain: my little man lingered on him so that the female members of the caravan could barely keep up with him. He was called back a few times. When a woman spoke to her, her face turned red, she blushed like some big siheder and felt geniused.