CHAPTER XXVI.
AFLOAT!
Far away from Hungary, in the Black Forest, and in that region which once formed part of the great Hercynian woods of the ancients, which in Cæsar’s time stretched to the boundless steppes of the North, is a shady nook which the fairies might even envy, where, cradled in the lap of luxury and surrounded by beauteous flowers of man’s planting, trickles forth a limpid stream discovered seven centuries before our era by the Greeks, who named it Ister. To it, in ancient days, men walking many a footsore mile came to pay homage, and bathe their wearied limbs and slake their thirst in its cool, refreshing waters, first mingling in the stream a goblet of red wine as a libation.
Hither marching from Lake Constance came the proud Tiberius, to do honour to that tiny thing—the infant Danube, which from such small beginnings was destined to become the main artery of Europe; for, however much those Montagues and Capulets of modern time—the St. Georgenites and people of Donaueschingen—may dispute the honour of giving the mighty river birth, the latter even quoting Tacitus in confirmation of their claim, there is little doubt that the nursed and petted rivulet which rises in the domain of the Counts of Fürstenberg is the veritable Danube. Still year by year the same controversy rages, and there is war to the knife between the men of Donaueschingen and those of St. Georgen touching the source of this splendid stream.
Having arrived once more at Buda-Pest after a most pleasant visit to our Hungarian friends in the neighbourhood of Neusohl, we hire “a comfortable” at half-past ten P.M. the following day, and, András having previously gone on with bag and baggage, we drive to the quay, whence start the Danube boats for Semlin and the Black Sea.
The place of embarkation is crowded with motley groups, through which we fight our way. The steam is already up, and the last signals of departure are being given to those on shore. The decks are full of passengers of almost every shade of colour, from the dark-complexioned Bosnian to the fair-haired German. In the large saloon all is hurry and bustle, for the gentlemen are eagerly hastening to secure berths for the night—amongst whom we observe two natives of the Sublime Porte in scarlet fezes; whilst below, the ladies’ saloon is full to overflowing, and stewards, their arms laden with pillows, sheets, and counterpanes, are hurrying hither and thither, to appease the demands of those passengers who are willing to pay an additional florin for these luxuries.
The first-class accommodation on board these steamers is excellent, but unfortunately all ranks of society above the very lowest have to avail themselves of it, that of the second class being occupied by the “great unwashed,” with whom only the “great unwashed” themselves can possibly mingle. For these latter, however, no accommodation whatever is provided beyond the bare deck of the forecastle, upon which, wrapped in their rags and bundas, many were already fast asleep.
The express steamers now make the voyage to Belgrade in twenty-six hours; the ordinary—in one of which we are sailing—in thirty-two. But at the time of our departure the former had not begun to run.
Eleven o’clock has struck—the hour advertised for the steamer to start; the last bale of merchandise has been taken on board; the last farewells have been spoken; the last passenger has crossed the gangway, and the “Szechenyi,” loosed from her moorings, goes bounding into mid-stream, and, after crossing to the other side to pick up passengers at Ofen, glides into the deep shadow of the rocky Blocksberg. High above us rises the bold perpendicular cliff, baring its summit to the moon. Lights twinkle here and there along the shore, the fringe of lamps at Pest grows fainter in its outline, till, rounding the reach of the noble river, the tall white houses of the fair city fade entirely from the view.
The Danube, which at Pest is contracted within a comparatively narrow channel, now separates into two arms, called respectively the Soroksár and Promontár, and forms the island of Czepel, more than twenty miles in length.
Passing the village of Promontorium, with its singular subterranean dwellings hewn out of the solid rock, in which, like the ancient Troglodytes, between two and three thousand persons have their being, we come to a large fishing town of nine thousand inhabitants, and, leaving this again and reaching a place called Paks, we commence the great windings of the river, and enter the morasses, which extend beyond its banks for many a mile.
As far as the eye can penetrate, nothing is seen but a level swamp, covered with reeds and tall grass, save where the river, having overflowed its natural bed, has formed for itself a series of small lakes, which, reflecting the peaceful moonlight, appear like broad sheets of silver. But the stream soon enters the plains of Somogy, and as we are borne rapidly over its glassy surface it impresses us greatly with its awful power. It is master everywhere it flows, and seems to hold the whole surrounding country within its grasp as it rolls onward through the plains, deluging them at one time, and cutting new channels for itself at another, till, collecting in its progress the tribute of sixty navigable streams, it discharges its mighty waters into the Black Sea.
It is one o’clock, and the night so balmy and delicious that, instead of retiring to our berths like the rest of mankind, we sit at the doorway of our cabin close to the stern, enjoying the great stillness amidst the crowd of human life which immediately surrounds us. No sound is heard but the heavy and stertorous breathing of the sleepers in the saloon below, and the measured tread of the ship’s officer on watch as he paces the distant quarter-deck.
Occasionally, as we are borne rapidly down the stream, we come in sight of small towns and villages sleeping calmly in the moonlight. How strange and solemn it seems, to be keeping vigil in the great void night whilst all the world is slumbering! Here and there at long intervals are lights in lonely windows, suggesting wakefulness where all else is repose. What dramas of human life may not be taking place within those rooms which the outer walls exclude from mortal gaze!
Two hours’ fitful sleep, and we open our eyes upon Mohács, at which place we have just arrived. All is tumult and confusion, for here we take in fuel. The morn has broken fair and bright, and the sun, rising scarlet, reflects its image on the river like a fiery pillar; whilst the Danube, which at Buta, higher up the stream, divided into two great arms, here once more forms an island of many miles’ extent.
At Mohács we lose a good many of our passengers, who have been gradually diminishing in number ever since we started, those only remaining who are bound for more eastern ports.
There are two Turkish ladies on board, swathed in white muslin bandages, with trousers tied round the ankle, and wearing large black silk cloaks, which present a most grotesque appearance from a back view when, the wind inflating them like a balloon, they are blown out to their fullest extent. There are several Turkish children also, whose little fingers are dyed with henna, and their eyes set in a deep framework of kohl, which adds to them a wondrous size and lustre. They all avoid the gaze of the “giaours,” and try to conceal themselves behind the deck saloon, which is just outside our cabin. There is likewise a young Bulgarian lady, dressed in a kind of paletôt or pelisse, worn over a long petticoat and apron, and encircled at the waist by an embroidered belt. Her head is adorned by a stiff scarlet cap, resembling in shape a fez, which is covered with gold and silver coins; her husband being dressed similarly to the Turks.
There are three persons, too, on board, whose manly bearing and close-knit frames proclaim them at once to be Servians. They are gentlemanly men, dressed in the costume of Western Europe, and talking at the present moment to a group of Servian peasants squatting on the deck amongst the second-class passengers. They are all smoking and chatting familiarly together—for the true-born Serb, like the Montenegrin, entertains a high sense of personal dignity, every one being noble in his estimation who is industrious and imbued with courage and the manly virtues, all men being equal who possess these qualities, which are the only distinction they recognise in their social scale. They hold their heads erect, these men of Servia. The expression of their countenance is one of intelligence, and their manner easy and dignified.
Gleaming all over like a russet apple in the setting sun, sits near me a stout old Servian lady, her head covered with a small fez, round the rim of which is a roll of scarlet cloth forming a kind of coronet, and amongst which her long grey hair is entwined. She looks quite regal in her black velvet jacket embroidered richly with silver, but she has no more shape than a tub, as she sits with her dimpled hands spread out upon what would have been her lap, if kind Nature had only permitted her to have one.
The noble river continues to flow on in a southerly direction until it is joined by the Drave. Its character now changes perceptibly. Its waters become darker and clearer, and flow on in a more massive volume. Its bed also deepens; it winds less frequently, and is less often interrupted by channels; and we soon border the province of Slavonia, which occupies the right bank the whole way to Semlin.
On a promontory stands the ruined fortress of Erdöd, with its massive towers, and presently we pass the town of Illok, and afterwards fertile villages, each of which possesses a dismantled castle, telling of former pomp and glory.
The river here is more than a mile wide, and, instead of marshy shores fringed with tall reeds and willows, the right bank is covered with immense forests of oak, where roam innumerable herds of swine. Here and there we pass a swineherd’s hut, picturesquely placed against the trunk of a tree and raised on poles. Here and there, too, monarchs of the woods, loosened from the soil by recent inundations, lie prostrate on the banks, bleached white, like skeletons, with contorted and leafless boughs, resembling arms thrown upwards in the agonies of death. Like the wayside tavern in lonely places, the swineherd’s hut often affords shelter at night to brigands, the kanasz (swineherd) himself not unfrequently belonging to that honourable fraternity.
One of the most singular and characteristic features of the Danube are the water-mills, which, floating sometimes almost in mid-stream, get run into by the steamers at night, and split to pieces like a box of matches. They are of the most simple and primitive description, constructed of two long boats moored side by side, to which the machinery of the wheels is fixed, the latter of course being turned by the force of the current. But besides these water-mills, other objects are seen floating on the river which puzzle the stranger not a little until he is informed of what they consist, viz. buoys, made by the fishermen of bundles of reeds, and attached to their sturgeon-nets.
Perched on these primitive buoys may sometimes be seen a stork or pelican, but more frequently the white hawk, and now and then a heron. It is surprising how calmly these birds take our approach, seldom moving from their position, even though we pass quite near them.
Everything is new and interesting. It is amusing to watch the antiquated craft which occasionally pass alongside—rafts of timber gliding down the stream, and flat-bottomed barges without keel, surely the most original thing afloat. On some of these rude contrivances stands a wooden house, and the whole device reminds us of the Noah’s-ark of childhood. Besides these, however, are somewhat more important boats, conveying pigs from the Servian forests to Pest and Vienna.
Until a comparatively few years ago, the navigation of this mightiest of European rivers was accomplished in the most primitive manner. Although uniting, as the main artery of Europe, Hungary, Wallachia, Moldavia and Servia, with Russia, Turkey, and Asia Minor, the only mode of transport on these waters consisted of barges formed of planks, merely tied together with sufficient strength to enable them to sustain the downward voyage, after which they were broken up as waste timber. These strange “vessels” were provided with neither oars nor sails, but were floated down the current, there being scarcely any navigation up the stream. The first steamer was launched in 1830, but there are now on the river no fewer than 134, including steam-tugs for boats of merchandise. Yet whatever passes, the passengers as a rule take no heed, but either sit with their backs to the river, apparently wrapped in deepest thought, or gossip with their neighbours.
There are three or four Hungarian ladies on board, two fair-haired Teutons, and several officers in Austrian uniform, and there is of course the same amount of coquetting going on which is generally seen under similar circumstances. The dolce far niente life on these steamers is highly provocative of the tender passion, or its tender imitation, for everything conspires for the time against the sterner rules of society, and he who “finds mischief still for idle hands” must surely have a busy time of it with idle hearts in the height of the season, when the steamers are much fuller of passengers than they are at present. The warm and languid breeze fanning the cheeks; the dreamy “lap, lap” of the water against the sides of the vessel; the loitering, whispering couples under the shady awning; the dalliance of the storks on the green or golden shore, that arch their long white necks and clatter their beaks together as the manner of them is when flirting; the young newly-married couple, evidently on their honeymoon, that sit so close together, cooing in the shade of the deck saloon—are all in sympathy together, this hot and lazy day. Shall I except the Turkish ladies, who seem to have scarcely moved a muscle since early morn, and who sit with their backs turned towards everybody, looking out drearily through their muslin bandages over the steamer’s wake? Yet once and again, as I passed in or out of our cabin, the younger lady drew aside her veil softly and almost imperceptibly as if by accident or by the natural stirrings of the wind, and displayed a pensive and somewhat pretty face. But did I not see thy small henna-tipped fingers give that gentle twitch? O thou daughter of Eve!
András, who possesses amongst his other idiosyncrasies a rather curious and inquisitive turn of mind, has already made himself acquainted with their history, and informs us that this Turkish family are on their homeward way, having been on a visit to some baths in Hungary; that they are likewise rich, and live in the suburbs of Constantinople.
We find our guide a very useful and cheap luxury here as elsewhere. We pay him a florin a day and his travelling expenses, an additional florin generally more than covering his outlay for food, for he is a creature of simple habits, and would be quite satisfied if he had nothing but “kukurutz” soup and black bread every day of his life. He brings us our coffee, straps and unstraps our portmanteaus; sometimes—shall I say it?—even washes a clean spot on the deck for me to sit on; superintends F.’s toilet, and patronises both of us in a variety of ways. He, too, is suffering from the pernicious effects of the dolce far niente, and is engaged at the present moment in turning the head of the little fat ball of a scullery-maid, who lives in a hot cupboard adjoining the galley, and who addresses him as “per kend” (your grace), as he stands on the threshold, and leans, in a Magyar “Dundreary” style, languidly against the doorpost. What a scullery-maid! There is not a clean patch about her from head to foot, except where a small portion of the skirt of her gown has by accident got soaked in a pool of clean water on the floor. She has just washed the salad for dinner, and now comes out, with the same bowl in which she accomplished that operation, to fetch coal. He endeavours—oh, for shame, András!—to make her pay toll, but this little Magyar Cinderella knows well how to hold her own, and gives him a smart box in the ear for his pains; but, a compromise being at length effected, she allows him to fetch the coal for her instead.
At the savage hour of one, a bell summons us to table d’hôte. We are only twenty guests, the other first-class passengers having, I observe, brought their provisions with them, which they partake of secretly and at odd moments in out-of-the-way corners, producing them from the depths of mysterious and cunningly-concealed pockets or baskets; the particular species of esculent being, as a rule, a portion of sausage, which the possessor cuts into thin slices with his or her penknife, and consumes ad infinitum.
We form at table a mixed gathering, consisting of Hungarians, Slavonians, Servians, and Germans. As we happened to lead the conversation at our end of the table in German, it is carried on by all in that tongue, out of courtesy, as we imagine, to ourselves. The fare is abundant: soup, fish of two kinds, boiled and pickled, the latter smothered in a creamy sauce composed of a mixture of capers and finely-scraped horse-radish—not by any means a bad compound, and one I recommend to my countrywomen as a novel adjunct to their cuisine. After this came boiled beef, also served with horse-radish sauce. This, together with red pepper, would appear to be a very favourite condiment with the Hungarians, who probably inherit their taste for highly-seasoned viands from the ancient Avars, who are said to have cooked their food with various aromatic spices. Then followed a variety of light dishes, too numerous to mention, succeeded by roasted chicken, to accompany which were handed preserved apricots, cherries, and greengages. A bottle of Nicotina—an excellent Servian wine, slightly resembling the Italian Barbera, and which creates an agreeable pricking sensation on the tongue—compensated in some measure for the garlic with which the cutlets were flavoured, and which we had unfortunately partaken of; whilst a dessert of splendid melons and grapes—taken on board at Baja, on the left bank of the river above Mohács, where a considerable trade is carried on in the various kinds of fruits for which the district is greatly celebrated—completed the repast.
During dinner, the conversation turned upon German literature, chiefly sustained between an enthusiastic young German and a testy old Magyar who sat immediately opposite, both of whom drifted into an extremely warm argument on the respective merits of Schiller and Goethe; the Magyar condescending to express his strong admiration of the former, but declaring that the latter was too deep for him to appreciate. Whereupon the young German began quoting Goethe and talking loudly of his philosophy, a circumstance which called forth the rejoinder from the old gentleman—who grew quite scarlet on the subject—that he was but a mere Spitzbube (puppy), and did not know what he was talking about!
This remark evoked another from F., who sided with the German; but a series of jerks and bumps which almost shook the glasses off the table, and a chorus of voices from the shore, announced the fact that we had arrived at another town or village, and happily brought the argument to an abrupt conclusion, for we all hurry up the companion to see what is taking place on deck.