On looking over the steamer’s side, we see a youthful Jeanette and Jeanot in the agonies of parting. It was a sight both comic and pathetic: the grief of the former—a girl of scarcely more than sixteen summers—was so evidently real, as she clung passionately to her disconsolate but somewhat abashed swain. But much of the poetry of the scene resolved itself into very flat prose when—the time being up—a stern Hungarian official, not given evidently to encouraging weaknesses of the kind, thrusts her from the arms of her lover with a most unsympathetic shove, and hurries her across the gangway on to the deck. Her face, as she passes, is sadly disfigured with weeping.
At this place we also take on board a Magyar noble and his servant; the latter attired in a gorgeous livery of green and gold, with a hat to match, and surmounted by a long and almost erect feather.
We were taking a promenade on deck, F. smoking the cigar of peace, when the testy old gentleman passed us. He had evidently not yet forgiven us for the part we took against him, in the discussion at dinner, on the respective merits of Goethe and Schiller.
“Swab,” I heard him mutter beneath his clenched teeth, as he withdrew a few paces from us—a term of contempt very frequently made use of by the Magyars when alluding to the hated German race.
This word and the manner of its expression amused the fat old Servian lady immensely, who happened to be sitting near. She knew we were English, for we had had a long chat with her earlier in the day, and the mistake in calling us by the ignominious name of Swab she evidently regarded as such a good joke, that she laughed till she shook all over like a jelly, and could not steady herself for a long time afterwards.
“You take us for Germans,” I said, confronting him boldly as he passed again.
“And what else may you be, pray?” he demanded in a haughty tone, colouring to the roots of his hair, all his porcupine quills appearing in an instant, as, thrusting his hands into his pockets, he stood ready for the attack.
“We are Angolok, by your leave, mein Herr.”
“Angolok?” rejoined he. “Then I have indeed to crave your forgiveness”—all his testiness calming in an instant, whilst he extended his hand towards us, adding sadly, “Ah, you do not know what insults we Hungarians often have to bear from those S—s—swab.” And I could see that the mere utterance of the word itself was a relief to his feelings!
After this little episode we became great friends. He was a Magyar of the old school, hating Austria and everything that had an Austrian tendency. He had been an active partisan of Kossuth, having fought for his country in ’49, and still carried the marks of a sabre cut on his forehead, of which he was not a little proud.
Meanwhile our Danubian Jeanette sits disconsolate, fixing her eyes upon the fading shore, long after the gables and church steeples of the town have become invisible, looking down tenderly now and then on a flower which is hanging its head meekly in her bosom and languishing—as, alas! how soon her love did.
An hour or two later, and her eyes and nose no longer red from crying, we find that she is quite pretty, and also that she has already attracted the attention of a spurred and top-booted Austrian officer, who appears to be of the same opinion. He takes his seat beside her, and then we see for the first time what large expressive eyes she has, and how blue they are. Ah! If Jeanot could only see his Jeanette now! Later still, they—the Austrian officer and she—are leaning over the bulwarks of the ship together; as he whispers “soft nothings” in her ear.
Their faces are fronting up stream, and I wonder whether her thoughts are still travelling in the direction of the little, sandy, sun-burnt port where her lover dwells, and whether he too is casting regretful glances down the river’s course, or whether, on the contrary, he is whiling away the tedium of the evening and consoling himself in the presence of some other fair one!
By this time we had ourselves attracted the attention of our fellow-passengers, and my small sketch-book had become the terror of some and the astonishment of all. At first I was able to sketch the various groups on board unseen—hiding behind friendly backs, sometimes utilising F. for the purpose, sometimes András—till one unlucky moment, taken off my guard, I allowed an inquisitive “native” to take a mean advantage of me and slip round behind us. Thenceforward I had no more peace. “The great unwashed” particularly manifested a most decided disinclination to be immortalised, half believing I possessed the gift of the “evil eye”—above all the Turkish ladies, who, when they were informed of my dangerous proclivities, drew their bandages closely over their faces till even their eyes were concealed, whilst the passengers on the forecastle crowded round me to such an extent that the Captain at last came to see what could be the matter. Some who happened to be too far in the rear to have a good view of my proceedings had climbed on to the ship’s bulwarks, where, holding on by the iron supports from which the boats were suspended, they not only had a good view, but felt secure from my dreaded machinations.
I never saw people more excited, until it became noised abroad that “some one in the crowd knew all about it.” I was simply taking pictures for the Illustrated Zeitung (Journal) of Belgrade. This was regarded as so natural and likely a solution of the matter that henceforth—there being no longer any mystery—the interest in me gradually subsided, and I was permitted to pursue art under less difficulty.
Count ——, the “noble” who joined us at Esseg, is a most intelligent and agreeable person; and as soon as he has ascertained to what nationality we belong, he comes up and addresses us in the familiar tongue. He speaks English very tolerably, but cannot, or at any rate affects not, to understand German. Immediately that he discovers we speak French, however, he gladly relapses into that language, being evidently more accustomed to converse in it than in English, although he has, he informs us, been in England several times.
We soon discover that many Hungarians speak French both well and fluently, for just at this juncture a heavily-laden barge of more than ordinary interest passing alongside awakens a number of the first-class passengers from their usual lethargy, and brings a little knot of persons of both sexes to the part of the steamer where we are sitting; and after the excitement has subsided, conversation becomes general, turning—every one speaking French—upon the comparative merits of the various modern languages, all agreeing that the English and Magyar are the most reasonable, these being the only ones in Europe, so far as we knew, in which the three genders are philosophically applied.
“Fancy!” broke in the testy old gentleman, glad to have a hit at anything German, and growing almost black in the face. “Fancy the bench (die Bank) upon which I am sitting being feminine, whereas the chair (der Stuhl) upon which the Count reposes is masculine. Why should not objects inanimate in every language be neuter, as in ours and yours?” (looking towards us.) “Hang it, sir, why should they have any gender at all? ’Tis monstrous!” and apoplexy seemed imminent.
“Or the sun” (just then setting, like a fierce war-god stained with blood) “be feminine, whilst the placid, gentle moon is masculine!” broke in some one else, continuing the argument.
“And the stars, the stars, oh! why should they be masculine, which twinkle so sweetly, and give us such a tender light?” added the voice of a Magyar girl, in melodious but rather doubtful French.
sang the young German in a clear and manly tenor, paraphrasing in verse the two last clauses of the discussion.
This was the signal for a request for some music, to which however no one responded, till a Croatian gentleman, suddenly disappearing, brought from below a kind of mandoline, the national instrument of the Croat-Serbs, upon which he played some plaintive melody, and then sang in his native language, Slavonian, a ballad to its accompaniment.
There is something very novel and delightful, as well as healthful to the mind, in the feeling which creeps over one on board these Danube steamers. Where else can one meet and converse, at one and the same time, with people of so many nations and climes?
Even those poor, helpless lumps of humanity, the Turkish ladies, whom not even the strains of music have aroused from their lethargy, and who sit staring vacantly into the river,—I feel half-drawn towards them. Yet their apathy almost drives me mad, though I know it to be due to etiquette and not to choice.
Going across to their children, however, I try to amuse them, and soon bring laughter to their melancholy eyes; till, growing bolder by degrees as twilight approaches, they even let me lead them to the forecastle, where a strange scene presents itself. Surely, with these singular surroundings, we cannot be in Europe, but in some Eastern vessel bound for Mecca or some other shrine with a freight of pilgrims. There are groups of Bosniaks—Bosnians, as we in England call them—crouching upon their bundles which contain their little worldly all, or sitting on the deck eating their evening meal of black bread and fat, uncooked bacon. There are manly Servians by the dozen, and bronze-faced Turks: men clothed in pictorial rags begrimed with cosmopolitan dirt; and the air terribly “Oriental” and frowsy with the odours of sheepskin and garlic.
Here too are men of almost every religion, from the offshoot of the Reformed faith, in the person of a stern and silent Debricziner, priding himself in the exclusive doctrines of Calvin, to the unbelieving Hebrew; whilst yonder, at the prow, is a turbaned son of the Prophet, who, having spread his little island of carpet, is still salaaming to the west, although the sun set full an hour ago, and twilight’s shadows are gathering over all.
Close by us is a stalwart, broad-shouldered, and burly Bulgarian, who, having spread his rug also, makes the sign of the Greek cross, and, drawing his fez over his eyes, lays him down to rest. There are Roumanians too of every degree, from the tall, effeminate, and sallow-complexioned dweller in Bucharest, to the wild and uncivilised shepherd from the Wallachian mountains in sandalled feet. Amongst all these, the poor down-trodden Jews sit alone, despised of their neighbours—outcasts even here in this motley assemblage—the “pariahs” of Europe.
As I stand watching from a little distance this diversity of peoples, wondering whither they are going, and what kind of rustic homes will shelter them when their voyage is ended, I observe a haughty Roumanian pacing down the deck with measured strides, his curled lip and lofty carriage bearing witness to his arrogant claims of ancestry.
He is smoking, and looking down disdainfully as he passes upon the swarthy groups covering the planks of the vessel. Presently his foot catches in a portion of the flowing garment of a poor, hoary-headed Jew. The rag was trespassing on the space that, by tacit and mutual consent, had been left clear the whole length of the deck, to enable the passengers to walk up and down. The Roumanian first regards the wearer with an expression of unutterable scorn, and then, muttering between his teeth what seems to be an oath, kicks him thrice, and bids him get out of the way.
The Jew, however, instead of resenting both insult and blows, turns an abject gaze upon the imperious Gentile, and, quietly accepting the ignominy which is his heritage here, draws his garments more closely round him, and simply rolls over on the other side.
The rock-built fortress of Pétervárad now comes in sight, standing on a promontory formed by the windings of the river. It has been called the Gibraltar of the Danube, and presents a formidable array of walls and bastions, rising tier above tier, perforated with loopholes for cannon, and from its ramparts the guns and bayonets of the sentinels glisten in the moonlight. The town at its base is interesting as being the place at which Peter the Hermit marshalled his soldiers for the first Crusade, and from whom doubtless the town has received its present name. It is long before we lose sight of this great fortress, commanding as it does, from its lofty position, the whole surrounding country, which, like a sphinx, it seems to guard, the river skirting it on three sides.
At length its battlemented heights begin to fade from sight, but the moon still links its distant shores to the steamer’s wake by a tremulous chain of glory. The top-booted Austrian officer departed with the last gleam of the setting sun, and our little Jeanette, alone this time, is once more leaning over the steamer’s side and looking down upon the moon’s pathway. Is it guiding her thoughts back, we wonder, to her lover? We welcome, at any rate, weeping eyes and downcast looks as a good omen; and, passing by the deck saloon, we see that she has placed her withered flower in water, and that—typical of her love—it is holding up its head again!
We were due at Semlin at eight o’clock, but being three hours after our time in arriving at Pétervárad, we are scarcely likely to reach the former place much before midnight.
As we sit languidly on the deck, and skim softly through the warm, voluptuous air, the discordant sounds of a horn reach us from the forecastle, probably that of a Wallachian shepherd.
We are now passing beneath lofty hills, which form the most south-eastern portion of the Fruskagora chain. They are clothed to their summits with primeval forest, but their lower declivities are cultivated with the vine. Every now and again we pass a Slavonian village, with its tall and slender steeple standing like a spectre in the moonlight, and gleaming white against the sapphire hills. Will the prophecy of a Panslavonic unity ever, I wonder, be accomplished?
That portion of the Slavonic race known as Russian first came in contact with the Greek empire in 865, under the warlike house of Ruric, just before the Magyar invasion of Pannonia. Three times the Russians attempted to conquer Constantinople, the last occasion in 1043. The Greeks twice succeeded in defeating these barbarian hordes by means of Greek fire thrown from their war-galleys. Elated, however, by their previous successes, the Greeks, on the third invasion of their northern foe, pursued them too rashly, and were overpowered by the enemy. A treaty was entered into, but the terror which this third attack upon their capital created was greatly enhanced by the discovery that a statue in the square of Taurus had been secretly inscribed with a prophecy to the effect that in the last days the Russians would be masters of Constantinople.
A singular prediction in connection with the former is also said to have existed amongst the Turks, viz. that they were to continue to rule in Constantinople 400 years, and that after that period their dominion over it would cease. They have, as is well known, already exceeded this term by some few years.
More than one Greek priest with whom we conversed recognised, in the possible fulfilment of these prophecies, the partial realisation of the Panslavonic efforts; for, by the Emperor of Russia becoming likewise Emperor of Constantinople, the two branches of the Greek Church, at any rate, would be united under one head.
Reaching Slankament, the waters of the Danube are augmented by those of the Theiss. At the mouth of it numerous vessels are lying laden with corn from the north, and into one of these we nearly ran, grazing her side and carrying away a portion of her bows.
The moon shines brightly as we sit talking to the various races of people on board, sometimes speaking German, sometimes French, sometimes Italian or Spanish, and not unfrequently jumbling all together in our endeavours to sustain conversation and make ourselves intelligible to every one.
All evince the same curiosity which we have met elsewhere in our travels in Hungary to know who we are, whence we have come and for what purpose—in fact, all about ourselves and our belongings—which seems the more remarkable, because one would suppose that English persons must often be met with on board these steamers on their way to the Lower Danube. They are not, however, met with frequently enough to cause them to cease to be raræ aves on these waters; and it is intensely amusing to listen to the cross-questioning to which we are subjected.
“English! Is it possible? Then you live in London. Well, to be sure! What a long way off! How long have you been on the journey? and what cities did you pass through? Perhaps the illustrious strangers are on their way to Constantinople? No! Well, then, doubtless the gentleman is an engineer engaged in some public works undertaken by the Hungarian Government—railways, perhaps?” All open their eyes very wide when we tell them we are merely on a “Lustreise,”—that is, travelling for pleasure, and the announcement invariably calls forth the exclamation, “What a lot of money it must cost to travel so far! But the English are always, so rich, so very rich.”
At Pétervárad we are joined by a young Bosniak gentleman. With the exception of a fez and a crimson satin waistcoat, he wears the ugly dress of Western civilisation; but his servant, a tall, fine, broad-shouldered old fellow—a perfect picture in himself—is clad in loose dark blue Turkish trousers, embroidered jacket, and crimson shawl girdle; the whole rendered quite splendid by a heavily-braided and fur-lined mantle worn loosely across the shoulders. András has already made himself aware of his existence, and the two have been in close conclave, no doubt imparting to each other the history, past, present and future, of their respective masters. At any rate, András is well up in that of the Bosniak, for I overhear him telling a German acquaintance that he has large landed estates in the east of Bosnia, and has six hundred labourers; that he cannot live in his own country on account of the climate being too severe, and that he is on his way to Adrianople, where he intends to settle.
At eleven o’clock the lights of Semlin come in sight, and there is a general stir amongst the passengers, many of whom will leave us there: stewards are rushing after some who had not yet paid their wine bills: the decks are crowded with luggage. The second-class passengers shoulder their bundles and rugs, and, having shaken themselves into shape again, crowd the approach to the gangway till we come alongside. What a strange wild scene now presents itself, and what a Babel of tongues! Magyar, German, Greek, and Illyrian, or—I beg Mr. Max Müller’s pardon—Windic: and what savage, uncanny faces loom out of the darkness, faces of men whose acquaintance one would not like to make on a lonely road; men with closely shaven locks, wearing caps like fezes and Turkish trousers; others whose long-matted hair hangs over their broad high shoulders and half conceals their features! And how they rave and yell, and clamour for more, as the new passengers, whose luggage they bring on board, put a douceur into their hand to repay them for their trouble!
“This—only this?” each seems to say in his own particular jargon as, extending with bitter scorn his greasy palm in which the silver coin is glistening, he asks for double. And witnessing these proceedings, we feel thankful that we are not to land, at night at any rate, amid such strange and wild surroundings.