GERMANY, AUSTRIA, AND HUNGARY.
Notwithstanding Alsace was French territory only fourteen years ago
(1871) there is a noticeable difference in the inhabitants, to me the
most acceptable being their great linguistic superiority over the people
on the French side of the border. I linger in Saarburg only about thirty
minutes, yet am addressed twice by natives in my own tongue; and at
Pfalzburg, a smaller town, where I remain over night, I find the same
characteristic. Ere I penetrate thirty kilometres into German territory,
however, I have to record what was never encountered in France; an
insolent teamster, who, having his horses strung across a narrow road-
way in the suburbs of Saarburg, refuses to turn his leaders' heads to
enable me to ride past, thus compelling me to dismount. Soldiers drilling,
soldiers at target practice, and soldiers in companies marching about
in every direction, greet my eyes upon approaching Pfalzburg; and although
there appears to be less beating of drums and blare of trumpets than in
French garrison towns, one seldom turns a street corner without hearing
the measured tramp of a military company receding or approaching. These
German troops appear to march briskly and in a business-like manner in
comparison with the French, who always seem to carry themselves with a
tired and dejected deportment; but the over-ample and rather slouchy-looking
pantaloons of the French are probably answerable, in part, for this
impression. One cannot watch these sturdy-looking German soldiers without
a conviction that for the stern purposes of war they are inferior only
to the soldiers of our own country. At the little gasthaus at Pfalzburg
the people appear to understand and anticipate an Englishman's gastronomic
peculiarities, for the first time since leaving England I am confronted
at the supper-table with excellent steak and tea.
It is raining next morning as I wheel over the rolling hills toward
Saverne, a city nestling pleasantly in a little valley beyond those dark
wooded heights ahead that form the eastern boundary of the valley of the
Rhine. The road is good but hilly, and for several kilometres, before
reaching Saverne, winds its way among the pine forests tortuously and
steeply down from the elevated divide. The valley, dotted here and there
with pleasant villages, is spread out like a marvellously beautiful
picture, the ruins of several old castles on neighboring hill-tops adding
a charm, as well as a dash of romance.
The rain pours down in torrents as I wheel into Saverne. I pause long
enough to patronize a barber shop; also to procure an additional small
wrench. Taking my nickelled monkey-wrench into a likely-looking hardware
store, I ask the proprietor if he has anything similar. He examines it
with lively interest, for, in comparison with the clumsy tools comprising
his stock-in-trade, the wrench is as a watch-spring to an old horse-shoe.
I purchase a rude tool that might have been fashioned on the anvil of a
village blacksmith. From Saverne my road leads over another divide and
down into the glorious valley of the Rhine, for a short distance through
a narrow defile that reminds me somewhat of a canon in the Sierra Nevada
foot-hills; but a fine, broad road, spread with a coating of surface-mud
only by this morning's rain, prevents the comparison from assuming
definite shape for a cycler. Extensive and beautifully terraced vineyards
mark the eastern exit. The road-beds of this country are hard enough for
anything; but a certain proportion of clay in their composition makes a
slippery coating in rainy weather. I enter the village of Marienheim and
observe the first stork's nest, built on top of a chimney, that I have
yet seen in Europe, though I saw plenty of them afterward. The parent
stork is perched solemnly over her youthful brood, which one would
naturally think would get smoke-dried. A short distance from Marlenheim
I descry in the hazy distance the famous spire of Strasburg cathedral
looming conspicuously above everything else in all the broad valley; and
at 1.30 P.M. I wheel through the massive arched gateway forming part of
the city's fortifications, and down the broad but roughly paved streets,
the most mud-be-spattered object in all Strasburg. The fortifications
surrounding the city are evidently intended strictly for business, and
not merely for outward display. The railway station is one of the finest
in Europe, and among other conspicuous improvements one notices steam
tram-cars. While trundling through the city I am imperatively ordered
off the sidewalk by the policeman; and when stopping to inquire of a
respectable-looking Strasburger for the Appeuweir road, up steps an
individual with one eye and a cast off military cap three sizes too
small. After querying, " Appenweir. Englander?" he wheels "about face"
with military precision doubtless thus impelled by the magic influence
of his headgear - and beckons me to follow. Not knowing what better course
to pursue I obey, and after threading the mazes of a dozen streets,
composed of buildings ranging in architecture from the much gabled and
not unpicturesque structures of mediaeval times to the modern brown-stone
front, he pilots me outside the fortifications again, points up the
Appenweir road, and after the never neglected formality of touching his
cap and extending his palm, returns city-ward.
Crossing the Rhine over a pontoon bridge, I ride along level and, happily,
rather less muddy roads, through pleasant suburban villages, near one
of which I meet a company of soldiers in undress uniform, strung out
carelessly along the road, as though returning from a tramp into the
country. As I approach them, pedalling laboriously against a stiff head
wind, both myself and the bicycle fairly yellow with clay, both officers
and soldiers begin to laugh in a good-natured, bantering sort of manner,
and a round dozen of them sing out in chorus "Ah! ah! der Englander."
and as I reply, "Yah! yah." in response, and smile as I wheel past
them, the laughing and banter go all along the line. The sight of an
"Englander" on one of his rambling expeditions of adventure furnishes
much amusement to the average German, who, while he cannot help admiring
the spirit of enterprise that impels him, fails to comprehend where the
enjoyment can possibly come in. The average German would much rather
loll around, sipping wine or beer, and smoking cigarettes, than impel a
bicycle across a continent. A few miles eastward of the Rhine another
grim fortress frowns upon peaceful village and broad, green meads, and
off yonder to the right is yet another; sure enough, this Franco-German
frontier is one vast military camp, with forts, and soldiers, and munitions
of war everywhere. When I crossed the Rhine I left Lower Alsace, and am
now penetrating the middle Rhine region, where villages are picturesque
clusters of gabled cottages - a contrast to the shapeless and ancient-looking
stone structures of the French villages. The difference also extends to
the inhabitants; the peasant women of France, in either real or affected
modesty, would usually pretend not to notice anything extraordinary as
I wheeled past, but upon looking back they would almost invariably be
seen standing and gazing after my receding figure with unmistakable
interest; but the women of these Rhine villages burst out into merry
peals of laughter.
Rolling over fair roads into the village of Oberkirch, I conclude to
remain for the night, and the first thing undertaken is to disburden the
bicycle of its covering of clay. The awkward-looking hostler comes around
several times and eyes the proceedings with glances of genuine disapproval,
doubtless thinking I am cleaning it myself instead of letting him swab
it with a besom with the single purpose in view of dodging the inevitable
tip. The proprietor can speak a few words of English. He puts his bald
head out of the window above, and asks: "Pe you Herr Shtevens ?" "Yah,
yah," I reply.
" Do you go mit der veld around ?" "Yah; I goes around mit the world."
"I shoust read about you mit der noospaper." " Ah, indeed! what newspaper?"
"Die Frankfurter Zeitung. You go around mit der veld." The landlord looks
delighted to have for a guest the man who goes "mit der veld around,"
and spreads the news. During the evening several people of importance
and position drop in to take a curious peep at me and my wheel.
A dampness about the knees, superinduced by wheeling in rubber leggings,
causes me to seek the privilege of the kitchen fire upon arrival. After
listening to the incessant chatter of the cook for a few moments, I
suddenly dispense with all pantomime, and ask in purest English the
privilege of drying my clothing in peace and tranquillity by the kitchen
fire. The poor woman hurries out, and soon returns with her highly
accomplished master, who, comprehending the situation, forthwith tenders
me the loan of his Sunday pantaloons for the evening; which offer I
gladly accept, notwithstanding the wide disproportion in their size and
mine, the landlord being, horizontally, a very large person. Oberkirch
is a pretty village at the entrance to the narrow and charming valley
of the River Bench, up which my route leads, into the fir-clad heights
of the Black Forest. A few miles farther up the valley I wheel through
a small village that nestles amid surroundings the loveliest I have yet
seen. Dark, frowning firs intermingled with the lighter green of other
vegetation crown the surrounding spurs of the Knibis Mountains; vineyards,
small fields of waving rye, and green meadow cover the lower slopes with
variegated beauty, at the foot of which huddles the cluster of pretty
cottages amid scattered orchards of blossoming fruit-trees. The cheery
lute of the herders on the mountains, the carol of birds, and the merry
music of dashing mountain-streams fill the fresh morning air with melody.
All through this country there are apple-trees, pear-trees, cherry-trees
In the fruit season one can scarce open his mouth out-doors without
having the goddess Pomona pop in some delicious morsel. The poplar
avenues of France have disappeared, but the road is frequently shaded
for miles with fruit-trees. I never before saw a spot so lovely-certainly
not in combination with a wellnigh perfect road for wheeling. On through
Oppenau and Petersthal my way leads - this latter a place of growing
importance as a summer resort, several commodious hotels with swimming-baths,
mineral waters, etc., being already prepared to receive the anticipated
influx of health and pleasure-seeking guests this coming summer - and then
up, up, up among the dark pines leading over the Black Forest Mountains.
Mile after mile of steep incline has now been trundled, following the
Bench River to its source. Ere long the road I have lately traversed is
visible far below, winding and twisting up the mountain-slopes. Groups
of swarthy peasant women are carrying on their heads baskets of pine
cones to the villages below. At a distance the sight of their bright red
dresses among the sombre green of the pines is suggestive of the fairies
with which legend has peopled the Black Forest.
The summit is reached at last, and two boundary posts apprise the traveller
that on this wooded ridge he passes from Baden into Wurtemberg. The
descent for miles is agreeably smooth and gradual; the mountain air blows
cool and refreshing, with an odor of the pines; the scenery is Black
Forest scenery, and what more could be possibly desired than this happy
combination of circumstances. Reaching Freudenstadt about noon, the
mountain-climbing, the bracing air, and the pine fragrance cause me to
give the good people at the gasthaus an impressive lesson in the effect
of cycling on the human appetite. At every town and village I pass through
in Wurtemberg the whole juvenile population collects around me in an
incredibly short time. The natural impulse of the German small boy appears
to be to start running after me, shouting and laughing immoderately, and
when passing through some of the larger villages, it is no exaggeration
to say that I have had two hundred small Germans, noisy and demonstrative,
clattering along behind in their heavy wooden shoes.
Wurtemburg, by this route at least, is a decidedly hilly country, and
the roads are far inferior to those of both England and France. There
will be, perhaps, three kilometres of trundling up through wooded heights
leading out of a small valley, then, after several kilometres over
undulating, stony upland roads, a long and not always smooth descent
into another small valley, this programme, several times repeated,
constituting the journey of the clay. The small villages of the peasantry
are frequently on the uplands, but the larger towns are invariably in
the valleys, sheltered by wooded heights, perched among the crags of the
most inaccessible of which are frequently seen the ruins of an old castle.
Scores of little boys of eight or ten are breaking stones by the road-side,
at which I somewhat marvel, since there is a compulsory school law in
Germany; but perhaps to-day is a holiday; or maybe, after school hours,
it is customary for these unhappy youngsters to repair to the road-sides
and blister their hands with cracking flints. "Hungry as a buzz-saw" I
roll into the sleepy old town of Rothenburg at six o'clock, and, repairing
to the principal hotel, order supper. Several flunkeys of different
degrees of usefulness come in and bow obsequiously from time to time,
as I sit around, expecting supper to appear every minute. At seven o'clock
the waiter comes in, bows profoundly, and lays the table-cloth; at 7.15
he appears again, this time with a plate, knife, and fork, doing more
bowing and scraping as he lays them on the table. Another half-hour rolls
by, when, doubtless observing my growing impatience as he happens in at
intervals to close a shutter or re-regulate the gas, he produces a small
illustrated paper, and, bowing profoundly; lays it before me. I feel
very much like making him swallow it, but resigning myself to what appears
to be inevitable fate, I wait and wait, and at precisely 8.15 he produces
a plate of soup; at 8.30 the kalbscotolet is brought on, and at 8.45 a
small plate of mixed biscuits. During the meal I call for another piece
of bread, and behold there is a hurrying to and fro, and a resounding
of feet scurrying along the stone corridors of the rambling old building,
and ten minutes later I receive a small roll. At the opposite end of the
long table upon which I am writing some half-dozen ancient and honorable
Rothenburgers are having what they doubtless consider a "howling time."
Confronting each is a huge tankard of foaming lager, and the one doubtless
enjoying himself the most and making the greatest success of exciting
the envy and admiration of those around him is a certain ponderous
individual who sits from hour to hour in a half comatose condition,
barely keeping a large porcelain pipe from going out, and at fifteen-minute
intervals taking a telling pull at the lager. Were it not for an occasional
blink of the eyelids and the periodical visitation of the tankard to his
lips, it would be difficult to tell whether he were awake or sleeping,
the act of smoking being barely perceptible to the naked eye.
In the morning I am quite naturally afraid to order anything to eat here
for fear of having to wait until mid-day, or thereabouts, before getting
it; so, after being the unappreciative recipient of several more bows,
more deferential and profound if anything than the bows of yesterday
eve, I wheel twelve kilometres to Tubingen for breakfast. It showers
occasionally during the forenoon, and after about thirty-five kilometres
of hilly country it begins to descend in torrents, compelling me to
follow the example of several peasants in seeking the shelter of a thick
pine copse. We are soon driven out of it, however, and donning my gossamer
rubber suit, I push on to Alberbergen, where I indulge in rye bread and
milk, and otherwise while away the hours until three o'clock, when, the
rain ceasing, I pull out through the mud for Blaubeuren. Down the
beautiful valley of one of the Danube's tributaries I ride on Sunday
morning, pedalling to the music of Blaubeuren's church-bells. After
waiting until ten o'clock, partly to allow the roads to dry a little, I
conclude to wait no longer, and so pull out toward the important and
quite beautiful city of Ulm. The character of the country now changes,
and with it likewise the characteristics of the people, who verily seem
to have stamped upon their features the peculiarities of the region they
inhabit. My road eastward of Blaubeuren follows down a narrow, winding
valley, beside the rippling head-waters of the Danube, and eighteen
kilometres of variable road brings me to the strongly fortified city of
Ulm, the place I should have reached yesterday, except for the inclemency
of the weather, and where I cross from Wurtemberg into Bavaria. On the
uninviting uplands of Central Wurtemberg one looks in vain among the
peasant women for a prepossessing countenance or a graceful figure, but
along the smiling valleys of Bavaria, the women, though usually with
figures disproportionately broad, nevertheless carry themselves with a
certain gracefulness; and, while far from the American or English idea
of beautiful, are several degrees more so than their relatives of the
part of Wilrtemberg I have traversed. I stop but a few minutes at Ulm,
to test a mug of its lager and inquire the details of the road to Augsburg,
yet during that short time I find myself an object of no little curiosity
to the citizens, for the fame of my undertaking has pervaded Ulm.
The roads of Bavaria possess the one solitary merit of hardness, otherwise
they would be simply abominable, the Bavarian idea of road-making evidently
being to spread unlimited quantities of loose stones over the surface.
For miles a wheelman is compelled to follow along narrow, wheel-worn
tracks, incessantly dodging loose stones, or otherwise to pedal his way
cautiously along the edges of the roadway. I am now wheeling through the
greatest beer-drinking, sausage-consuming country in the world; hop-
gardens are a prominent feature of the landscape, and long links of
sausages are dangling in nearly every window. The quantities of these
viands I see consumed to-day are something astonishing, though the
celebration of the Whitsuntide holidays is probably augmentative of the
amount.
The strains of instrumental music come floating over the level bottom
of the Lech valley as, toward eventide, I approach the beautiful environs
of Augsburg, and ride past several beer-gardens, where merry crowds of
Augsburgers are congregated, quaffing foaming lager, eating sausages,
and drinking inspiration from the music of military bands. "Where is the
headquarters of the Augsburg Velocipede Club?" I inquire of a promising-looking
youth as, after covering one hundred and twenty kilometres since ten
o'clock, I wheel into the city. The club's headquarters are at a prominent
cafe and beer-garden in the south-eastern suburbs, and repairing thither
I find an accommodating individual who can speak English, and who willingly
accepts the office of interpreter between me and the proprietor of the
garden. Seated amid hundreds of soldiers, Augsburg civilians, and peasants
from the surrounding country, and with them extracting genuine enjoyment
from a tankard of foaming Augsburg lager, I am informed that most of the
members of the club are celebrating the Whitsuntide holidays by touring
about the surrounding country, but that I am very welcome to Augsburg,
and I am conducted to the Hotel Mohrenkopf (Moor's Head Hotel), and
invited to consider myself the guest of the club as long as I care to
remain in Augsburg-the Bavarians are nothing if not practical.
Mr. Josef Kling, the president of the club, accompanies me as far out
as Friedburg on Monday morning; it is the last day of the holidays, and
the Bavarians are apparently bent on making the most of it. The suburban
beer-gardens are already filled with people, and for some distance out
of the city the roads are thronged with holiday-making Augsburgers
repairing to various pleasure resorts in the neighboring country, and
the peasantry streaming cityward from the villages, their faces beaming
in anticipation of unlimited quantities of beer. About every tenth person
among the outgoing Augsburgers is carrying an accordion; some playing
merrily as they walk along, others preferring to carry theirs in blissful
meditation on the good time in store immediately ahead, while a thoughtful
majority have large umbrellas strapped to their backs. Music and song
are heard on every hand, and as we wheel along together in silence,
enforced by an ignorance of each other's language, whichever way one
looks, people in holiday attire and holiday faces are moving hither and
thither.
Some of the peasants are fearfully and wonderfully attired: the men wear
high top-boots, polished from the sole to the uppermost hair's breadth
of leather; black, broad-brimmed felt hats, frequently with a peacock's
feather a yard long stuck through the band, the stem protruding forward,
and the end of the feather behind; and their coats and waistcoats are
adorned with long rows of large, ancestral buttons. I am now in the
Swabian district, and these buttons that form so conspicuous a part of
the holiday attire are made of silver coins, and not infrequently have
been handed down from generation to generation for several centuries,
they being, in fact, family heirlooms. The costumes of the Swabish peasant
women are picturesque in the extreme: their finest dresses and that
wondrous head-gear of brass, silver, or gold - the Schwabische
Bauernfrauenhaube (Swabish farmer-woman hat) - being, like the buttons
of the men, family heirlooms. Some of these wonderful ancestral dresses,
I am told, contain no less than one hundred and fifty yards of heavy
material, gathered and closely pleated in innumerable perpendicular folds,
frequently over a foot thick, making the form therein incased appear
ridiculously broad and squatty. The waistbands of the dresses are up in the
region of the shoulder-blades; the upper portion of the sleeves are likewise
padded out to fearful proportions.
The day is most lovely, the fields are deserted, and the roads and
villages are alive with holiday-making peasants. In every village a tall
pole is erected, and decorated from top to bottom with small flags and
evergreen wreaths. The little stone churches and the adjoining cemeteries
are filled with worshippers chanting in solemn chorus; not so preoccupied
with their devotional exercises and spiritual meditations, however, as
to prevent their calling one another's attention to me as I wheel past,
craning their necks to obtain a better view, and, in one instance, an
o'er-inquisitive worshipper even beckons for me to stop - this person both
chanting and beckoning vigorously at the same time.
Now my road leads through forests of dark firs; and here I overtake a
procession of some fifty peasants, the men and women alternately chanting
in weird harmony as they trudge along the road. The men are bareheaded,
carrying their hats in hand. Many of the women are barefooted, and the
pedal extremities of others are incased in stockings of marvellous
pattern; not any are wearing shoes. All the colors of the rainbow are
represented in their respective costumes, and each carries a large
umbrella strapped at his back; they are trudging along at quite a brisk
pace, and altogether there is something weird and fascinating about the
whole scene: the chanting and the surroundings. The variegated costumes
of the women are the only bright objects amid the gloominess of the dark
green pines. As I finally pass ahead, the unmistakable expressions of
interest on the faces of the men, and the even rows of ivories displayed
by the women, betray a diverted attention.
Near noon I arrive at the antiquated town of Dachau, and upon repairing
to the gasthaus, an individual in a last week's paper collar, and with
general appearance in keeping, comes forward and addresses me in quite
excellent English, and during the dinner hour answers several questions
concerning the country and the natives so intelligently that, upon
departing, I ungrudgingly offer him the small tip customary on such
occasions in Germany. "No, Whitsuntide in Bavaria. I thank you, very
muchly," he replies, smiling, and shaking his head. "I am not an employe
of the hotel, as you doubtless think; I am a student of modern languages
at the Munich University, visiting Dauhau for the day." Several soldiers
playing billiards in the room grin broadly in recognition of the ludicrousness
situation; and I must confess that for the moment I feel like asking one of
them to draw his sword and charitably prod me out of the room. The unhappy
memory of having, in my ignorance, tendered a small tip to a student of the
Munich University will cling around me forever. Nevertheless, I feel that after
all there are extenuating circumstances - he ought to change his paper collar
occasionally.
An hour after noon I am industriously dodging loose flints on the level
road leading across the Isar River Valley toward Munich; the Tyrolese
Alps loom up, shadowy and indistinct, in the distance to the southward,
their snowy peaks recalling memories of the Rockies through which I was
wheeling exactly a year ago. While wending my way along the streets
toward the central portion of the Bavarian capital the familiar sign,
"American Cigar Store," looking like a ray of light penetrating through
the gloom and mystery of the multitudinous unreadable signs that surround
it, greets my vision, and I immediately wend my footsteps thitherward.
I discover in the proprietor, Mr. Walsch, a native of Munich, who, after
residing in America for several years, has returned to dream away declining
years amid the smoke of good cigars and the quaffing of the delicious
amber beer that the brewers of Munich alone know how to brew. Then who
should happen in but Mr. Charles Buscher, a thorough-going American;
from Chicago, who is studying art here at the Royal Academy of Fine Arts,
and who straightway volunteers to show me Munich.
Nine o'clock next morning finds me under the pilotage of Mr. Buscher,
wandering through the splendid art galleries. We next visit the Royal
Academy of Fine Arts, a magnificent building, being erected at a cost
of 7,000,000 marks.
We repair at eleven o'clock to the royal residence, making a note by the
way of a trifling mark of King Ludwig's well-known eccentricity. Opposite
the palace is an old church, with two of its four clocks facing the
King's apartments. The hands of these clocks are, according to my
informant, made of gold. Some time since the King announced that the
sight of these golden hands hurt his eyesight, and ordered them painted
black. It was done, and they are black to-day. Among the most interesting
objects in the palace are the room and bed in which Napoleon I. slept
in 1809, which has since been occupied by no other person; the "rich
bed," a gorgeous affair of pink and scarlet satin-work, on which forty
women wove, with gold thread, daily, for ten years, until 1,600,000 marks
were expended.
At one of the entrances to the royal residence, and secured with iron
bars, is a large bowlder weighing three hundred and sixty-three pounds;
in the wall above it are driven three spikes, the highest spike being
twelve feet from the ground; and Bavarian historians have recorded that
Earl Christoph, a famous giant, tossed this bowlder up to the mark
indicated by the highest spike, with his foot.
After this I am kindly warned by both Messrs. Buscher and Walsch not to
think of leaving the city without visiting the Konigliche Hofbrauhaus
(Royal Court Brewery) the most famous place of its kind in all Europe.
For centuries Munich has been famous for the excellent quality of its
beer, and somewhere about four centuries ago the king founded this famous
brewery for the charitable purpose of enabling his poorer subjects to
quench their thirst with the best quality of beer, at prices within their
means, and from generation to generation it has remained a favorite
resort in Munich for lovers of good beer. In spite of its remaining, as
of yore, a place of rude benches beneath equally rude, open sheds, with
cobwebs festooning the rafters and a general air of dilapidation about
it; in spite of the innovation of dozens of modern beer-gardens with
waving palms, electric lights, military music, and all modern improvements,
the Konigliche Hofbrauhaus is daily and nightly thronged with thirsty
visitors, who for the trifling sum of twenty-two pfennigs (about five
cents) obtain a quart tankard of the most celebrated brew in all Bavaria.
"Munich is the greatest art-centre of the world, the true hub of the
artistic universe," Mr. Buscher enthusiastically assures me as we wander
together through the sleepy old streets, and he points out a bright bit
of old frescoing, which is already partly obliterated by the elements,
and compares it with the work of recent years; calls my attention to a
piece of statuary, and anon pilots me down into a restaurant and beer
hall in some ancient, underground vaults and bids me examine the
architecture and the frescoing. The very custom-house of Munich is a
glorious old church, that would be carefully preserved as a relic of no
small interest and importance in cities less abundantly blessed with
antiquities, but which is here piled with the cases and boxes and bags
of commerce. One other conspicuous feature of Munich life must not be
over-looked ere I leave it, viz., the hackmen. Unlike their Transatlantic
brethren, they appear supremely indifferent about whether they pick up
any fares or not. Whenever one comes to a hack-stand it is a pretty sure
thing to bet that nine drivers out of every ten are taking a quiet snooze,
reclining on their elevated boxes, entirely oblivious of their surroundings,
and a timid stranger would almost hesitate about disturbing their slumbers.
But the Munich cabby has long since got hardened to the disagreeable
process of being wakened up. Nor does this lethargy pervade the ranks
of hackdom only: at least two-thirds of the teamsters one meets on the
roads, hereabouts, are stretched out on their respective loads, contentedly
sleeping while the horses or oxen crawl leisurely along toward their
goal.
Munich is visited heavily with rain during the night, and for several
kilometres, next morning, the road is a horrible waste of loose flints
and mud-filled ruts, along which it is all but impossible to ride; but
after leaving the level bottom of the Isar River the road improves
sufficiently to enable me to take an occasional, admiring glance at the
Bavarian and Tyrolese Alps, towering cloudward on the southern horizon,
their shadowy outlines scarcely distinguishable in the hazy distance
from the fleecy clouds their peaks aspire to invade. While absentmindedly
taking a more lingering look than is consistent with safety when picking
one's way along the narrow edge of the roadway between the stone-strewn
centre and the ditch, I run into the latter, and am rewarded with my
first Cis-atlantic header, but fortunately both myself and the bicycle
come up uninjured. Unlike the Swabish peasantry, the natives east of
Munich appear as prosy and unpicturesque in dress as a Kansas homesteader.
Ere long there is noticeable a decided change in the character of the
villages, they being no longer clusters of gabled cottages, but usually
consist of some three or four huge, rambling bulldings, at one of which
I call for a drink and observe that brewing and baking are going on as
though they were expecting a whole regiment to be quartered on them.
Among other things I mentally note this morning is that the men actually
seem to be bearing the drudgery of the farm equally with the women; but
the favorable impression becomes greatly imperilled upon meeting a woman
harnessed to a small cart, heavily laboring along, while her husband -
kind man - is walking along-side, holding on to a rope, upon which he
considerately pulls to assist her along and lighten her task. Nearing
Hoag, and thence eastward, the road becomes greatly improved, and along
the Inn River Valley, from Muhldorf to Alt Oetting, where I remain for
the night, the late rain-storm has not reached, and the wheeling is
superior to any I have yet had in Germany. Muhldorf is a curious and
interesting old town. The sidewalks of Muhldorf are beneath long arcades
from one end of the principal street to the other; not modern structures
either, but massive archways that are doubtless centuries old, and that
support the front rooms of the buildings that tower a couple of stories
above them.
As toward dusk I ride into the market square of Alt Oetting, it is
noticeable that nearly all the stalls and shops remaining open display
nothing but rosaries, crucifixes, and other paraphernalia of the prevailing
religion. Through Eastern Bavaria the people seern pre-eminently devotional;
church-spires dot the landscape at every point of the compass. At my
hotel in Alt Oetting, crucifixes, holy water, and burning tapers are
situated on the different stairway landings. I am sitting in my room,
penning these lines to the music of several hundred voices chanting in
the old stone church near by, and can look out of the window and see a
number of peasant women taking turns in dragging themselves on their
knees round and round a small religious edifice in the centre of the
market square, carrying on their shoulders huge, heavy wooden crosses,
the ends of which are trailing on the ground.
All down the Inn River Valley, there is many a picturesque bit of
intermingled pine-copse and grassy slopes; but admiring scenery is
anything but a riskless undertaking along here, as I quickly discover.
On the Inn River I find a primitive ferry-boat operated by a, fac-simile
of the Ancient Mariner, who takes me and my wheel across for the
consideration of five pfennigs-a trifle over one cent -and when I refuse
the tiny change out of a ten-pfennig piece the old fellow touches his
cap as deferentially, and favors me with a look of gratitude as profound,
as though I were bestowing a pension upon him for life. My arrival at a
broad, well-travelled high-way at once convinces me that I have again
been unwittingly wandering among the comparatively untravelled by-ways
as the result of following the kindly meant advice of people whose
knowledge of bicycling requirements is of the slimmest nature. The Inn
River a warm, rich vale; haymaking is already in full progress, and
delightful perfume is wafted on the fresh morning air from aclows where
scores of barefooted Maud Mullers are raking hay, and mowing it too,
swinging scythes side by side with the men. Some of the out-door crucifixes
and shrines (small, substantial buildings containing pictures, images,
and all sorts of religious -emblems) along this valley are really quite
elaborate affairs. All through Roman Catholic Germany these emblems of
religion are very elaborate, or the reverse, according to the locality,
the chosen spot in rich and fertile valleys generally being favored with
better and more artistic affairs, and more of them, than the comparatively
unproductive uplands. This is evidently because the inhabitants of the
latter regions are either less wealthy, and consequently cannot afford
it, or otherwise realize that they have really much less to be thankful
for than their comparatively fortunate neighbors in the more productive
valleys.
At the town of Simbach I cross the Inn River again on a substantial
wooden bridge, and on the opposite side pass under an old stone archway
bearing the Austrian coat-of-arms. Here I am conducted into the custom-house
by an officer wearing the sombre uniform of Franz Josef, and required,
for the first time in Europe, to produce my passport. After a critical
and unnecessarily long examination of this document I am graciously
permitted to depart. In an adjacent money-changer's office I exchange
what German money I have remaining for the paper currency of Austria,
and once more pursue my way toward the Orient, finding the roads rather
better than the average German ones, the Austrians, hereabouts at least,
having had the goodness to omit the loose flints so characteristic of
Bavaria. Once out of the valley of the Inn River, however, I find the
uplands intervening between it and the valley of the Danube aggravatingly
hilly.
While eating my first luncheon in Austria, at the village of Altheim,
the village pedagogue informs me in good English that I am the first
Briton he has ever had the pleasure of conversing with. He learned the
language entirely from books, without a tutor, he says, learning it for
pleasure solely, never expecting to utilize the accomplishment in any
practical way. One hill after another characterizes my route to-day; the
weather, which has hitherto remained reasonably mild, is turning hot and
sultry, and, arriving at Hoag about five o'clock, I feel that I have
done sufficient hillclimbing for one day. I have been wheeling through
Austrian territory since 10.30 this morning, and, with observant eyes
the whole distance, I have yet to see the first native, male or female,
possessing in the least degree either a graceful figure or a prepossessing
face. There has been a great horse-fair at Hoag to-day; the business of
the day is concluded, and the principal occupation of the men, apart
from drinking beer and smoking, appears to be frightening the women out
of their wits by leading prancing horses as near them as possible.
My road, on leaving Hoag, is hilly, and the snowy heights of the Nordliche
Kalkalpen (North Chalk Mountains), a range of the Austrian Alps, loom
up ahead at an uncertain distance. To-day is what Americans call a
"scorcher," and climbing hills among pine-woods, that shut out every
passing breeze, is anything but exhilarating exercise with the thermometer
hovering in the vicinity of one hundred degrees. The peasants are abroad
in their fields as usual, but a goodly proportion are reclining beneath
the trees. Reclining is, I think, a favorite pastime with the Austrian.
The teamster, who happens to be wide awake and sees me approaching, knows
instinctively that his team is going to scare at the bicycle, yet he
makes no precautionary movements whatever, neither does he arouse himself
from his lolling position until the horses or oxen begin to swerve around.
As a usual thing the teamster is filling his pipe, which has a large,
ungainly-looking, porcelain bowl, a long, straight wooden stem, and a
crooked mouth-piece. Almost every Austrian peasant from sixteen years
old upward carries one of these uncomely pipes.
The men here seem to be dull, uninteresting mortals, dressed in tight-
fitting, and yet, somehow, ill-fitting, pantaloons, usually about three
sizes too short, a small apron of blue ducking-an unbecoming garment
that can only be described as a cross between a short jacket and a
waistcoat - and a narrow-rimmed, prosy-looking billycock hat. The peasant
women are the poetry of Austria, as of any other European country, and
in their short red dresses and broad-brimmed, gypsy hats, they look
picturesque and interesting in spite of homely faces and ungraceful
figures. Riding into Lambach this morning, I am about wheeling past a
horse and drag that, careless and Austrian-like, has been left untied
and unwatched in the middle of the street, when the horse suddenly scares,
swerves around just in front of me, and dashes, helter-skelter, down the
street. The horse circles around the market square and finally stops of
his own accord without doing any damage. Runaways, other misfortunes,
it seems, never come singly, and ere I have left Lambach an hour I am
the innocent cause of yet another one; this time it is a large, powerful
work-dog, who becomes excited upon meeting me along the road, and upsets
things in the most lively manner. Small carts pulled by dogs are common
vehicles here and this one is met coming up an incline, the man considerately
giving the animal a lift. A life of drudgery breaks the spirit of these
work-dogs and makes them cowardly and cringing. At my approach this one
howls, and swerves suddenly around with a rush that upsets both man and
cart, topsy-turvy, into the ditch, and the last glimpse of the rumpus
obtained, as I sweep past and down the hill beyond, is the man pawing
the air with his naked feet and the dog struggling to free himself from
the entangling harness.
Up among the hills, at the village of Strenburg, night arrives at a very
opportune moment to-day, for Strenburg proves a nice, sociable sort of
village, where the doctor can speak good English and plays the role of
interpreter for me at the gasthaus. The school-ma'am, a vivacious Italian
lady, in addition to French and German, can also speak a few words of
English, though she persistently refers to herself as the " school
-master." She boards at the same gasthaus, and all the evening long I
am favored by the liveliest prattle and most charming gesticulations
imaginable, while the room is half filled with her class of young lady
aspirants to linguistic accomplishments, listening to our amusing, if
not instructive, efforts to carry on a conversation. ' It is altogether
a most enjoyable evening, and on parting I am requested to write when I
get around the world and tell the Strenburgers all that I have seen and
experienced. On top of the gasthaus is a rude observatory, and before
starting I take a view of the country. The outlook is magnificent; the
Austrian Alps are towering skyward to the southeast, rearing snow-crowned
heads out from among a billowy sea of pine-covered hills, and to the
northward is the lovely valley of the Danube, the river glistening softly
through the morning haze.
On yonder height, overlooking the Danube on the one hand and the town
of Molk on the other, is the largest and most imposing edifice I have
yet seen in Austria; it is a convent of the Benedictine monks; and though
Molk is a solid, substantially built town, of perhaps a thousand
inhabitants, I should think there is more material in the immense convent
building than in the whole town besides, and one naturally wonders
whatever use the monks can possibly have for a building of such enormous
dimensions. Entering a barber's shop here for a shave, I find the barber of
Molk following the example of so many of his countrymen by snoozing the
mid-day hours happily and unconsciously away. One could easily pocket
and walk off with his stock-in-trade, for small is the danger of his awakening.
Waking him up, he shuffles mechanically over to hia razor and lathering
apparatus, this latter being a soup-plate with a semicircular piece
chipped out to fit, after a fashion, the contour of the customers'
throats. Pressing this jagged edge of queen's-ware against your windpipe,
the artist alternately rubs the water and a cake of soap therein contained
about your face with his hands, the water meanwhile passing freely between
the ill-fitting' soup-plate and your throat, and running down your breast;
but don't complain; be reasonable: no reasonable-minded person could
expect one soup-plate, however carefully chipped out, to fit the throats
of the entire male population of Molk, besides such travellers as happen
along.
Spending the night at Neu Lengbach, I climb hills and wabble along, over
rough, lumpy roads, toward Vienna, reaching the Austrian capital Sunday
morning, and putting up at the Englischer Eof about noon. At Vienna I
determine to make a halt of two days, and on Tuesday pay a visit to the
headquarters of the Vienna Wanderers' Bicycle Club, away out on a suburban
street called Schwimmschulenstrasse; and the club promises that if I
will delay my departure another day they will get up a small party of
wheelmen to escort me seventy kilometres, to Presburg. The bicycle clubs
of Vienna have, at the Wanderers' headquarters, constructed an excellent
race-track, three and one-third laps to the English mile, at an expense
of 2,000 gulden, and this evening several of Austria's fliers are training
upon it for the approaching races. English and American wheelmen little
understand the difficulties these Vienna cyclers have to contend with:
all the city inside the Ringstrasse, and no less than fifty streets
outside, are forbidden to the mounted cyclers, and they are required to
ticket themselves with big, glaring letters, as also their lamps at
night, so that, in case of violating any of these regulations, they can
by their number be readily recognized by the police. Self-preservation
compels the clubs to exercise every precaution against violating the
police regulations, in order not to excite popular prejudice overwhelmingly
against bicycles, and ere a new rider is permitted to venture outside
their own grounds he is hauled up before a regularly organized committee,
consisting of officers from each club in Vienna, and required to go
through a regular examination in mounting, dismounting, and otherwise
proving to their entire satisfaction his proficiency in managing and
manoeuvring his wheel; besides which every cycler is provided with a
pamphlet containing a list of the streets he may and may not frequent.
In spite of all these harassing regulations, the Austrian capital has
already two hundred riders. The Viennese impress themselves upon me as
being possessed of more than ordinary individuality. Yonder comes a man,
walking languidly along, and carrying his hat in his hand, because it
is warm, and just behind him comes a fellow-citizen muffled up in an
overcoat because - because of Viennese individuality. The people seem to
walk the streets with a swaying, happy-go-anyhow sort of gait, colliding
with one another and jostling together on the sidewalk in the happiest
manner imaginable.
At five o'clock on Thursday morning I am dressing, when I am notified
that two cyclers are awaiting me below. Church-bells are clanging joyously
all over Vienna as we meander toward suburbs, and people are already
streaming in the direction of the St. Stephen's Church, near the centre
of the city, for to-day is Frohnleichnam (Corpus Christi), and the Emperor
and many of the great ecclesiastical, civil, and military personages of
the empire will pass in procession with all pomp and circumstance; and
the average Viennese is not the person to miss so important an occasion.
Three other wheelmen are awaiting us in the suburbs, and together we
ride through the waving barley-fields of the Danube bottom to Schwechat,
for the light breakfast customary in Austria, and thence onward to
Petronelle, thirty kilometres distant, where we halt a few minutes for
a Corpus Christi procession, and drink a glass of white Hungarian wine.
Near Petronelle are the remains of an old Roman wall, extending from the
Danube to a lake called the Neusiedler See. My companions say it was
built 2,000 years ago, when the sway of the Romans extended over such
parts of Europe as were worth the trouble and expense of swaying. The
roads are found rather rough and inferior, on account of loose stones
and uneven surface, as we push forward toward Presburg, passing through
a dozen villages whose streets are carpeted with fresh-cut grass, and
converted into temporary avenues, with branches stuck in the ground, in
honor of the day they are celebrating. At Hamburg we pass beneath an
archway nine hundred years old, and wheel on through the grass-carpeted
streets between rows of Hungarian soldiers drawn up in line, with green
oak-sprigs in their hats; the villagers are swarming from the church,
whose bells are filling the air with their clangor, and on the summit
of an over-shadowing cliff are the massive ruins of an ancient castle.
Near about noon we roll into Presburg, warm and dusty, and after dinner
take a stroll through the Jewish quarter of the town up to the height
upon which Presburg castle is situated, and from which a most extensive
and beautiful view of the Danube, its wooded bluffs and broad, rich
bottom-lands, is obtainable. At dinner the waiter hands me a card, which
reads: "Pardon me, but I believe you are an Englishman, in which case
I beg the privilege of drinking a glass of wine with you." The sender
is an English gentleman residing at Budapest, Hungary, who, after the
requested glass of wine, tells me that he guessed who I was when he first
saw me enter the garden with the five Austrian wheelmen.
My Austrian escort rides out with me to a certain cross-road, to make
sure of heading me direct toward Budapest, and as we part they bid me
good speed, with a hearty "Eljen." - the Hungarian "Hip, hip, hurrah."
After leaving Presburg and crossing over into Hungary the road-bed is
of a loose gravel that, during the dry weather this country is now
experiencing, is churned up and loosened by every passing vehicle, until
one might as well think of riding over a ploughed field. But there is a
fair proportion of ridable side-paths, so that I make reasonably good
time. Altenburg, my objective point for the night, is the centre of a
sixty-thousand-acre estate belonging to the Archduke Albrecht, uncle of
the present Emperor of Austro-Hungary, and one of the wealthiest land-owners
in the empire. Ere I have been at the gasthaus an hour I am honored by
a visit from Professor Thallmeyer, of the Altenburg Royal Agricultural
School, who invites me over to his house to spend an hour in conversation,
and in the discussion of a bottle of Hungary's best vintage, for the
learned professor can talk very good English, and his wife is of English
birth and parentage. Although Frau Thallmeyer left England at the tender
age of two years, she calls herself an Englishwoman, speaks of England
as "home," and welcomes to her house as a countryman any wandering
Briton happening along. I am no longer in a land of small peasant
proprietors, and there is a noticeably large proportion of the land
devoted to grazing purposes, that in France or Germany would be found
divided into small farms, and every foot cultivated. Villages are farther
apart, and are invariably adjacent to large commons, on which roam flocks
of noisy geese, herds of ponies, and cattle with horns that would make
a Texan blush - the long horned roadsters of Hungary. The costumes of the
Hungarian peasants are both picturesque and novel, the women and girls
wearing top-boots and short dresses on holiday occasions and Sundays,
and at other times short dresses without any boots at all; the men wear
loose-flowing pantaloons of white, coarse linen that reach just below
the knees, and which a casual observer would unhesitatingly pronounce a
short skirt, the material being so ample. Hungary is still practically
a land of serfs and nobles, and nearly every peasant encountered along
the road touches his cap respectfully, in instinctive acknowledgment,
as it were, of his inferiority. Long rows of women are seen hoeing in
the fields with watchful overseers standing over them - a scene not
unsuggestive of plantation life in the Southern States in the days of
slavery. If these gangs of women are not more than about two hundred
yards from the road their inquisitiveness overcomes every other
consideration, and dropping everything, the whole crowd comes helter-skelter
across the field to obtain a closer view of the strange vehicle; for it
is only in the neighborhood of one or two of the principal cities of
Hungary that one ever sees a bicycle.
Gangs of gypsies are now frequently met with; they are dark-skinned,
interesting people, and altogether different-looking from those occasionally
encountered in England and America, where, although swarthy and dark-skinned,
they bear no comparison in that respect to these, whose skin is wellnigh
black, and whose gleaming white teeth and brilliant, coal-black eyes
stamp them plainly as alien to the race around them. Ragged, unwashed,
happy gangs of vagabonds these stragglers appear, and regular droves of
partially or wholly naked youngsters come racing after me, calling out
"kreuzer! kreuzer! kreuzer!" and holding out hand or tattered hat in
a supplicating manner as they run along-side. Unlike the peasantry, none
of these gypsies touch their hats; indeed, yon swarthy-faced vagabond,
arrayed mainly in gewgaws, and eying me curiously with his piercing black
eyes, may be priding himself on having royal blood in his veins; and,
unregenerate chicken-lifter though he doubtless be, would scarce condescend
to touch his tattered tile even to the Emperor of Austria. The black
eyes scintillate as they take notice of what they consider the great
wealth of sterling silver about the machine I bestride. Eastward from
Altenburg the main portion of the road continues for the most part
unridably loose and heavy.
For some kilometres out of Raab the road presents a far better surface,
and I ride quite a lively race with a small Danube passenger steamer
that is starting down-stream. The steamboat toots and forges ahead, and
in answer to the waving of hats and exclamations of encouragement from
the passengers, I likewise forge ahead, and although the boat is going
down-stream with the strong current of the Danube, as long as the road
continues fairly good I manage to keep in advance; but soon the loose
surface reappears, and when I arrive at Gonys, for lunch, I find the
steamer already tied up, and the passengers and officers greet my
appearance with shouts of recognition. My route along the Danube Valley
leads through broad, level wheat-fields that recall memories of the
Sacramento Valley, California. Geese appear as the most plentiful objects
around the villages: there are geese and goslings everywhere; and this
evening, in a small village, I wheel quite over one, to the dismay of
the maiden driving them homeward, and the unconcealed delight of several
small Hungarians.
At the village of Nezmely I am to-night treated to a foretaste of what
is probably in store for me at a goodly number of places ahead by being
consigned to a bunch of hay and a couple of sacks in the stable as the
best sleeping accommodations the village gasthaus affords. True, I am
assigned the place of honor in the manger, which, though uncomfortably
narrow and confining, is perhaps better accommodation, after all, than
the peregrinating tinker and three other likely-looking characters are
enjoying on the bare floor. Some of these companions, upon retiring,
pray aloud at unseemly length, and one of them, at least, keeps it up
in his sleep at frequent intervals through the night; horses and work-cattle
are rattling chains and munching hay, and an uneasy goat, with a bell
around his neck, fills the stable with an incessant tinkle till dawn.
Black bread and a cheap but very good quality of white wine seem about
the only refreshment obtainable at these little villages. One asks in
vain for milch-brod, butter, kdsc, or in fact anything acceptable to the
English palate; the answer to all questions concerning these things is
"nicht, nicht, nicht." - "What have you, then?" I sometimes ask, the
answer to which is almost invariably "brod und wein." Stone-yards thronged
with busy workmen, chipping stone for shipment to cities along the Danube,
are a feature of these river-side villages. The farther one travels the
more frequently gypsies are encountered on the road. In almost every
band is a maiden, who, by reason of real or imaginary beauty, occupies
the position of pet of the camp, wears a profusion of beads and trinkets,
decorates herself with wild flowers, and is permitted to do no manner
of drudgery. Some of these gypsy maidens are really quite beautiful in
spite of their very dark complexions. Their eyes glisten with inborn
avarice as I sweep past on my "silver" bicycle, and in their astonishment
at my strange appearance and my evidently enormous wealth they almost
forget their plaintive wail of "kreuzer! kreuzer!" a cry which readily
bespeaks their origin, and is easily recognized as an echo from the land
where the cry of "backsheesh" is seldom out of the traveller's hearing.
The roads east of Nezmely are variable, flint-strewn ways predominating;
otherwise the way would be very agreeable, since the gradients are gentle,
and the dust not over two inches deep, as against three in most of Austro-
Hungary thus far traversed. The weather is broiling hot; but I worry
along perseveringly, through rough and smooth, toward the land of the
rising sun. Nearing Budapest the roads become somewhat smoother, but at
the same time hillier, the country changing to vine-clad slopes; and all
along the undulating ways I meet wagons laden with huge wine-casks.
Reaching Budapest in the afternoon, I seek out Mr. Kosztovitz, of the
Budapest Bicycle Club, and consul of the Cyclists' Touring Club, who
proves a most agreeable gentleman, and who, besides being an enthusiastic
cycler, talks English perfectly. There is more of the sporting spirit
in Budapest, perhaps, than in any other city of its size on the Continent,
and no sooner is my arrival known than I am taken in hand and practically
compelled to remain over at least one day. Svetozar Igali, a noted cycle
tourist of the village of Duna Szekeso, now visiting the international
exhibition at Budapest, volunteers to accompany me to Belgrade, and
perhaps to Constantinople. I am rather surprised at finding so much
cycling enthusiasm in the Hungarian capital. Mr. Kosztovitz, who lived
some time in England, and was president of a bicycle club there, had the
honor of bringing the first wheel into the Austro-Hungarian empire, in
the autumn of 1879, and now Budapest alone has three clubs, aggregating
nearly a hundred riders, and a still greater number of non-riding members.
Cyclers have far more liberty accorded them in Budapest than in Vienna,
being permitted to roam the city almost as untrammelled as in London,
this happy condition of affairs being partly the result of Mr. Kosztovitz's
diplomacy in presenting a ready drawn-up set of rules and regulations
for the government of wheelmen to the police authorities when the first
bicycle was introduced, and partly to the police magistrate, being himself
an enthusiastic all-'round sportsman, inclined to patronize anything in
the way of athletics. They are even experimenting in the Hungarian army
with the view of organizing a bicycle despatch service; and I am told
that they already have a bicycle despatch in successful operation in the
Bavarian army. In the evening I am the club's guest at a supper under
the shade-trees in the exhibition grounds. Mr. Kosztovitz and another
gentleman who can speak English act as interpreters, and here, amid the
merry clinking of champagne-glasses, the glare of electric lights, with
the ravishing music of an Hungarian gypsy band on our right, and a band
of swarthy Servians playing their sweet native melodies on our left, we,
among other toasts, drink to the success of my tour. There is a cosmopolitan
and exceedingly interesting crowd of visitors at the international
exhibition: natives from Bulgaria, Servia, Roumania, and Turkey, in their
national costumes; and mingled among them are Hungarian peasants from
various provinces, some of them in a remarkably picturesque dress, that
I afterward learn is Croatian. A noticeable feature of Budapest, besides
a predilection for sport among the citizens, is a larger proportion of
handsome ladies than one sees in most European cities, and there is,
moreover, a certain atmosphere about them that makes them rather agreeable
company. If one is travelling around the world with a bicycle, it is not
at all inconsistent with Budapest propriety for the wife of the wheelman
sitting opposite you to remark that she wishes she were a rose, that you
might wear her for a button-hole bouquet on your journey, and to ask
whether or not, in that case, you would throw the rose away when it
faded. Compliments, pleasant, yet withal as meaningless as the coquettish
glances and fan-play that accompany them, are given with a freedom and
liberality that put the sterner native of more western countries at his
wits' end to return them. But the most delightful thing in all Hungary
is its gypsy music. As it is played here beneath its own sunny skies,
methinks there is nothing in the wide world to compare with it. The music
does not suit the taste of some people, however; it is too wild and
thrilling. Budapest is a place of many languages, one of the waiters in
the exhibition cafe claiming the ability to speak and understand no less
than fourteen different languages and dialects.
Nine wheelmen accompany me some distance out of Budapest on Monday
morning, and Mr. Philipovitz and two other members continue with Igali
and me to Duna Pentele, some seventy-five miles distant; this is our
first sleeping-place, the captain making his guest until our separation
and departure in different directions next morning. During the fierce
heat of mid-day we halt for about three hours at Adony, and spend a
pleasant after-dinner Lour examining the trappings and trophies of a
noted sporting gentleman, and witnessing a lively and interesting set-to
with fencing foils. There is everything in fire-arms in his cabinet,
from an English double-barrelled shot-gun to a tiny air-pistol for
shooting flies on the walls of his sitting-room; he has swords, oars,
gymnastic paraphernalia - in fact, everything but boxing gloves. Arriving
at Duna Pentele early in the evening, before supper we swim for an hour
in the waters of the Danube. At 9.30 P.M. two of our little company board
the up-stream-bound steamer for the return home, and at ten o'clock we
are proposing to retire for the night, when lo, in come a half-dozen
gentlemen, among them Mr. Ujvarii, whose private wine-cellar is celebrated
all the country round, and who now proposes that we postpone going to
bed long enough to pay a short visit to his cellar and sample the
"finest wine in Hungary." This is an invitation not to be resisted by
ordinary mortals, and accordingly we accept, following the gentleman and
his friends through the dark streets of the village. Along the dark,
cool vault penetrating the hill-side Mr. Ujvarii leads the way between
long rows of wine-casks, heber* held in arm like a sword at dress parade.
The heber is first inserted into a cask of red wine, with a perfume and
flavor as agreeable as the rose it resembles in color, and carried, full,
to the reception end of the vault by the corpulent host with the stately
air of a monarch bearing his sceptre. After two rounds of the red wine,
two hebers of champagne are brought - champagne that plays a fountain of
diamond spray three inches above the glass. The following toast is
proposed by the host: "The prosperity and welfare of England, America,
and Hungary, three countries that are one in their love and appreciation
of sport and adventure." The Hungarians have all the Anglo-American love
of sport and adventure.* A glass combination of tube and flask, holding
about three pints, with an orifice at each end and the bulb or flask
near the upper orifice; the wine is sucked up into the flask with the
breath, and when withdrawn from the cask the index finger is held over
the lower orifice, from which the glasses are filled by manipulations
of the finger.
>From Budapest to Paks, about one hundred and twenty kilometres, the roads
are superior to anything I expected to find east of Germany; but the
thermometer clings around the upper regions, and everything is covered
with dust. Our route leads down the Danube in an almost directly southern
course.
Instead of the poplars of France, and the apples and pears of Germany,
the roads are now fringed with mulberry-trees, both raw and manufactured
silk being a product of this part of Hungary. My companion is what in
England or America would be considered a "character;" he dresses in the
thinnest of racing costumes, through which the broiling sun readily
penetrates, wears racing-shoes, and a small jockey-cap with an enormous
poke, beneath which glints a pair of "specs;" he has rat-trap pedals to
his wheel, and winds a long blue girdle several times around his waist,
consumes raw eggs, wine, milk, a certain Hungarian mineral water, and
otherwise excites the awe and admiration of his sport-admiring countrymen.
Igali's only fault as a road companion is his utter lack of speed, six
or eight kilometres an hour being his natural pace on average roads,
besides footing it up the gentlest of gradients and over all rough
stretches. Except for this little drawback, he is an excellent man to
take the lead, for he is a genuine Magyar, and orders the peasantry about
with the authoritative manner of one born to rule and tyrannize; sometimes,
when, the surface is uneven for wheeling, making them drive their clumsy
ox-wagons almost into the road-side ditch in order to avoid any possible
chance of difficulty in getting past. Igali knows four languages: French,
German, Hungarian, and Slavonian, but Anglaise nicht, though with what
little French and German I have picked up while crossing those countries
we manage to converse and understand each other quite readily, especially
as I am, from constant practice, getting to be an accomplished pantomimist,
and Igali is also a pantomimist by nature, and gifted with a versatility
that would make a Frenchman envious. Ere we have been five minutes at a
gasthaus Igali is usually found surrounded by an admiring circle of
leading citizens - not peasants; Igali would not suffer them to gather
about him - pouring into their willing ears the account of my journey;
the words, "San Francisco, Boston, London, Paris, Wien, Pesth, Belgrade,
Constantinople, Afghanistan, India, Khiva," etc., which are repeated in
rotation at wonderfully short intervals, being about all that my linguistic
abilities are capable of grasping. The road continues hard, but south
of Paks it becomes rather rough; consequently halts under the shade of
the mulberry-trees for Igali to catch up are of frequent occurrence.
The peasantry, hereabout, seem very kindly disposed and hospitable.
Sometimes, while lingering for Igali, they will wonder what I am stopping
for, and motion the questions of whether I wish anything to eat or drink;
and this afternoon one of them, whose curiosity to see how I mounted
overcomes his patience, offers me a twenty-kreuzer piece to show him.
At one village a number of peasants take an old cherry-woman to task for
charging me two kreuzers more for some cherries than it appears she
ought, and although two kreuzers are but a farthing they make quite a
squabble with the poor old woman about it, and will be soothed by neither
her voice nor mine until I accept another handful of cherries in lieu
of the overcharged two kreuzers.
Szekszard has the reputation, hereabout, of producing the best quality
of red wine in all Hungary - no small boast, by the way - and the hotel and
wine-gardens here, among them, support an excellent gypsy band of fourteen
pieces. Mr. Garay, the leader of the band, once spent nearly a year in
America, and after supper the band plays, with all the thrilling sweetness
of the Hungarian muse, "Home, sweet Home," "Yankee Doodle," and "Sweet
Violets," for my especial delectation.
A wheelman the fame of whose exploits has preceded him might as well try
to wheel through hospitable Hungary without breathing its atmosphere as
without drinking its wine; it isn't possible to taboo it as I tabooed
the vin ordinaire of France, Hungarians and Frenchmen being two entirely
different people. Notwithstanding music until 11.30 P.M., yesterday, we
are on the road before six o'clock this morning - for genuine, unadulterated
Hungarian music does not prevent one getting up bright and fresh next
day - and about noon we roll into Duna Szekeso, Igali's native town, where
we have decided to halt for the remainder of the day to get our clothing
washed, one of my shoes repaired, and otherwise prepare for our journey
to the Servian capital. Duna Szekeso is a calling-place for the Danube
steamers, and this afternoon I have the opportunity of taking observations
of a gang of Danubian roustabouts at their noontide meal. They are a
swarthy, wild-looking crowd, wearing long hair parted in the middle, or
not parted at all; to their national costume are added the jaunty trappings
affected by river men in all countries. Their food is coarse black bread
and meat, and they take turns in drinking wine from a wooden tube
protruding from a two-gallon watch-shaped cask, the body of which is
composed of a section of hollow log instead of staves, lifting the cask
up and drinking from the tube, as they would from the bung-hole of a
beer-keg. Their black bread would hardly suit the palate of the Western
world; but there are doubtless a few individuals on both sides of the
Atlantic who would willingly be transformed into a Danubian roustabout
long enough to make the acquaintance of yonder rude cask.
After bathing in the river we call on several of Igali's friends, among
them the Greek priest and his motherly-looking wife, Igali being of the
Greek religion. There appears to be the greatest familiarity between the
priests of these Greek churches and their people, and during our brief
visit the priest, languid-eyed, fat, and jolly, his equally fat and jolly
wife, and Igali, caress playfully, and cut up as many antics as three
kittens in a bay window. The farther one travels southward the more
amiable and affectionate in disposition the people seem to become.
Five o'clock next morning finds us wheeling out of Duna Szekeso, and
during the forenoon we pass through Baranyavar, a colony of Greek Hovacs,
where the women are robed in white drapery as scant as the statuary which
the name of their religion calls to memory. The roads to-day are variable;
there is little but what is ridable, but much that is rough and stony
enough to compel slow and careful wheeling. Early in the evening, as we
wheel over the bridge spanning the River Drave, an important tributary
of the Danube, into Eszek, the capital of Slavonia, unmistakable rain-
signs appear above the southern horizon.