Sturdy girls, returning from market with veritable Eiffel towers of
empty tubs on their backs, strode up the steep banks from the landing as
we fled from the enervating luxuries of the inn at Theben and hastened
to paddle towards the busy little town of Pressburg, boasting a new
railway bridge, as ugly a château as man has ever devised, and as
pleasant parks and gardens as ever soldier and nursery-maid chose for
their public flirtations. It claims as its chief historical distinction
the honor of having crowned within its walls the Hungarian kings since
the dynasty was founded. It is a gay little place, with tastefully
decorated shop-windows, and signs everywhere in the Hungarian language.
In a brief two hours’ paddle we had passed beyond the limit of a
distorted dialect of German, and now heard only the soft music of the
Magyar speech. No phase of our journeying was more interesting than the
experience with this abrupt philological frontier.
Below Pressburg the Danube branches into three sinuous arms, cutting the
great low plain into two long irregular islands, little better than
swamps for the most part--at least, as far as our horizon extended. The
canalization of the river, which practically comes to an end in this
territory, makes the channel quite plain, and diverts the flow of water
from the tortuous branches where the villages cluster on the muddy
banks. On the first day after leaving Pressburg the
[Illustration: PEASANT GIRL, THEBEN]
active arguments of hunger persuaded us to explore one of these lagoons
in search of an inn, and after a while we came upon a straggling
collection of low shingled houses gathered into the semblance of a
village by low fences of wattled willow. With a microscopic vocabulary
of Hungarian words we succeeded in getting food to satisfy our colossal
appetites, and in holding the friendliest relations with the bronzed
peasants, who were fast courting oblivion through the medium of strong
wine in the Italian-like hostlery. Here we first made acquaintance with
Hungarian dust and Danube mud, an intimacy which ripened as we went on,
until at last no adjectives would fitly apply to the one or describe the
disgusting characteristics of the other. The willow, too, in this first
great flat stretch forced itself on our notice, and began to aggravate
us with its monotony, turning an otherwise agreeable landscape into a
series of object-lessons in simple perspective. But even the willow came
to an end here after a while, and for an agreeable change we welcomed
[Illustration: HUNGARIAN CATTLE]
an open country, with broken mud banks, where we heard the plaintive
music of shepherds’ pipes, saw stalwart swineherds against the sky, and
startled, as we drifted past, great droves of wild-looking cattle
cooling themselves in the shallows. The life on the bank became at
intervals more busy, and all sorts of domestic operations were carried
on in the open air along the muddy shores. Whole families splashed about
in the shallow water as little heedful of our presence as if we belonged
to them. The River Raab sneaks into the Danube in the guise of a lesser
side lagoon, and but for our delightful flower-carpeted camp in sight of
the group of barges at its mouth and within the sound of the tattoo of
many mills, we should scarcely remember it as a feature of our trip. A
brief pause at Komorn, regular and uninteresting architecturally as most
Hungarian towns are, did not increase our desire for exploration, and we
voted, since our time was limited, to land in the future only at places
which, smaller and less Germanized by the commerce of the river, would
probably be more characteristic and picturesque. But the great Cathedral
of Gran--Esztergom is the sonorous Hungarian name--rising above the
ruins of a great brick fortress on a prominent height among vineyard
slopes, made us accept a speedy amendment to this resolution, and under
the lee of its bridge of boats we drew up alongside of one of the great
arks which recall the naval architecture of the pre-deluge period. We
sampled the characteristic cookery of its famous restaurant, and passed
an hour or two of wild excitement over the wonderful colors in the
market-place, where shoulder-high heaps of scarlet paprika (big sweet
peppers) set the key for a combination of rich and varied tones that
would have exhausted the palette of an old Venetian painter; and when at
last an inviting breeze rippled the water, we forced ourselves away and
sailed down the beautiful reaches among grand hills, our eyes still full
of the kaleidoscopic sparkle of enchanting Esztergom.
Our frisky boats lost the breeze in the narrow, crooked defile below,
and we settled ourselves to a quiet drift under the great ruins of
Visegrád, where villas, bath-houses, and a level road, gay with ladies
and children, marked the little village as the first sybaritic outpost
of Budapest. Preoccupied with the beauties of the scenery, we did not at
first notice the frantic waving of the Union-jack in the hands of some
one on the shore, but we soon turned our bows in the direction of this
unmistakable invitation to land, and were welcomed on shore by an
English gentleman, a summer resident there, who explained that, having
read of our trip in a Vienna newspaper, he and his family had been on
the watch for us for many days. Such hearty hospitality as he offered us
could not be refused, although it was the Delilah to our Samson strength
of purpose, and we went ashore. A party of ladies and gentlemen was
speedily formed, and we made an excursion up the hill, through pleasant
groves and along shady paths, to the ruins of the old castle of the
Hungarian kings, who resided here as early as the eleventh century.
Matthew Corvinus enlarged and improved the castle, and it was long the
chief stronghold of this region. The royal
[Illustration: GRAN (ESZTERGOM)]
crown of Hungary was once concealed in a deep pit cut in the solid rock
under one of the towers, and there are various other notable historical
legends connected with the place. Another castle near the water’s edge,
although it is partially restored, had a sentimental interest for us
because we were informed that it had been intended for the summer
residence of the unfortunate Prince Leopold. The former
commander-in-chief of the Hungarian army in the revolution of 1848,
General Görgei, lives quietly in a pleasant villa high above the river.
Surrounded by his family and busying himself with all sorts of
mechanical operations, to which he is devoted, the old general appears
to have secured the greatest blessing known to man--contentment. The
weight of the forty odd years that have passed since he gave up his
sword has not bowed his straight figure, and his dark eyes still have
the fire of youth in them. At his own request we went to call on him,
and found him, like all the men of Kossuth’s time, enthusiastically fond
of America, and grateful for the sympathetic aid and comfort of the
whole English-speaking race. Lingering long in his company, the summer
twilight stole upon us before we knew it, and warned us to seek a camp.
The tempting offers of hospitality so heartily given, the fascinations
of the people and the place, and the unique charm of society which is
peculiar to Hungary alone, all these and many other delights made it
next to impossible for us to take our leave. But at last we hardened our
hearts, pushed off, waved a last farewell to the young ladies who
accompanied us a short distance in a wherry, and paddled out into the
glowing twilight.
The frequent villas that dot the shores below Visegrád we now looked
upon through glasses of different color. Only twenty-four hours before
we would have named them landscape-spoilers, and would have turned our
faces from them as we passed. But we had caught the infection of the
happy land; the microbe which, once in possession, never leaves the
willing victim, had begun to attack us, one and all, and we saw possible
friends in every pretty garden and in every luxurious pleasure-boat. At
this moment less than ever did a great city have any attraction for us,
and we wildly planned to cut Budapest altogether, and continue our
joyful cruise down into the great wild region beyond, where the river
life is active and varied, and where our days should be a succession of
pleasant experiences and surprises--where, indeed, we might learn to
know, with an intimacy that only such a free life makes possible, the
people in their unaffected, simple existence.
[Illustration: VISEGRÁD]
Just above Waitzen, a good-sized town with prison and manufactories and
busy quay, with barges and peasant market-boats, the river bends
gracefully around to the south, divides past a long flat island covered
with fertile farms, and then loses itself in the distance where the
grand old fortress on the summit of Blocksberg overhangs the suburb of
Ofen (Buda in Hungarian) on the right bank, and looks down upon the
imposing façades of Pest on the opposite shore. An accident, happy in
its result, but threatening for a moment a painful disaster, made a
pause at Budapest a necessity. Sudden summer thunder-storms swept
[Illustration: SWINEHERD]
over the river from the cloud-compelling summits in the west, and then
cleared away with a strong wind, which, blowing across the current, soon
stirred up what the ocean pilots would call a “nubbly” sea. The
temptation to hoist sail and triumphantly dash past the populous
waterfront of the great city was not long to be resisted, and soon the
sparkling river was enlivened by three pairs of snow-white sails.
Open-mouthed millers stared at us as we swept past their groaning
floats, throwing up spray like so many yachts. Suddenly a polished
rudder gleamed in the air, following the total eclipse of one of the
canoes, crew and all. A multitude of objects tossed on the waves and
bobbed away down-stream, while the humiliated canoist came up, shining
like a seal, and righted his water-logged craft. A landing was made, not
without difficulty, more soaked and ruined articles were recovered than
it would have been thought possible to stow under the mahogany hatches,
and we were glad to seek refuge, after the canoe was baled out, in the
hospitable boat-house of the Neptune Ruder Verein, a mile or two below
the scene of the accident, among the pleasant groves of the
Margarethen-Insel (Margitsziget).
We had often remarked that in our independent way of travelling constant
variety was the rule, and monotony of incident never possible. If we
could have had the choice, we certainly would not have introduced
ourselves to the rowing men of the Neptune Verein until our fleet could
have passed inspection with credit. But the unexpected event of a
capsize forced us to swallow our pride, and we accordingly bundled the
wet things out upon the float, and stowed the canoes away among the
slender racing craft in the boat-house. Not only had the accident taken
the bloom off our self-confidence, but it had upset many pet theories
which had from the start been quite undisputed. Our blind faith in the
value of india-rubber as a water-proof material had hitherto not been
disturbed, but on this the occasion of the first real test elaborate
rubber boat bags and air-tight hatches only seemed to aggravate the
disaster; for all these contrivances seemed not only to actually suck
the water in, but to hold it perfectly when it was inside. We hereafter
limited our belief in water-proof receptacles to the ordinary
well-corked glass bottle of commerce in which we kept our matches.
[Illustration: A FAMILY WASH]
What a medley of gypsy music, song, and csárdás, of beautiful women and
cheery, sympathetic men, of abundant
[Illustration: AN ARK-BOAT]
hospitality and general good-fellowship, Budapest now remains to us in
our memory! It wellnigh proved our Capua, for, being only human, we
could but yield to the enchantment. Who shall adequately describe the
fascination of the native gypsy music, with its throbbing, wailing
strains and its intoxicating rhythm? What writer’s pen or artist’s
pencil shall picture the csárdás, with its Oriental action and its
exhilarating intensity? It would be easier to convey by words or by
lines the sense of a strange perfume than to analyze and explain the
charms of the music or the attractions of the dance. Prosaically
described, the csárdás is a dance for one or for any number of couples,
and is performed in a great variety of ways, the partners sometimes
dancing apart and sometimes together. The common fashion we observed
during our brief experience, and the one we naturally indulged in as the
nearest allied to the dancing we were familiar with, is for the lady to
rest her hands on the gentleman’s shoulders, who, in his turn, places
his hands on her waist. A long-cherished admiration for the dance
forbids me to attempt to give any notion of the step or of the vibrating
action of the body, truly interpreting in motion the spirit of the
music, which, with sweet insinuating melodies, wild and ever wilder
bursts of mad chords, lends the contagion of its tireless vigor to the
dancers, and sways them like reeds by the power of its savage
harmonies.