There is the same indefinable charm about Budapest that there is in the
gypsy music. This charm is a spiritual one. The situation of the city is
delightful, the streets are clean, the architecture agreeable, and all
the comforts of life are at the traveller’s command. In these respects
the city is not unlike many others, but in its people it is unique and
always will be as long as the Magyar tongue exists, or a drop of the
rich Eastern blood remains in a descendant of the race. Our experience
in Vienna was but the prologue to the hospitalities at Budapest. Under
the guidance of a host of friends, chief of whom was Mr. Louis Gerster,
the resident Vice-consul of the United States, we saw the town in the
most agreeable manner possible. Visits to the museums of art and of
antiquity, with their stores of treasures; inspection of the famous
wine-cellars, with the miles of wine-butts and millions of bottles;
drives in the parks; an excursion up the river in a special steamer with
ladies and gentlemen, when we danced the csárdás for a day and a night
almost without intermission; a trip down-stream to eat the delicious
sterlet, fresh from the Danube and cooked with paprika, after the
fisherman’s taste--our stay was one round of jollity. But for the
frequent sight of the great river with its hurrying current which urged
us to depart, we might have prolonged our stay until snowfall, such were
the fascinations that encompassed us.
[Illustration: COUNTRY MARKET-BOAT, BUDAPEST]
The water-front of Budapest, with its masses of extensive buildings and
its populous quays, is the noblest spectacle of similar order in the
whole course of the Danube. Within the last few years the city has made
marvellous strides in the direction of enlargement and improvement.
Three bridges now cross the river between Pest on the left bank and Buda
on the right, the two principal sections of the town. The upper one is
of iron, on huge stone buttresses, the middle one a graceful
suspension-bridge, built about forty years ago, and the lower of iron,
and built to carry a railway and to serve for foot-passengers as well.
Large hotels have been built, a fine new park laid out, new
parliament-houses on the river-front almost completed, the squares and
public places adorned with fountains and statues, and entire new
quarters covered with fine buildings, all within the past fifteen years.
These improvements have worked the modernization of the people as well
as the town, and the native costumes once so common in the streets are
almost a rarity now. The sulphur springs at Buda and on
Margarethen-Insel, famous since Roman times, form one of the chief
attractions to visitors, and afford an uncommon luxury to the residents.
The bathing establishments are of unparalleled extent and great
splendor, particularly on the island, where the delights of the
beautiful park enhance the popularity of the baths. Up to within a few
years there was a large cheap public bath where people of both sexes and
all ages, after having been cupped by an attendant as many times as they
could afford to pay for, according to the old faith in the efficacy of
blood-letting, huddled together, often nearly if not quite naked, in a
large common plunge-basin of steaming sulphur-water, where they remained
for hours, looking like the lost souls in Dante’s “Inferno.” This
promiscuous bathing is now no longer permitted, for this with many other
old customs among the common people has disappeared before the advance
of civilization.
The sun was well down behind the hills before we launched the canoes on
the day we left Budapest. The strains of the csárdás still echoed in our
ears; our minds were confused by the succession of novel experiences we
had enjoyed during the past four days; the river seemed to rush on with
a giddier swirl than ever before, and a strong head-wind did its best to
discourage our progress. It was not until we had lost sight of the hills
near the city, late on the following day, that we realized we were now
at length fairly afloat in the heart of the vast open plain which
extends to the Carpathians. The corner of this plain which we had
crossed below Pressburg had given us a hint of what we might expect in
the way of monotonous scenery, but it had disclosed to us little of the
charm of the great river which now enchanted us. High bluffs of firm,
hard earth alternated with stretches of densely-wooded low banks.
Tree-embowered villages nestled long distances apart, under
vineyard-clad slopes, or among fields rich with maize and ripening
wheat. The river began to be the focus of rural activity. Wherever mills
were anchored in the strongest currents, the peasants camped on the
adjoining banks, with ox-carts full of freshly-winnowed corn, awaiting
their turn for the grinding. Women vigorously beating clothes with
wooden mallets enlivened the scene with their laughter and gossip, and
formed fascinating groups, with every combination of rich color.
Everywhere were sunshine and laughter and song. Cries of “Eljen!”
(hurrah!) and “Hova megy?” (where are you going?) greeted us constantly
as we passed, shouting in reply, “Fekete Tengerig” (to the Black Sea).
The cheery vivacity of the people, their unfailing courtesy and
agreeable manners, had won our affectionate admiration from the first,
and the more we came to know them, the more we found reason to honor our
earliest impressions of them.
The tyranny of limited space forbids lengthy description of more than
one of the many interesting villages we explored in the first day or two
below Budapest, and Duna Földvár of cheerful memory may be taken as a
type of all. The village itself is, like most Hungarian places, a
collection of low houses along broad streets, laid out in rectangular
plan, gullied and dusty, and shaded by rows of small acacia-trees. A
great barren market square forms the usual
[Illustration: WASHER-WOMEN]
prominent feature of the village, and from this arid waste straight,
wide thoroughfares lead out into the open country behind, and casually
end there, like the streets of the great shanty cities in the Far West.
The architectural examples found in Duna Földvár are not notable;
indeed, the inscription over the church door,
“Isten-Gondviselésnyujtottdiszújalakotrám,” was the only detail in
relation to architecture that fixed our attention. A few sleepy
market-women sat in the broad shadow of the ugly town-hall, and, except
for the constant coming and going of many graceful maidens bearing tubs
of Danube water on their heads, there was little or no movement on the
streets. All the life of the village concentrated itself under the sandy
bluff by the river-side. A procession of barefooted girls continually
passed along the shore. Peasant men stripped to the waist, with their
divided-skirt-like trousers rolled up into the narrowest compass, washed
their cattle and wagons in the shallow water, while a busy army of men
and women unloaded the barges and carried the heavy freight to the
warehouses. At every available point of the crowded river-front
washerwomen, with their petticoats wet to the waist, stood knee-deep in
the stream, and accompanied their lively chatter with the vigorous
tattoo of their active mallets. In the shadow of the houses near the
landing great piles of watermelons were the centres of groups of all
ages, every individual busy with the luscious, juicy fruit. On all sides
we saw flashing rich color, beautiful types, picturesque costumes,
graceful action, and the bustle of ceaseless activity. The sparkling
river, the brilliant colors glowing in the bright August sun, and the
multitude of figures tempting the pencil fairly dazed us at first, and
we could only rush enthusiastically from point to point, finding each
new group and each new incident more fascinating than the other.
While we were busy sketching on the river-front a young gentleman
approached, introduced himself, and said he had been sent as the
emissary of a party of ladies and gentlemen who were about to go on a
picnic excursion, and desired the honor of our company. They had heard
all about our cruise from the Budapest papers, he added, and were
anxious to show us some attention. We felt obliged to decline the
invitation, for the day was fast advancing, and the subjects before us
were both fascinating and numerous, and the young man, with proper
apologies for disturbing us, withdrew. Towards the end of the afternoon
we paddled off, much depressed by the necessity of leaving practically
untouched the wealth of picturesque material in the little river town,
and, indeed, very loath to seek a camp. Just after we rounded the point
below the town we heard the
[Illustration: DUNA FÜLDVÁR]
strains of gypsy music, and soon caught sight of a large boat filled
with ladies and gentlemen, apparently waiting for us in mid-stream. In a
few moments we were alongside, and were very much pleased to find that
it was the same picnic party which had begged for the honor of our
presence some hours before. Indeed, it came out that the polite emissary
had lingered about and watched our departure, and then had hurried on
horseback to warn the party of our approach. We suffered ourselves to be
piloted ashore, where, in a pleasant grove by the water’s edge we found
a large table spread, a dancing-floor arranged, and everything in order
for a genuine Hungarian festivity. A band of ten gypsies furnished the
music, a dozen young ladies, with as many young gentlemen, a few men of
middle age and a proper number of chaperons, made up the party, and it
comprised, as we soon found out, the professional men of the town--the
lawyers and doctors with their families and intimate friends. We lost no
time in becoming acquainted, for all formalities of introduction were
soon over, and then the feast began. Like every similar entertainment in
Hungary, speech-making was a great feature of the dinner. Every one had
to do his share of this, and when the last toast was drunk, a mixed
Hungarian-American sentiment, we all took partners, and the csárdás
began.
Hours passed like magic, and the fast-waning afternoon light warned us
to be off. We had scarcely shouted the last “good-bye” across the
shining water when a violent wind arose, drowning with its rushing sound
the tinkle of the music in the grove, and changing the placid stream
into a turbulent sea of dashing waves. Night settled down with unusual
haste, and in the increasing darkness we were tossed and buffeted along,
sometimes half swamped, unable to find a landing on the steep, high
banks, not daring to
[Illustration: WATER-CARRIERS, DUNA FÖLDVÁR]
venture out into the raging stream, nor yet to approach too near the
shore. The distorting gloom so changed the usual landmarks that we could
not distinguish trees from bushes, and could only judge of our distance
from the shore by the sound of the angry water beating against the bank.
On we went, driven by the wind, which seemed to increase with every
fresh gust. Wherever we tried to land, the breaking waves warned us that
unless we found a sheltered spot we should pound our canoes to pieces
before we got them ashore. The noise of the storm made it difficult for
us to hear each other shout, and it was only by constant piping on our
shrill whistles that we kept our little fleet together. The situation at
last became so serious that we were about to give up all attempt to
land, and were on the point of
[Illustration: FISHING-STATION]
scudding down in mid-stream until the storm should abate, preferring to
risk capsize there rather than to endanger the canoes by further trials
at landing on a lee shore. Just as we came to this decision, however, an
unusually heavy squall struck us, and at the same moment we heard the
unmistakable swash of the water among willow bushes close at hand. We
knew then that we should find temporary shelter and shallow water among
the willows, for the unusual height of the river had covered all low
places. We also knew we could manage to land from the shoal water on a
flooded meadow; so we pushed boldly on, and passing the yielding
barrier, which fortunately was but a rod or two wide, found ourselves in
a quiet shelter behind the screen of slender bushes, and at the edge of
a grove of large trees with solid turf underneath. By the light of our
lanterns we hauled up the canoes, arranged them so as best to shelter
our camp-fire from the blast, rigged our tents, and then cooked our
supper in comfort. The storm continued the greater part of the night,
and we slept to the howling of the wind in the trees and to the dull
roar of the Danube billows.
Now, as we advanced, the river rose higher and higher, flooding all the
swamps and low-lying woodlands, and spreading out into broad lakes over
the meadows. Once only, in a whole day’s paddle, did we find a
fishing-station, and this was kept by men from a village fifteen miles
inland, who take regular turns in visiting their homes during the long
months when fishing is profitable. Their great wigwam had bunks for a
dozen men, and miles of nets were drying in the sun. As we had been
accustomed to land at a village at least once a day to replenish our
larder with fresh meat, vegetables, fruit, and wine, we found our
cupboards rather empty after a day or two in the wilderness, and we
welcomed the sight of the fishing-camp, for we knew we could procure
there an abundance of sterlet, the best fish found in the Danube. Our
arrival was a great event in the camp, and, mutually interested in each
other’s boats and mode of life, we spent an hour there, and then
departed, with a generous supply of sterlet taken from the fish-car
which was anchored in the stream, and covered with the stings of
mosquitoes, which hovered in a cloud over the whole point.
The steady current and favorable winds did not long permit us to fancy
ourselves explorers in an undiscovered country, but carried us easily
on, at the rate of thirty or forty miles a day, out of the swamps and
forests to the region of vineyards and dry hills and villages. In a
measure, as we went along and the landscape varied, so did the costumes
change in character, the types differ, and new peoples hail our fleet
with cries in strange languages. Drifting along within a yard or two of
the shore, we entered into temporarily intimate relations with the
villagers at their customary occupations, and were always welcomed by
them with unobtrusive but hearty familiarity, which filled our days with
pleasant little episodes and delightful experiences. The long-populous
town of Mohács, with extensive and ugly coal-yards, did not at first
tempt us to land, but groups of beautiful children and young girls, who
assembled to watch us as we stayed our all too rapid course along the
shore at the very door-steps of the houses, suggested such possibilities
there that we had perforce to go ashore and see what the place was like.
At our accustomed refuge in all these villages--the public
bath-house--we found among the crowd of people gathered at the landing a
boy of about a dozen years of age, who, to our great astonishment,
addressed us in English, with an unmistakable American accent, and said
that his grandfather hoped we would call on him before we went away. A
few moments later we were
[Illustration: PEASANT GIRLS AT MOHÁCS]
toasting America, England, and Hungary in the purest of Tokay from the
original bottles, sealed in the memorable year of ’48. Our host, Colonel
Fornét, was a fine type of the Hungarian patriot, who, like so many
others, had returned to his native country, after years of exile, to end
his life among his kin. After the heroic struggle for independence in
’48 he fled to the United States, became a naturalized citizen, and,
after a year or so, went back to Paris to meet and marry the lady who
had been betrothed to him before the revolution broke out. On his return
to America he was unable to resist long the fascinations of the
adventurous life in the great West, and for a time he followed the
fortunes of General Fremont and other explorers of the wild regions.
When the rebellion offered a still more tempting field for his restless
ambition, he joined a New Jersey regiment, and served with distinction
as its colonel until he was disabled in the field and incapacitated for
active life in the future. Shortly after the close of the war he
returned to Hungary with his family, and for a quarter of a century has
kept his memory bright, his gratitude warm, and his loyalty to his
adopted country still as pure as when he won the silver eagle on his
shoulders in the trying days of ’61. His children and grandchildren
regard America with such reverence, and speak of it with such genuine
affection, that our poor patriotism was put quite to the blush. With
tears in his eyes, the noble old soldier modestly gave us a short
history of his life there, and lived over again for a brief moment the
scenes of his younger days, his blood still boiling at the memory of the
martyrs of Arad, his voice still keeping its martial ring as he spoke of
his comrades in the great rebellion in his adopted land. There are few
countries where the utterance of such intense sentiments would not sound
strained and dramatic, and the expression of such feeling appear a
little out of tune. But in Hungary patriotism is not considered
old-fashioned, nor do the dictates of society demand that studied
indifference and coolness which is characteristic of the Anglo-Saxon.
Our visit to the grand old patriot left an impression on us which
neither time nor distance can efface.