A few miles below Mohács is the upper mouth of the Franzens Canal which
joins the Danube with the Theiss, giving an easy outlet for the produce
of the great fertile plain, facilitating the transportation of grain and
lumber from the interior to the chief water highway. The construction of
the canal dates from the last century, and, in all probability, it was
projected even as early as the Roman occupation. It is only within a few
years, however, that, by the aid of English capital, it has been
finished and put in active operation. The wonderfully rich farming
country through which it passes has attracted, since earliest times,
settlers from all surrounding regions, and of all the Hungarian kingdom
it has the most varied and heterogeneous population. Almost anywhere
within the narrow limits of the low horizon may be counted between the
Danube and the Theiss a dozen villages, sheltering representatives of as
many different races, and a more attractive field for the philologist or
for the artist cannot be found between the Black Sea and the Baltic. The
traveller who rushes down the Danube in a steamer, or yawns at the
monotonous plain from the window of a Pullman-car on the Orient Express,
gets no more idea of the people than if he saw them from a balloon. Even
studied intimately and at leisure, this unique mixture of races is
confusing and perplexing, and only those who have long been familiar
with them can thoroughly
[Illustration: FROM BUDAPEST TO BELGRADE]
understand the conditions of their existence. In all Hungary the Magyar,
or pure Hungarian, does not number over four out of the fifteen millions
of inhabitants. They are the dominant race intellectually and
physically, and, of course, the governing race. But frugal, industrious
immigrants have on all sides taken possession of the land, have
established manufactories and built up trade, and have often left to the
Magyar little beside that pride of race to which even the lowest among
them cling as their most precious birthright. It is this pride which has
bound the nation together all through the dark centuries of constant
warfare with an implacable enemy, and it is this pride which is the
Magyar’s best support in his present struggle for a place in the
foremost rank of civilized nations. There can be no question of his
intellectual superiority over the races who crowd him on the east, the
south, and the west. That he is not yet in the same plane of
civilization as the nations in the west of Europe is due to the fact
that while the west was civilizing, the Magyar was keeping the frontier
against advancing Mahometanism; and it is only now, after many centuries
of discouragement and oppression, that he is in a position to advance
along the road of peaceful development and culture. To such a nature as
his all is possible, and his marvellous progress during the past twenty
years is gratifying proof that he is making the best of his present
possibilities.
We had the great good-fortune to be personally conducted through this
interesting region by Mr. Louis Gerster, the vice-consul of the United
States at Budapest, who met us at the mouth of the canal and who, from
long acquaintance with the population, was able to steer our course
successfully among the manifold ethnological and philological shoals on
which we should certainly have been wrecked had we been travelling
alone. He placed a small propeller at our disposal, and we made the
journey as far as the Theiss, shooting the wild-fowl with which this
region abounds, visiting all the villages, and studying the natives,
their customs, costumes, and modes of life. The few days we spent in his
company along the Franzens Canal would make a volume in itself, and it
is only because we must not pause in the tale of our Danube voyage that
we are obliged to keep the log-book of this side trip closed. Russians,
Bulgarians, Saxons, Servians, Jews, Gypsies, Schokaczs, Bunyvaczs, and
other known and unknown races and tribes, each with distinctly different
dress, language, and customs practically unchanged by transplantation
into Hungarian soil, so bewitched us with the charms of constant variety
and novelty that our trip was one round of exhilarating and delightful
impressions. Thanks to the excellent management of our friend, we were
able to spend a Saturday afternoon and part of Sunday in the Schokacz
village of Monostorszég, situated on the banks of the Danube, but so
hidden away behind islands that it would not have attracted our
attention from the canoes, and even if we had seen it, we would
[Illustration: SCHOKACZ TYPES]
not have suspected the existence of the treasures it held for us. The
village itself is not unlike many others we visited, with broad streets
shaded by acacias and mulberries, low whitewashed houses, a large barren
church edifice, and a few unobtrusive shops. In the daytime,
particularly in the harvest season, the whole place is deserted except
by a few old people and children. With the peep of day the entire adult
population rattles away over the plain in springless wicker wagons to
the cornfields, often miles distant. As the sun gets low in the
afternoon the dusty streets are again lively with laden carts and wagons
full of chattering, singing girls as brown as Indians. The village
swineherd, who has watched his unsavory flock on the muddy shores of the
Danube through the heat of the day, now drives them to the village
again, and as they approach their homes they scamper away, each to his
own sty, adding the harsh notes of shrill squeals and grunts to the
chorus of general congratulation that the hot day is past and the
coolness of the night is at hand.
Like three Tartarins of Tarascon, we found everything at Monostorszég
arranged for our amusement and entertainment as if by a stock company.
In the court-yard of one of the well-to-do farmers’ houses, where we
stopped to examine the stock of home-made embroideries and fabrics for
which the housewife was justly renowned in the neighborhood, we soon saw
assemble quite a large party of youths and maidens, many of them in
holiday dress, and all ready for a dance. From somewhere, we never knew
how or whence, a group of strange-looking musicians and stranger
instruments appeared casually in the crowd, and the inspiriting tinkle
of native dances set every bare foot patting time on the smoothly
trampled earth. There were a bass-viol, a guitar, a medium-sized
mandolin, and one, the tamboura, no larger than a lady’s hand, all of
them strung with wire, and played with a bit of bone or horn. On the
last-named instrument, which had a neck out of all reasonable proportion
in length, a tall, brawny native picked the most intricate and
encouraging melodies, and the feet must indeed have been heavy which did
not rise to the rhythm of this music. Out of deference to the visitors
the csárdás was for some time the only dance, but as the excitement
increased, and the presence of strangers was forgotten, their own dance,
the kollo, took its place, and we all participated in this, with more
zeal than skill. The kollo, which is the common dance all through
Croatia, Slavonia, and Servia, is more solemn and stately than either
the Hungarian csárdás or the Roumanian hora, but, like these, comes to
an end only with the strength and endurance of the participants. A ring
is formed, usually of an equal number of dancers of both sexes. Each
maiden places her hands on the shoulder of a youth on either side of
her, giving both the strings of her girdle or the ends of a kerchief,
passed behind her back, to twist around their forefingers, thus binding
the circle firmly together. The dance consists in stepping one measure
by a rhythmic patter with the feet, and then the next measure by a
movement to the left, with now and then a few steps backward and
forward, as the caprice of any part of the circle may decide. In this
dance, as in the csárdás, the performers are swayed and directed by the
leader of the orchestra, who alternates a slow, almost mournful, strain,
with wild and passionate bursts of music, which, like shocks of
electricity, set every figure in spirited action.
The ordinary costume of both sexes at Monostorszég is simplicity itself.
The women wear a high-necked, ankle-long chemise of white homespun
linen, with full sleeves gathered at the elbow and richly embroidered,
usually with blue. Bands of narrow embroidery decorate the waist and the
skirt also. This chemise is girded to the body by a thick woollen belt,
binding tightly to the figure the upper edge of a narrow apron of
striped woollen homespun, very brilliant in color. A kerchief is usually
worn on the head, and the feet are habitually bare. On Sundays and
fête-days the girls exchange the coarse garments for others of choicer
texture, the chemise being fine and carefully plaited, and the apron of
mull or muslin delicately embroidered with white. Tall red morocco
boots, with yellow heels and soles and curious pointed toes, adorn, or
rather disfigure, the feet, and around the neck are hung many rows of
gaudy glass beads. The hair is elaborately braided in a broad band,
which is brought over to the forehead and then turned back again. This
is held in place by dozens of pins with ornamental heads; and all along
the edges of the braid behind is a thick row of bits of a fine green
aromatic herb, while in the hair itself at the back, as well as around
the face,
[Illustration: IN SUNDAY DRESS, MONOSTORSZÉG]
bright-colored geraniums, marigolds, and other flowers, are skilfully
arranged. On their wedding-day they cover their heads with a wonderful
square structure, more like a pastry-cook’s _pièce montée_ than a
bonnet, wear an ample white lace shoulder-cape, a brilliant scarlet
petticoat, with white lace apron and tall red boots. This dress is
preserved with jealous care, and is never produced except on Sundays and
holidays. The men’s costume consists of loose linen trousers, like a
divided skirt, a full tunic, a waistcoat with silver buttons, hussar
boots, and a small round hat. Both sexes have for an outer garment
either a sheepskin cloak or a great-coat of very thick, felt-like, white
woollen, with broad, square collar, and sleeves either sewed up at the
bottom, or else in short, rudimentary form. These coats, and also the
sheepskin cloaks, are often richly and gaudily embroidered.
When we came into the village bright and early Sunday morning everybody
was in holiday dress. The red petticoats of the matrons flashed along
the sidewalks, but half-shaded by the small trees; groups of gay
maidens, each with wild-flowers in hand, hurried along to church, where
companies of men in immaculate linen and stiff embroidered coats stood
in solemn rows like supernumeraries on a stage. The church was already
partly full when we entered, and there was a bustle of many people
settling themselves in their places, and a constant stream of
worshippers coming in at different doors. We sat there marvelling at the
strange dresses, enchanted by the brilliant colors, all the while unable
to realize that this was the customary weekly ceremony, not a dramatic
pageant arranged for our benefit. The sexes sat apart, and the married
and the single each had a portion of the pews reserved for them, and
each entered the church by a different door. Near the altar the
marriageable maidens came clumping in with their red boots, always in
parties of three or more, each with a little bright-colored rug, a
prayer-book, and a bunch of flowers. Spreading out their rugs on the
stone floor, they kneeled down in rows facing the altar, and, after
carefully arranging their plaited Sunday chemises so as to cover their
feet, remained a few moments in the attitude of prayer, and then rose
and took their seats. Of all that great congregation there was not one
who did not wear the costume, and, with the exception of some of the
ornaments and finer textiles, all the articles of dress were of home
production. Every thread of the linen and wool had been spun on the busy
distaff as the women went to and from the fields to their work, and
woven in the winter-time, when the clatter of the loom is heard in every
house.
[Illustration: HUNGARIAN GIRLS AT BEZDÁN]
During the sermon we hurried away to be present at the close of the
church-service in the neighboring village of Bezdán, inhabited by
Magyars. It was a few miles away, and we arrived only in time to see the
quiet streets enlivened with people totally different in type and dress
from those we had just left. In the flickering shadow of the trees,
under the noonday sun, the women strode off homeward with an
[Illustration: ERDÖD]
energy of action that made their stiff petticoats balloon out still
more. Near the church the men gathered in silence to listen to the
crier, who was announcing various articles for sale. The unmarried girls
of the village wear white linen dresses, with short sleeves and
embroidered waists, wreaths of flowers in their hair, bright red ribbons
down their backs, black stockings, and dainty red and yellow slippers.
The matrons wear colors, sometimes green or black, but usually red, and
the men are chiefly noticeable for their loose linen garments and
elaborate boots, often with a survival of the spur in the shape of a
brass ornament on the side of the heel. Even as we stood watching the
people the streets became quite deserted again; and so we hastened on to
another village, where, in the populous Servian quarter, we caught our
first glimpses of Oriental life in the groups of women sitting flat in
the road in the shadow of the houses, disdaining, like true Orientals,
all such luxuries as chairs and tables, and disturbed by no horror of
dirt. Our Sunday’s excursion also included a gypsy settlement--not a
common sight, for these people are seldom permitted to occupy houses. It
disagreeably contrasted in its squalor and filth with the perfection of
neatness and tidiness among the Schokaczs and Magyars, but gave us a
notion of the range of types easily studied in this one neighborhood.
When we left the mouth of the canal, one breezy morning after our
excursion, and shot down the turbid stream with all sail set, the
soothing regularity of the tree-covered banks, and the utter absence of
anything to study or to sketch, was not without a calming influence on
us, and but for this little respite we probably should not have had the
heart to land at the long straggling village of Apatin, which promised
new beauties and fresh interests. Almost the first person we saw was a
little old German woman spinning flax on a tiny wheel, looking exactly
as if she had been transported bodily from the Black Forest. Farther
along the street we met unmistakable Germans, and heard again the
familiar language of the upper river. At the nearest corner was a
brewery, with tables under the trees, and guzzling sluggards devouring
strong sausage and stronger cheese. Everything was of the most
commonplace German order, from the architecture of the houses to the
beer mugs. Our parachute had burst, and we came to earth with a heavy
thump.
About half-way between Apatin and the village of Erdöd, with course as
straight as a canal, the river Drave pours in a muddy flood, and far up
the shining stream the foot-hills of the Tyrolean Alps lie all faint in
the distance. Fertile hills now skirt the west bank, and their sunny
yellow slopes looked agreeably bright and warm after the heavy greens of
the forest and swamp. The river has washed away the hills into
perpendicular bluffs, which are of earth almost as hard as sandstone.
Rude steps cut along a cleft were lively with girls carrying jars of
Danube water to the village above; and once, under a vineyard, where the
vines trail over the very edge of the bank, we saw a rude cave dug in
the earth, where a long pole with a dangling bush projecting far
[Illustration: CURRENT MILLS]
beyond the rough bough shelter at the door of the cellar announced to
the river men that wine was for sale. Our old friends the current mills
still clustered at frequent intervals, where the stream ran the
swiftest. Since the first time we saw them--far up the river, above
Vienna--they had not changed their general shape or construction; but
the owners’ names, painted in large white letters on the sides, had
marked with accuracy the limits of the different nationalities we had
passed in our journey. Now, before the curious combinations of letters
on the mills near the Hungarian shore had ceased to puzzle us, Croatian
and Slavonian names in a new and unfamiliar alphabet stared at us from
the weather-stained sides of the mills along the opposite bank, and
something of the crudity of Oriental taste was seen in the unskilful
attempts to decorate the wood-work near the door and window. From the
right bank we heard hails in an unknown language, and by the water’s
edge saw peasants with fiercer mustaches than even the Magyar boasts,
and women of a heavy, unsympathetic type. The costume, too, had
undergone a decided change. Both men and women wore clumsy wrappings
around the ankles, and uncouth sandals and shoes. The loose trousers of
the men were strapped to the calf by the thongs which bound the thick
woollen cloths or coarse socks to the ankles, and red sashes took the
place of belts. Servia was beginning to show herself to us long before
we reached the political frontier.