On one of the pleasantest reaches, a short way below the mouth of the
magnificent stream which marks the Bulgarian frontier, the Roumanian
town of Kalafat, with its great church and public edifices, shows an
imposing mass along a high bluff, and looks down with the conscious
pride of newness on the old town and fortress of Widdin, among the green
meadows on the opposite shore. From the earthworks of Kalafat, Prince
Charles fired his first shot against the Turks in 1877, which found an
answering echo until Bulgaria was free and Roumania became a nation. The
grim old stronghold of Widdin still shelters a large Turkish population,
and above the rigid lines of its half-ruined parapets the slender points
of numerous minarets still rise, mute symbols of a faith that lingers
even now on the banks of the Danube. It was a pleasant, quiet afternoon
when we slowly paddled down the beautiful reach, enchanted by the
peaceful landscape and the pastoral beauty of the river-banks. Kalafat,
dominating the great bluff, was accurately reflected in the mirror of
the stream, and below, the slender minarets of Widdin and a cluster of
masts, showing high above a wooded island, carried the eye away in
agreeable perspective. A storm of wind and rain which swept over the
country an hour or two before had cleared away, leaving the sky blue and
cloudless. Dreaming of the time when the smoke of hostile cannon drifted
across the meadows and veiled the face of the high bluff, we floated
down towards the distant fortress, scarcely moving a paddle, lest we
should sweep all too soon past the charming spot. The sound of dashing
water like a cataract suddenly startled us, and we saw just below us,
only a short distance away, the whole surface of the river violently
agitated, as if a line of rocks or a rough shallow stretched across from
bank to bank. Hastily consulting the map, we found there was no such
obstruction marked at this point, and we were puzzled to know what was
in our path. Our ignorance was of brief duration, for even before we had
taken up our paddles again a sudden gust of wind struck the canoes, and
we were in the midst of tossing, angry surges. The willows on the bank
bent down like corn in a summer gale, and showed their leaves all white
in the sunlight. The pure dome of the sky was unbroken by a single
cloud, but the wind came tearing up the stream like a cyclone. From the
bluffs of Kalafat to the meadows of Widdin the great sleepy river had
suddenly become a seething, foaming waste. Our only shelter was under
the low mud banks on the Bulgarian side, whither we slowly fought our
way, obliged to keep our bows to the wind, and at the same time to draw
shorewards with all possible speed. For some moments we were buffeted by
the waves and beaten about by the vicious blast, but at last we managed
to gain the shelter of some large willows, and landed in the mud
opposite Kalafat. We got ashore not a moment too soon, for the river,
threshed by the flail of continuous gusts, grew rougher and rougher, and
the waves broke with crests like ocean billows. At the spot where we
landed was moored a rude fishing-boat, and two young Bulgarian fishermen
sat under the trees on the bank above busily weaving rough baskets out
of unpeeled willow twigs. Their camp was a bed of boughs under the
gnarled, crooked trunk of a tree; their outfit
[Illustration: BULGARIAN FISHERMAN BASKET-MAKING]
consisted of a small kettle, a dish, and two wooden spoons, and, stowed
away in the shade of a convenient stump, a small stock of green corn, a
few watermelons, and a fish or two wrapped up in leaves comprised their
whole stock of provisions. In this simple bivouac they cooked and ate
and slept all summer long, fishing by day and by night, and selling
their catch at Kalafat or Widdin. A cloak of thick rough woollen cloth,
like the mantle of the ancient Dacian, was their covering by night, and
their chief protection against the weather. As simple in their tastes as
the Indians of the plains, and with no better appliances for use and
comfort than may be found in the wigwam of the savage, they live a happy
and contented life, their only enemy the mosquito, their only society
the solemn herons that wade along the shore in the very smoke of the
camp-fire.
They had watched our struggle with the storm, and welcomed us ashore
with hearty good-will. Out of their rustic larder they chose the best
melons, and insisted on our eating them, and for our supper they
selected the freshest and best fish. They firmly refused the money we
hesitatingly tendered them as we launched the canoes after the violence
of the gale had abated; and when we left them at twilight, they shook
hands, and wished us “godspeed” as heartily as if we had camped with
them for a season. Some distance below their bivouac, and in full sight
of the glimmering lights of both Kalafat and Widdin, we passed the night
among the wild-flowers and tangled grasses of a dry bank in a sheltered
spot quite enclosed by a dense growth of trees and underbrush, with no
more unpleasant intruders than startled water-fowl and drowsy,
unambitious mosquitoes.
The great brick fortress of Widdin has a strangely aggressive look in
the pastoral landscape along the river. The high walls, enclosing with
their protecting bulwarks the populous Turkish quarter of the town, with
its numerous mosques, rise directly out of the water at the river-front,
and tower far above the trees scattered over the broad green meadows,
and, although neglected and fast crumbling to pieces, are grandly
imposing in height and extent. No bunting now flutters from the
tottering flag-staff, and the yawning embrasures are half filled with
rubbish, but the great citadel still dominates with arrogant pride the
rambling commercial town in the shadow of its walls, and maintains its
dignity as the extreme important outpost of Mahometan faith in Europe--a
noble monument to the former military and political supremacy of the
Turkish Empire. On the narrow landing-places by the water-gates, as we
drifted past in the early forenoon, crowds of Turkish women and children
were busy with their washing, and men in variegated jackets, baggy
trousers, turban, and sash waddled idly about, or lazily rowed the
clumsy boats laden with merchandise. The indescribable squalor and filth
of the Orient characterized every feature of the scene, and we now
realized, what Belgrade and Ada Kaleh had only hinted to us, the nature
of the gulf that separates Mahometan from Christian, not only in
religion, but in type, dress, and costume. Widdin is not only one of the
most important towns of northern Bulgaria, but is the real head of
navigation for sailing-vessels, and in many ways distinctly marks a new
phase of river life, and an abrupt political, ethnographical, and
philological frontier as well.
When we drew up our canoes on the shore just above the steamer-landing,
we were interviewed at once by a smart-looking young officer in white
Russian cap and tunic, and red-trimmed brown trousers of Bulgarian
homespun, and armed with sabre and revolver, who politely requested the
temporary loan of our passports, and, after we had given them up, told
us we were free to go where we chose. We were not long in finding our
way to the busiest thoroughfare of the town--a long street with low
houses, and a continuous line of small shops and cafés, mostly like deep
alcoves slightly raised above the level of the pavement.
[Illustration: CANN, OPPOSITE KALAFAT]
[Illustration: BULGARIAN PEASANT TYPES]
Hundreds of country people, having disposed of their produce in the
great market-place near the citadel, were now busy shopping. The women
in this section of Bulgaria wear a short, scant chemise of homespun
linen, with full, long sleeves, often richly embroidered, a
bright-colored woollen apron reaching to the hem of the chemise in
front, and another of similar stuff, but very full and stiffly plaited,
hanging no lower than the bend of the knee behind. They braid their hair
in one long piece down their back, and fasten an embroidered white
kerchief around their heads, with fresh flowers and ornaments of various
kinds. Uncouth rawhide sandals and thick shapeless socks, often
brilliant orange in color, protect their feet and ankles. The men here,
as in most other districts, wear what may best be described as a clumsy
imitation of the Turkish dress, usually made of brown woollen homespun,
trimmed with black braid, and, in place of fez, a black sheepskin cap,
often varying in shape, but seldom in color.
Among this gay and bustling crowd, sad, pallid-faced Turkish women, and
mournful, dejected-looking men, stalked like spectres, or haggled
wearily with apathetic shopkeepers. Mounted policemen, very like
Cossacks in appearance, galloped recklessly through the multitude, and a
numerous force of men on foot, in neat brown uniforms, watched with
active vigilance every unusual stir among the people, and quelled with
rough-and-ready authority every incipient disturbance caused by too much
slivovitz (plum brandy). We strolled across the market-place and over
the moat into the great citadel, and passing the inner gate, were in a
quarter as characteristically Turkish as the remotest corner of
Stamboul. The huddle of people in the narrow, crooked streets; the
curious shops, and the open manufactories of all sorts of articles; the
latticed windows, tumble-down fountains, and half-ruined mosques; the
close, musty smell, and general squalor and worn-out appearance--all
were unmistakably Turkish, and everything indicated extreme poverty and
a condition of life which excited our heartiest sympathies. Intense love
of locality binds this people to the place, and, isolated by religion,
language, and customs, with no rights of citizenship and no common
interests with their neighbors, they endure with the patience
characteristic of their race the aggravating tyranny of the Bulgarians.
[Illustration: TURKISH TYPES]
Three fresh languages assailed our ears in Widdin, and we plunged
without preparation from the tangled maze of Roumanian and Servian into
the quagmires of Bulgarian, Turkish, and modern Greek. We expected to
hear two new languages here, but were surprised when we took our
luncheon in a restaurant to find the bill of fare written in Greek, and
to hear the waiters shouting orders in this lisping speech. We were now
well across the line that separates the Orient from the Occident, and
within touch of Constantinople and Athens. The markets gave us abundant
evidences that we had reached a milder climate. Grapes were delicious,
plentiful, and cheap, the best varieties costing less than two cents a
pound. Tomatoes, egg-plant, and sweet-peppers were larger and better
than we had seen before, and melons and green corn were almost out of
season. Fresh meat was about five cents a pound, and caviar, for which
delicacy Widdin is celebrated, was readily obtained, but at a price very
little lower than in any other market. Knowing that we had a rather
desolate part of the river before us, we laid in a good supply of stores
of all kinds, except wine, which, we learned, was easily to be obtained
at any village, and when the town had gone to sleep at noon, sought our
passports at the police headquarters; but the official in charge of this
department had gone home for his dinner and siesta, and we were obliged
to kick our heels in idleness and impatience until he returned, an hour
and a half later.
Just below Widdin, at the Bulgarian town of Arčer Palanka, the general
course of the Danube changes from the south to the east; and to the town
of Cernavoda, in the Dobrudscha, about 300 miles below, the river keeps
the latter direction with few and slight deviations. The long, straight
reaches were here enlivened by many sailing-vessels of the
fifteenth-century type, with high ornate sterns, and single mast set
midway between the bow and stern. Sometimes
[Illustration: TURKISH QUARTER, WIDDIN]
[Illustration: TURKISH VESSELS]
we met them gayly ploughing their way up-stream, with every bellying
sail drawing full, and again we saw them dragged slowly against the
current by a long line of patient Turkish sailors harnessed to a
tow-rope; or else we came across them tied to the trees in some quiet
spot awaiting a favorable wind, the decks covered with sleeping sailors,
no man on watch. The Roumanian shore from Kalafat down for scores of
miles at a stretch is as straight and level as if drawn with a ruler,
and the landscape on that bank of the river is reduced to its simplest
terms. The Bulgarian side is seldom monotonous, and never for any long
distance flat and marshy. High grassy hills approach the river, and
recede again at intervals, enclosing between their spurs great fertile
meadows covered with farms. Here and there on the bare slopes of the
rounded hills quite extensive villages are seen, usually at some
distance from the river. Many of these are only great irregular
collections of hovels dug in the ground and roofed with earth, and even
the best of them can boast no more than one or two buildings of a better
type than the ordinary hut of sun-dried bricks or of wattle and mud.
Most of the habitations, together with the great straw and hay
ricks--always the prominent feature of every village--are enclosed by
walls of mud or by wattled fences, and the streets, which ramble along
casually between these boundaries, are seldom better than gullies or
watercourses. The interiors are often surprisingly neat and tidy, even
in the rudest hovel, and whitewash is used with freedom.
About three hours’ paddle below Widdin we came to the flourishing town
of Lom Palanka, famous for the purity of its water, and somewhat
renowned for the quality of its wine. We ran ashore, intending to fill
our wine-bottles and then to move on to an early camp. We fancied that
the Lom Palankians would be eager to welcome us when they saw us land
prepared to trade, but the delegation who met us as we floundered out of
the mud looked uncommonly hostile, every man wearing a uniform, and all
more or less heavily armed. Escape was impossible, so we began to
parley, and asked the way to a wine-shop with as much politeness as our
meagre vocabulary allowed. The only response to this question was a
stern demand for our passports. We promptly produced them, and, to our
chagrin and astonishment, saw them disappear in the capacious pocket of
the chief officer of the little army. The Custom-house people at Widdin
had told us that we could land anywhere to buy stores without giving up
our papers, and we explained this as well as we were able, and demanded
our passports again, preparing to leave without making our desired
purchases. Remonstrances were worse than idle, for they soon led to our
arrest, and we were marched off to the police-station, a long way up the
main street. The chief was not in his office, and he
[Illustration: BULGARIAN VILLAGE]
was unearthed from his hiding-place only after a half-hour’s search by a
large scouting party of policemen. The usual series of questions was put
to us, and we sandwiched our replies between bursts of indignant
language, which perhaps it would be unwise to chronicle here. The
pachydermatous young man, bristling with authority, and assuming the
indifference of immeasurable superiority, paid little attention to our
explanations or our expletives, and after slowly spelling out the words
from our passport, “We, Robert, Arthur, Talbot, Gascoyne Cecil, Marquess
of Salisbury, Earl of Salisbury, Viscount Cranborne, Baron Cecil,” and
from the other, “Robert Lincoln,” copied the numbers in a book, ordered
us to sign our names, and then let us go. Hot with wrath at the delay,
we paddled off, determined to leave Lom Palanka out of sight if we had
to sleep in a swamp. We had the good-fortune, however, to discover just
after dark a reasonably good camp-ground on a low bank of sun-baked mud
covered with coarse grasses, and the next morning found we had chosen
the spot where the natives had their summer clam-bakes, for great heaps
of fresh-water clamshells, the well-picked bones of a sheep or two, and
traces of recent fires were scattered all around us.