A MOONLIGHT MEDLEY.
On looking over the steamer’s side, we see a youthful Jeanette and
Jeanot in the agonies of parting. It was a sight both comic and
pathetic: the grief of the former--a girl of scarcely more than sixteen
summers--was so evidently real, as she clung passionately to her
disconsolate but somewhat abashed swain. But much of the poetry of the
scene resolved itself into very flat prose when--the time being up--a
stern Hungarian official, not given evidently to encouraging weaknesses
of the kind, thrusts her from the arms of her lover with a most
unsympathetic shove, and hurries her across the gangway on to the deck.
Her face, as she passes, is sadly disfigured with weeping.
At this place we also take on board a Magyar noble and his servant; the
latter attired in a gorgeous livery of green and gold, with a hat to
match, and surmounted by a long and almost erect feather.
We were taking a promenade on deck, F. smoking the cigar of peace, when
the testy old gentleman passed us. He had evidently not yet forgiven us
for the part we took against him, in the discussion at dinner, on the
respective merits of Goethe and Schiller.
“_Swab_,” I heard him mutter beneath his clenched teeth, as he
withdrew a few paces from us--a term of contempt very frequently made
use of by the Magyars when alluding to the hated German race.
This word and the manner of its expression amused the fat old Servian
lady immensely, who happened to be sitting near. _She_ knew we
were English, for we had had a long chat with her earlier in the day,
and the mistake in calling us by the ignominious name of _Swab_
she evidently regarded as such a good joke, that she laughed till she
shook all over like a jelly, and could not steady herself for a long
time afterwards.
“You take us for Germans,” I said, confronting him boldly as he passed
again.
“And what else may you be, pray?” he demanded in a haughty tone,
colouring to the roots of his hair, all his porcupine quills appearing
in an instant, as, thrusting his hands into his pockets, he stood ready
for the attack.
“We are _Angolok_, by your leave, _mein Herr_.”
“_Angolok?_” rejoined he. “Then I have indeed to crave your
forgiveness”--all his testiness calming in an instant, whilst he
extended his hand towards us, adding sadly, “Ah, you do not know what
insults we Hungarians often have to bear from those _S--s--swab_.”
And I could see that the mere utterance of the word itself was a relief
to his feelings!
After this little episode we became great friends. He was a Magyar of
the old school, hating Austria and everything that had an Austrian
tendency. He had been an active partisan of Kossuth, having fought for
his country in ’49, and still carried the marks of a sabre cut on his
forehead, of which he was not a little proud.
Meanwhile our Danubian Jeanette sits disconsolate, fixing her eyes upon
the fading shore, long after the gables and church steeples of the town
have become invisible, looking down tenderly now and then on a flower
which is hanging its head meekly in her bosom and languishing--as,
alas! how soon her _love_ did.
An hour or two later, and her eyes and nose no longer red from crying,
we find that she is quite pretty, and also that she has already
attracted the attention of a spurred and top-booted Austrian officer,
who appears to be of the same opinion. He takes his seat beside her,
and then we see for the first time what large expressive eyes she has,
and how blue they are. Ah! If Jeanot could only see his Jeanette now!
Later still, they--the Austrian officer and she--are leaning over the
bulwarks of the ship together; as he whispers “soft nothings” in her
ear.
Their faces are fronting up stream, and I wonder whether her thoughts
are still travelling in the direction of the little, sandy, sun-burnt
port where her lover dwells, and whether he too is casting regretful
glances down the river’s course, or whether, on the contrary, he is
whiling away the tedium of the evening and consoling himself in the
presence of some other fair one!
By this time we had ourselves attracted the attention of our
fellow-passengers, and my small sketch-book had become the terror of
some and the astonishment of all. At first I was able to sketch the
various groups on board unseen--hiding behind friendly backs, sometimes
utilising F. for the purpose, sometimes András--till one unlucky
moment, taken off my guard, I allowed an inquisitive “native” to take a
mean advantage of me and slip round behind us. Thenceforward I had no
more peace. “The great unwashed” particularly manifested a most decided
disinclination to be immortalised, half believing I possessed the gift
of the “evil eye”--above all the Turkish ladies, who, when they were
informed of my dangerous proclivities, drew their bandages closely over
their faces till even their eyes were concealed, whilst the passengers
on the forecastle crowded round me to such an extent that the Captain
at last came to see what could be the matter. Some who happened to be
too far in the rear to have a good view of my proceedings had climbed
on to the ship’s bulwarks, where, holding on by the iron supports from
which the boats were suspended, they not only had a good view, but felt
secure from my dreaded machinations.
I never saw people more excited, until it became noised abroad that
“some one in the crowd knew all about it.” I was simply taking
pictures for the Illustrated _Zeitung_ (Journal) of Belgrade.
This was regarded as so natural and likely a solution of the matter
that henceforth--there being no longer any mystery--the interest in
me gradually subsided, and I was permitted to pursue art under less
difficulty.
Count ----, the “noble” who joined us at Esseg, is a most intelligent
and agreeable person; and as soon as he has ascertained to what
nationality we belong, he comes up and addresses us in the familiar
tongue. He speaks English very tolerably, but cannot, or at any rate
_affects_ not, to understand German. Immediately that he discovers
we speak French, however, he gladly relapses into that language, being
evidently more accustomed to converse in it than in English, although
he has, he informs us, been in England several times.
We soon discover that many Hungarians speak French both well and
fluently, for just at this juncture a heavily-laden barge of more than
ordinary interest passing alongside awakens a number of the first-class
passengers from their usual lethargy, and brings a little knot of
persons of both sexes to the part of the steamer where we are sitting;
and after the excitement has subsided, conversation becomes general,
turning--every one speaking French--upon the comparative merits of the
various modern languages, all agreeing that the English and Magyar are
the most reasonable, these being the only ones in Europe, so far as we
knew, in which the three genders are philosophically applied.
“Fancy!” broke in the testy old gentleman, glad to have a hit at
anything _German_, and growing almost black in the face. “Fancy
the bench (_die Bank_) upon which I am sitting being feminine,
whereas the chair (_der Stuhl_) upon which the Count reposes
is masculine. Why should not objects inanimate in every language be
neuter, as in ours and yours?” (looking towards us.) “Hang it, sir,
why should they have _any_ gender at all? ’Tis monstrous!” and
apoplexy seemed imminent.
“Or the sun” (just then setting, like a fierce war-god stained
with blood) “be _feminine_, whilst the placid, gentle moon is
_masculine_!” broke in some one else, continuing the argument.
“And the stars, the stars, oh! why should _they_ be masculine,
which twinkle so sweetly, and give us such a tender light?” added the
voice of a Magyar girl, in melodious but rather doubtful French.
“Der Mond ist aufgegangen,
Die goldnen Sternlein prangen,
Am Himmel hell und klar,”
sang the young German in a clear and manly tenor, paraphrasing in verse
the two last clauses of the discussion.
This was the signal for a request for some music, to which however
no one responded, till a Croatian gentleman, suddenly disappearing,
brought from below a kind of mandoline, the national instrument of the
Croat-Serbs, upon which he played some plaintive melody, and then sang
in his native language, Slavonian, a ballad to its accompaniment.
There is something very novel and delightful, as well as healthful to
the mind, in the feeling which creeps over one on board these Danube
steamers. Where else can one meet and converse, at one and the same
time, with people of so many nations and climes?
Even those poor, helpless lumps of humanity, the Turkish ladies, whom
not even the strains of music have aroused from their lethargy, and who
sit staring vacantly into the river,--I feel half-drawn towards them.
Yet their apathy almost drives me mad, though I know it to be due to
etiquette and not to choice.
Going across to their children, however, I try to amuse them, and
soon bring laughter to their melancholy eyes; till, growing bolder
by degrees as twilight approaches, they even let me lead them to
the forecastle, where a strange scene presents itself. Surely, with
these singular surroundings, we cannot be in Europe, but in some
Eastern vessel bound for Mecca or some other shrine with a freight of
pilgrims. There are groups of Bosniaks--Bosnians, as we in England
call them--crouching upon their bundles which contain their little
worldly all, or sitting on the deck eating their evening meal of black
bread and fat, uncooked bacon. There are manly Servians by the dozen,
and bronze-faced Turks: men clothed in pictorial rags begrimed with
cosmopolitan dirt; and the air terribly “Oriental” and frowsy with the
odours of sheepskin and garlic.
Here too are men of almost every religion, from the offshoot of the
Reformed faith, in the person of a stern and silent Debricziner,
priding himself in the exclusive doctrines of Calvin, to the
unbelieving Hebrew; whilst yonder, at the prow, is a turbaned son of
the Prophet, who, having spread his little island of carpet, is still
salaaming to the west, although the sun set full an hour ago, and
twilight’s shadows are gathering over all.
Close by us is a stalwart, broad-shouldered, and burly Bulgarian,
who, having spread _his_ rug also, makes the sign of the Greek
cross, and, drawing his fez over his eyes, lays him down to rest. There
are Roumanians too of every degree, from the tall, effeminate, and
sallow-complexioned dweller in Bucharest, to the wild and uncivilised
shepherd from the Wallachian mountains in sandalled feet. Amongst
all these, the poor down-trodden Jews sit alone, despised of their
neighbours--outcasts even here in this motley assemblage--the “pariahs”
of Europe.
As I stand watching from a little distance this diversity of peoples,
wondering whither they are going, and what kind of rustic homes will
shelter them when their voyage is ended, I observe a haughty Roumanian
pacing down the deck with measured strides, his curled lip and lofty
carriage bearing witness to his arrogant claims of ancestry.
He is smoking, and looking down disdainfully as he passes upon the
swarthy groups covering the planks of the vessel. Presently his foot
catches in a portion of the flowing garment of a poor, hoary-headed
Jew. The rag was trespassing on the space that, by tacit and mutual
consent, had been left clear the whole length of the deck, to enable
the passengers to walk up and down. The Roumanian first regards the
wearer with an expression of unutterable scorn, and then, muttering
between his teeth what seems to be an oath, kicks him thrice, and bids
him get out of the way.
The Jew, however, instead of resenting both insult and blows, turns
an abject gaze upon the imperious Gentile, and, quietly accepting the
ignominy which is his heritage here, draws his garments more closely
round him, and simply rolls over on the other side.
The rock-built fortress of Pétervárad now comes in sight, standing on
a promontory formed by the windings of the river. It has been called
the Gibraltar of the Danube, and presents a formidable array of walls
and bastions, rising tier above tier, perforated with loopholes for
cannon, and from its ramparts the guns and bayonets of the sentinels
glisten in the moonlight. The town at its base is interesting as
being the place at which Peter the Hermit marshalled his soldiers for
the first Crusade, and from whom doubtless the town has received its
present name. It is long before we lose sight of this great fortress,
commanding as it does, from its lofty position, the whole surrounding
country, which, like a sphinx, it seems to guard, the river skirting
it on three sides.
At length its battlemented heights begin to fade from sight, but
the moon still links its distant shores to the steamer’s wake by a
tremulous chain of glory. The top-booted Austrian officer departed with
the last gleam of the setting sun, and our little Jeanette, alone this
time, is once more leaning over the steamer’s side and looking down
upon the moon’s pathway. Is it guiding her thoughts back, we wonder,
to her lover? We welcome, at any rate, weeping eyes and downcast looks
as a good omen; and, passing by the deck saloon, we see that she has
placed her withered flower in water, and that--typical of her love--it
is holding up its head again!
[Illustration]
We were due at Semlin at eight o’clock, but being three hours after our
time in arriving at Pétervárad, we are scarcely likely to reach the
former place much before midnight.
As we sit languidly on the deck, and skim softly through the warm,
voluptuous air, the discordant sounds of a horn reach us from the
forecastle, probably that of a Wallachian shepherd.
We are now passing beneath lofty hills, which form the most
south-eastern portion of the Fruskagora chain. They are clothed to
their summits with primeval forest, but their lower declivities are
cultivated with the vine. Every now and again we pass a Slavonian
village, with its tall and slender steeple standing like a spectre in
the moonlight, and gleaming white against the sapphire hills. Will the
prophecy of a Panslavonic unity ever, I wonder, be accomplished?
That portion of the Slavonic race known as Russian first came in
contact with the Greek empire in 865, under the warlike house of Ruric,
just before the Magyar invasion of Pannonia. Three times the Russians
attempted to conquer Constantinople, the last occasion in 1043. The
Greeks twice succeeded in defeating these barbarian hordes by means of
Greek fire thrown from their war-galleys. Elated, however, by their
previous successes, the Greeks, on the third invasion of their northern
foe, pursued them too rashly, and were overpowered by the enemy. A
treaty was entered into, but the terror which this third attack upon
their capital created was greatly enhanced by the discovery that a
statue in the square of Taurus had been secretly inscribed with a
prophecy to the effect that _in the last days the Russians would be
masters of Constantinople_.
A singular prediction in connection with the former is also said to
have existed amongst the Turks, viz. that they were to continue to rule
in Constantinople 400 years, and that after that period their dominion
over it would cease. They have, as is well known, already exceeded this
term by some few years.
More than one Greek priest with whom we conversed recognised, in the
possible fulfilment of these prophecies, the partial realisation of the
Panslavonic efforts; for, by the Emperor of Russia becoming likewise
Emperor of Constantinople, the two branches of the Greek Church, at any
rate, would be united under one head.
Reaching Slankament, the waters of the Danube are augmented by those of
the Theiss. At the mouth of it numerous vessels are lying laden with
corn from the north, and into one of these we nearly ran, grazing her
side and carrying away a portion of her bows.
The moon shines brightly as we sit talking to the various races of
people on board, sometimes speaking German, sometimes French, sometimes
Italian or Spanish, and not unfrequently jumbling all together in our
endeavours to sustain conversation and make ourselves intelligible to
every one.
All evince the same curiosity which we have met elsewhere in our
travels in Hungary to know who we are, whence we have come and for what
purpose--in fact, all about ourselves and our belongings--which seems
the more remarkable, because one would suppose that English persons
must often be met with on board these steamers on their way to the
Lower Danube. They are not, however, met with frequently enough to
cause them to cease to be _raræ aves_ on these waters; and it is
intensely amusing to listen to the cross-questioning to which we are
subjected.
“English! Is it possible? Then you live in London. Well, to be sure!
_What_ a long way off! How long have you been on the journey? and
what cities did you pass through? Perhaps the illustrious strangers
are on their way to Constantinople? No! Well, then, doubtless the
gentleman is an engineer engaged in some public works undertaken by
the Hungarian Government--railways, perhaps?” All open their eyes very
wide when we tell them we are merely on a “_Lustreise_,”--that is,
travelling for pleasure, and the announcement invariably calls forth
the exclamation, “_What_ a lot of money it must cost to travel so
far! But the English are always, so rich, so _very_ rich.”
At Pétervárad we are joined by a young Bosniak gentleman. With the
exception of a fez and a crimson satin waistcoat, he wears the
ugly dress of Western civilisation; but his servant, a tall, fine,
broad-shouldered old fellow--a perfect picture in himself--is clad
in loose dark blue Turkish trousers, embroidered jacket, and crimson
shawl girdle; the whole rendered quite splendid by a heavily-braided
and fur-lined mantle worn loosely across the shoulders. András has
already made himself aware of his existence, and the two have been in
close conclave, no doubt imparting to each other the history, past,
present and future, of their respective masters. At any rate, András
is well up in that of the Bosniak, for I overhear him telling a German
acquaintance that he has large landed estates in the east of Bosnia,
and has six hundred labourers; that he cannot live in his own country
on account of the climate being too severe, and that he is on his way
to Adrianople, where he intends to settle.
At eleven o’clock the lights of Semlin come in sight, and there is
a general stir amongst the passengers, many of whom will leave us
there: stewards are rushing after some who had not yet paid their wine
bills: the decks are crowded with luggage. The second-class passengers
shoulder their bundles and rugs, and, having shaken themselves into
shape again, crowd the approach to the gangway till we come alongside.
What a strange wild scene now presents itself, and what a Babel of
tongues! Magyar, German, Greek, and Illyrian, or--I beg Mr. Max
Müller’s pardon--_Windic_: and what savage, uncanny faces loom out
of the darkness, faces of men whose acquaintance one would not like to
make on a lonely road; men with closely shaven locks, wearing caps like
fezes and Turkish trousers; others whose long-matted hair hangs over
their broad high shoulders and half conceals their features! And how
they rave and yell, and clamour for more, as the new passengers, whose
luggage they bring on board, put a _douceur_ into their hand to
repay them for their trouble!
“This--only this?” each seems to say in his own particular jargon as,
extending with bitter scorn his greasy palm in which the silver coin is
glistening, he asks for double. And witnessing these proceedings, we
feel thankful that we are not to land, at night at any rate, amid such
strange and wild surroundings.
[Illustration]