THE DANUBE BELOW BUDAPEST
Almost directly after leaving the city to continue the voyage
southward, we find ourselves close to the island of Csepel, very like
others passed above, only more so! The Danube seems to have a peculiar
facility in dividing itself into two branches, which run almost
parallel and rejoin after a longer or shorter course. The islands thus
formed are celebrated for the fertility of their alluvial soil and are
eagerly taken up by peasant agriculturists.
Csepel is a strip of 38 miles or so with an average breadth of 3
miles, on each side of which the arms of the divided river run almost
straight. There are at least a dozen villages planted along the island
and some 20,000 inhabitants live there.
Apart from this curious feature of the landscape, any one who has come
down from the higher reaches of the Danube may feel disappointed at the
scenery; he has had his fill of variety and grandeur, of precipitous
rocks and sudden turns, and he finds himself instead in the midst
of flat land bounded only on the far horizon by hills. The great
stillness, the monotony, the evidences of the simple agricultural life
of the dwellers in the plain, all contrast with the rush of rapids,
the endless change of scene and the suggestions of war and brigandage
presented by the stern ruins of the keeps perched defiantly on their
high bosses. Nevertheless, in the plain is to be found the true
Hungarian life and glimpses of the peasantry. The Hungarian is not a
mountain-man like the Transylvanian or Tyrolese. In the long-gone ages
it was the boundless plain which tempted his forefathers to settle
here, and at the present time it is the boundless plain which holds his
heart in captivity.
The great soda lakes lying flat like mirages are deserted by birds in
the winter but become the resting-place of numerous flights of geese
in spring and autumn. The little villages are half-buried in vineyards
and show only the steeple of a church or the white walls of the tiny
houses. Great water-mills float placidly everywhere, even though their
numbers have been reduced by the adoption of steam. The vast reaches of
cultivated land looking rich in the sunlight are varied by the flocks
of sheep being watered at a primitive trough and well; just so did
Jacob water the flocks when he met Rachel. The immediate banks of the
river are mostly sand-hills and reeds, fringed by straggling willows
which give scanty shade, and the bed of the stream, ever varying in
depth, needs careful navigation.
Kalocsa is the seat of an archbishop, and contains a famous college and
an astronomical institute in which observations of value and importance
to the whole world have been made. A branch line joins this town with
Kiskaros, the birthplace of Alexander Petöfi.
Then we come to Mohács, ever memorable as the scene of the disastrous
battle when the Turks so completely overwhelmed the Hungarians that the
nation was ground beneath the heel of the conqueror for generations.
This was in 1526, and out of 30,000 Hungarians only 6000, it is said,
were left alive.
[Illustration: WASTE LANDS NEAR KALOCSA]
Shortly after we come to the Francis Canal, connecting the Danube with
the Tisza, Hungary’s second river. It was opened in 1802 but became
choked and useless. By the energy of Zürr Stephen, who enlarged it and
cut two new canals connected with it, it was once more turned into a
useful waterway. When joined by the Drave, the river gains in size
and importance, but it is not until we pass into the spurs of the
Carpathians that the scenery once again grows grander, and after seven
or eight miles we find a steam ferry where a whole train is carried
bodily across the Danube. Ruined forts and towering crags now spring
up once more, and on a lump or rock 200 feet high is the fortress of
Peterwardein, with the little town at the foot; this was called after
Peter the Hermit, whose birthplace it is supposed to be. Not far
off the little town of Karlovicz nestles among its vineyards; it is
renowned for its vermouth.
Where the Theiss or Tisza flows into the larger river the larger
plains on each side are broad and level. This is a well-loved river
and carries with it the hearts of the Hungarians, more even than the
Danube, which has such a cosmopolitan character. The Tisza belongs to
Hungary, from source to outlet, and traverses the great plain which
so embodies the Hungarian’s ideas of his country. It runs across such
flat ground that the fall is very small, consequently the windings are
absurdly exaggerated, and the river has the appearance of a twisted bit
of ribbon falling in heaps.
With the junction of the Save on the right bank the Danube forms
the southern boundary of Hungary itself, separating it from Servia,
whose capital, Belgrade, is just at this corner, which appears a most
dangerous situation for a capital. After this the navigation gets more
difficult, and many fortified places on the hills which have played a
share in the relentless wars against the Turks stand up conspicuously
on their isolated promontories. There is endless diversity of scenery,
endless variation in the swiftness of the current as the bed of the
river widens or contracts.
The river Temes flows into the Danube which, once more bifurcating,
forms another island nearly 4 miles in length. The Kubin then joins
it from Servia, and from Bazias the Lower Danube begins. The island
of Moldava, 3 miles long, lies in the midst of an area of shifting
sand-banks. At the far end the Danube is over 2000 yards broad,
contracting with startling suddenness to a quarter of that width. At
the end of this wedge is the pinnacle-like rock of Babakhai, standing
out in midstream near two islands. It has an interesting legend
connected with it.
The next place of interest is the castle of Kolumbacz.
The scenery presents characteristics of wild solitary grandeur,
beetling cliffs, shooting up into the sky, the exclusive
domain of eagles and other birds of prey; vast interminable
forests that climb the highest mountains and descend into the
deepest gorge; cataracts roaring and leaping from rock to rock;
majestic trees, with the soil washed from under them, and ready
to be hurled by the next blast into the river; others, stript
of their bark, white and mutilated, dashing along with the
current.
This fine description is still as true as when it was written many
years ago.
The Kolumbacz fly, a peculiarly virulent kind of mosquito, is known and
dreaded far and wide. Tradition says that in a cave in these rocks St.
George slew the dragon and that the swarms originated in its putrefying
carcase, an explanation which does not incline one to endure the
torments meekly.
Finest of all the defiles through which we go is the Kazan Pass, where
the river-bed narrows to 400 feet, and the towering cliffs rise to
a height of 2000 feet, and fall so sheer to the water that without
artificial means not even a goat could pass along their base. But no
less than two roads can be seen, one on each side; one is clear and
well-kept, the other fallen to ruin. The first was that made by the
Romans in the time of Trajan, and wonderfully they did their work. In
the absence of gunpowder, they made a way by fixing great baulks of
timber, cut from the primeval forests of oak which clothed the cliffs,
into niches or sockets cut in the living rock. These they further
supported by hewing out a terrace or platform for part of their length,
and then by filling in the projecting part with other timber; thus
they formed a kind of hanging gallery broad enough for men to march
along. Part of the rock was smoothed and an inscription recording the
date of the work was made, but wind and weather have done their part,
and it became almost indecipherable. Stimulated by this fine example,
Count Széchenyi followed it in the nineteenth century, and made a road
all along the river, which will endure for all time, because, having
the use of gunpowder, the solid rock was blasted to make it. At the
entrance to the Pass a smooth tablet cut in the rock records his work.
At Orsova Servia and Hungary, which have marched with the Danube, meet
Roumania, so that the famous “Iron Gates” are the concern of all three
rulers equally.
The term Iron Gate leads one instinctively to expect a defile as stern
as that of Kazan or many another further upstream; as a matter of fact,
the term gate is more appropriate than it would be to a mere defile,
which, however narrow, would be open. The gate consisted of ridges of
rock in the river-bed, forming quite as great an impediment to river
traffic as any iron barrier reared vertically. These rocks have been
removed by blasting and now, though the channel requires navigation, it
is quite practicable at any state of the water. The “Gate” was declared
open by the rulers of the three countries which meet at this point in
1896, though the work had been completed by Hungary alone. The length
of the rapids is 1700 yards more or less, and the drop is considerable.
This is the end of our special subject in this direction, though a
continuation of the trip to the Black Sea may be recommended.