Chapter XXXI: Mehadia

What a barbarous scene Orsova presents on market-day, and what a jabber there is of many tongues as the people in their varied costumes scream at the top of their voices and chaffer and haggle over their bargainings; Serbs, Turks, and Wallachians all adding their unintelligible gibberish to that of the Magyar; and gesticulating so violently whilst uttering their sharp, shrill cries that the uninitiated stranger expects each moment to see them come to blows.

Interesting as it is to the traveller from the civilised west to see these people in their strange costumes, sitting by their strange wares, it is still more interesting to watch them hurrying into the market from the surrounding villages.

Having been informed by our Moldavian host the previous evening, that this was the day on which the weekly market was held, we arose early to see them arrive with their merchandise, but on walking down to the Danube we found both river and mountains so shrouded in dense white vapour, that the bold outlines of the latter were alone visible, whilst nearer objects were scarcely recognisable even a few yards ahead.

The people, however, were flocking in, and, looming suddenly out of the semi-obscurity, appeared more like gigantic spectres than common men and women as they passed us in picturesque groups, some walking, others on horse, mule, or donkey-back, one and all clad in many-coloured garments. But besides these, from distant places on the Wallachian or Turkish banks farther down the stream, came now and then a small, crazy-looking craft, its plash heard long before it came in sight itself, laden with vegetables, fruit, fish, and sometimes a living freight of men, women, and children.

Amongst the various kinds of fish found in the river are enormous sturgeon almost as large as sharks, which are cut up and sold in slices in the market.

At ten o’clock we start for “Trajan’s-Tafel,” an excursion that will terminate our visit to Orsova. The mist, which by this time has risen above the river, still hangs amongst the lofty crags of the Kasan Pass, and adds an indescribable gloom to the narrow, but majestic defile.

Just as we arrive at that portion of the Pass, where the tablet is situated, the mist, ascending opens for an instant, and admits a shaft of sunlight, which, shining diagonally across the gorge, creates a beautiful effect of light and shade.

The form of the tablet has already been described in a previous chapter, and the following is an exact copy of the inscription:

IMP. CAESAR. DIVI. NERVAE. F.
NERVA TRAJANUS. AUG. GERM.
PONTIF. MAXIMUS TRIB. POT IIII.
PATER PATRIAE COS. III.
MONTIS L. | | AN BUS
SUP AT E.

the whole being perfectly legible when viewed closely, in spite of the coating of smoke which for ages has been accumulating upon it in consequence of the Servian fishermen availing themselves of the shelter afforded by the overhanging rock to cook their food. Just as when we passed it in the steamer, a fire was still smouldering there on the present occasion, some sacrilegious boatmen having as usual made the niche their place of bivouac.

On entering Orsova, after our interesting morning’s excursion, we heard voices shouting lustily, and looking behind us descried a small group of people hastening in our direction with much brandishing of sticks, and waving of hats, of which we were apparently the object. What could it all mean? Had our guide again been committing some indiscretion, and getting us into trouble?

The mystery was speedily solved; for, on turning our backs upon our pursuers and hastening in the direction of the hotel, with the determination to ignore everything and everybody, the shouts were renewed with increased vigour, and some one overtaking us seized F. by the shoulder. This apparently formidable assault, however, was committed by no unfriendly hand, being none other than that of a Magyar, with whom, together with his three companions, we had travelled in the steamer from Pest. By this time all had reached us, and there was a general greeting.

“How glad we are to meet the _Ángolok_ again! What joy,” etc., etc.,--“Where have you been, since we parted on board the ‘Szechenyi,’ three days ago? Here? In Orsova? Is it possible, and so have we, and yet we have not met. How strange!--Well, you _must_ come now we have found you, and dine with us at the König von Ungarn; we will take no denial,” exclaimed they, all speaking at the same time.

Pleased as we should have been to accept their hospitable invitation we were obliged to decline it; for yonder, shading his eyes with his hand to ascertain whether it is his “sweet master and mistress” who are coming, is András standing by a vehicle to which three horses are harnessed abreast; whilst by its side is another in which the luggage is placed in readiness for our journey, on which we should have started an hour ago. We must, therefore, partake of a hasty lunch and be off.

We have only to bid adieu to our new acquaintances for the present, however, who are consoled on discovering that by a “happy coincidence,” we are to be fellow-travellers to Temesvár, they leaving Orsova by the seven o’clock train that evening; and we joining it at Mehadia about twelve miles distant. Near it are the Hercules Baths, where we purpose spending the intervening hours, and it is a place which no one who comes to Orsova, should fail to visit.

At two o’clock we mount our chariot, and off we start as if borne on the wings of the wind, the vehicle containing András and the luggage following slowly behind.

The first portion of our drive is most exciting: the pace at which the horses go, all of them keeping step; the fierce shouts of the Wallachian driver, who half stands up as he urges them into a gallop; the continual flourishes of his whip, which he invariably terminates with a loud crack that rends the air, the clatter of our bells, and the sight of the three horses abreast--wild-looking creatures, with neither collars nor blinkers--all impress us with the idea that we ourselves must be ancient Romans, driving in a triumphal car, until an instant’s glance at the car in question dispels the illusion. It is not long, however, before the horses are permitted to assume the “regulation crawl.” A hill has to be ascended, and then we reach the valley of the Czerna, enclosed on either side by wooded mountains, with their slopes cultivated with the vine. Snowing the summits, the wild cherry and pear are seen in full bloom, whilst plum-trees of immense size growing by the roadside, shower their petals on us as we pass.

The driver, now seated calmly on the box, sings a peaceful melody to encourage his steeds and accompany the plaintive music of their bells. The gurgle of the Czerna, as it winds along, sounds cool and pleasant. On the hill-sides women are hoeing the hard, sun-baked earth, or sowing seed for the late crops; and down by the river’s bank are primitive water-mills, where the villagers grind their corn, and near which are huts surrounded by peach orchards, whose rich pink blossoms contrast gratefully with the green and brown of their immediate surroundings. By the roadside a flock of woolly long-horned sheep are browsing; and a group of peasants recline under the cool shadow of a tree. The horses’ bells jingle in sweet harmony with the torrent at our feet; but the day is hot, the sun shines fiercely on the sandy road, and the driver, giving us the reins, goes down to slake his thirst. Then on we go again till we reach a village with its church and fresco-painted tower, near which stands a priest, surrounded by a number of Wallachian urchins just out of school, wearing white tunics, and lamb’s wool caps, the very image of their elders. As at Orsova, the women here wear an outer skirt of thick fringe suspended from a broad girdle made to fit the figure, and richly woven in various colours, called an “_obreska_,” the fringe, which generally consists of two colours only--scarlet and black arranged in stripes--extending to the hem of the white under-garment. It is a kind of dress which they must find very inconvenient I should imagine when working in the fields, yet all wear it without exception, old and young alike.

The huts we now pass are enclosed by stockades stronger far than even those I mentioned as having seen in the suburbs of Orsova, some being raised to a height of more than eight or ten feet, to protect the inhabitants and their kine from the attacks, not only of wolves, but of bears also, both of which abound in this locality--the latter often doing much harm to the crops of Indian corn.

Wherever we look now women are training the vines, their picturesque costumes gleaming in the sunlight, whilst their lords may generally be seen lying under the shadow of a tree, fast asleep, and the farther we proceed, the more Eastern vegetation becomes, parasite plants festooning many of the loftier trees, with long garlands that sway in the sultry air.

Coming towards us are three Wallachian women, trudging merrily along the road, and spinning as they go. How graceful they are, and what lovely faces, half Roman, half Grecian, look up at us smiling, as they pass--their fringes flying out behind them like peacocks’ fans!

Now and then we meet a whole family, consisting of two, and sometimes three generations, huddled together in one of the long country carts, from the open ladder-like sides of which hang just such gourds and leathern bottles as we read of in Scripture.

A picturesque wooden bridge crossing the Czerna now appears in sight; the valley contracts, and the mountains become more wild and precipitous. At length, nearing the village of Korabuek, we pass the ruins of a Roman aqueduct, said to have been in existence in the time of Hadrian, and believed to have originally extended from the baths of Mehadia to Orsova, in order to convey the healing waters to the latter place. There are evidences also of this aqueduct having been restored, and used by the Turks for the same purpose, a Pasha having for many years resided at Orsova, which at one period was an important Turkish citadel.

Vines now cluster close to the roadside, from the grapes of which Schiller is made--a delicate ruby-coloured wine, which, though exceedingly cheap, is good after it has been kept three years.

At last, after crossing a brand-new and gaudily painted iron bridge--so out of keeping with the ancient monuments we have passed, such a hideous deformity, so forbidding, ugly and out of tune with the poetry of its surroundings--that one marvels how it ever could have got there, we are greeted by the first glimpse of the little bathing establishment where the Romans, that bath-loving people, founded a colony, calling the place “_Ad aquas Herculi sacras_,” and its site “_ad mediam_.” From the latter, no doubt, the name of Mehadia originated.

A picturesque church, standing on an eminence at the entrance to the gorge, introduces us to this classic ground; and to our surprise, on turning a bend in the road, we find ourselves all at once surrounded by fair palaces and terraced gardens which remind us more of the “Arabian Nights,” than the ancient abode of Roman colonists. Grecian colonnades, fountains, statuary and exotic flowers and grasses, almost take our breath away, so sudden and unexpected is all this luxury in the midst of these lonely solitudes of nature.

These baths, whose discovery, as we have seen, is due to the Romans, are a very favourite resort of the Hungarians, as well as of the Serbs and Wallachians. Here, too, come the rich, luxurious, and pampered Boyards of Bucharest, who, to quote the words of one of our Hungarian friends, come annually to “boil their much-abused livers in the hot springs.”

The _Kurhaus_, a splendid structure in the Roman style, the interior of which is adorned with frescoes, contains colonnades, and beneath their shade the visitors promenade during the scorching hours of day. The most beautiful building of all, however, is the _Elizabethen Bad_.

“Here,” said our conductor, the manager of one of the bathing establishments--as he ushered us into a large apartment filled with steam, and smelling so horribly of sulphur that it might have been Tartarus itself--“Here the people step into the water, and _feel the evil being boiled out of them_!”

There are no fewer than twenty-four springs in this mountain gorge. The rocks, which, like all of this character, consist of limestone, are full of fissures from which water oozes, and beneath which singular rumbling noises are often heard. The springs are of two kinds, sulphur-thermal and alkali-saline, the former said to be the strongest in the world, the largest and hottest being that called by the Romans _Thermæ Herculis_, which bursts forth in a column half a yard in diameter, and produces no less than 5,000 cubic feet of water per hour, of the temperature of 131° Fahrenheit.

Having passed the military hospital, a large building to the left, near which is a fountain surmounted by a statue of Hercules, we ascend to the place containing the source of the spring, which bears the name of the heathen god.

Beneath an almost overhanging rock there exists what may be described as a small natural grotto or fissure, about eight feet high and three broad, on entering which, and descending a flight of rugged steps hewn in the solid rock, we reach an inner cleft filled with dense vapour, whence the stream issues forth and again disappears in the dark recesses of the earth. The air in this cavern is hot and stifling, and we are glad to emerge once more into the outer atmosphere.

Perfectly exhausted, we are endeavouring to cool ourselves on a slab of rock opposite, when the loud clatter of wheels is heard, and a carriage soon makes its appearance, in which are our Hungarian friends. Demonstrative as ever, off go the hats, accompanied by much waving of handkerchiefs and sticks so soon as they recognise us.

Unable to bear the absence of the “charming _Ángolok_” any longer, they had, they said, made up their minds to follow us here, and be our _ciceroni_. I am not at all sure we were as grateful for the attention as we ought to have been, but I trust at any rate that we looked so.

Sedate and melancholy as are the Magyars usually, they are given to great and sudden changes of temperament, their character being an admixture of habitual pensiveness and melancholy, mingled with the most child-like susceptibility to enjoyment. Like their national music, they are tender and passionate by turns, now plunged into a whirlpool of excited fury, and now into the lowest depths of melancholy and despair, but when out for a holiday they shake off dull care, and become as light-hearted as schoolboys. Knowing this locality well, they conducted us to many interesting spots, including a real robbers’ cave, situated in a romantic nook in the wooded gorge, which we might otherwise have overlooked.

Higher up, on a rock about seven or eight feet above the roadway, and not far from the source of _Thermæ Herculis_, are two votive tablets of the Roman period, on which, carved in relief, are the busts of a male and female. The features of each are still quite distinct, but we could ascertain from no one, whom they were intended to represent.

In one of the chambers of the Hercules bath, which is still used, and which remains unaltered since it was built by the Romans--a small dark room a few feet below the entrance--is a large and almost life-size figure of the deity from whom the bath is named. It is carved in relief on an immense block of stone forming one of the walls of the chamber.

* * * * *

Nothing can be more romantic than the situation of this little watering place, where nature and art alike combine to render a summer’s sojourn delightful. The pathways through the wooded gorge; the beautiful Czerna, which is here a foaming torrent clear as crystal; the hotels, with their terraced gardens bright with Grecian vases, statuary, and flowers; the gipsy-music, and interesting associations connected with the place itself; the variety of races; and above all the festivities that take place daily during the season--render it unrivalled as a resort for the idle or hypochondriac. I would, however, warn those of the stronger sex who may happen to be highly susceptible to the tender passion, to think twice ere they come, for the bewitching beauty of these daughters of Roumania and Transylvania is perfectly irresistible, and few there are, I suspect, who, after a sojourn here, could leave entirely heart-whole.

The season lasts from June till September, the one drawback being the cost of living, which, though less than that of most Hungarian baths, is nevertheless great, compared with anything of the kind in England, and I doubt if eight florins a day would cover the expenses of the visitor.

As we loiter in front of the hotel at which we have dined, waiting for our carriages to take us to the station, two miles distant, a young peasant comes to fill her pitcher at the fountain. Like the majority of Wallachian women she is very lovely, and there is a noble and unfettered grace in her dress and carriage. How well, too, her Juno-like head, adorned with gold coins, is set upon her shoulders! Standing beneath the ancient statue of the pagan god, what a model she would form for an artist!

At Mehadia station we almost lost our train, so silently did it glide up to the platform, whilst we were occupied outside the enclosure in endeavouring to effect the purchase of a very handsome “_obreska_,” worn by a young girl. It was new, and its colours brilliant and unsullied, but by no offer could she be tempted to part with it, not even by a bank note for fifty florins, which, taking out his purse, one of our Magyar friends held up to her. She only shook her head in a dignified manner, smiled, and passed on.

“Suppose she had accepted your offer,” I remarked to the Magyar who had tendered her the note.

“I knew I was safe,” was his reply. “The poorer inhabitants of these wilds scarcely know the use of money. With their cow, pig, and little flock of sheep, whose wool furnishes the material for their clothing, which they spin, weave, and dye themselves, and their plot of ground on which they grow their daily bread, what can such persons want with money? Besides, their principal circulating medium is barter;” and I could not help thinking how favourably these Wallachian peasantry, as well as the Slovaks, contrast with our own poor--a supposition that was very soon confirmed.

Twilight’s shadows had given place to night, when, after passing through a mountainous region, we entered another of those narrow gorges, so characteristic of the Carpathian chain, through the eastern portion of which we are now travelling. As we whirled along all was pitch dark; save here and there where a party of travellers, ten or twenty in number, clad in sheepskin cloaks, were bivouacking before a large fire, the flames of which, lighting up the rocky background, only made the darkness visible, and rendered the whole more weird.

This wild and rugged mountain district, however, introduces us to the fertile province of the Banát, one of the most productive districts in the world, and often spoken of as the “granary of Europe.”

Three of our Hungarians having gone with F. into a smoking carriage to offer evening incense, I was left to the companionship of the eldest of the party, a dear old Magyar of about sixty years of age, but who looked much older, his wrinkled weather-beaten face and quivering voice bespeaking eighty rather than sixty winters. There is something infinitely pathetic, not only in the voices, but in the countenances of the aged Magyars, which seem charged as with a bitter memory. Is their habitual sadness caused by the union of the beloved Fatherland with a foreign power? In many instances I am inclined to think it is.

There are three political parties in Hungary: the Liberal party, founded by Deák in 1866; the Extreme Left, which demands disrupture with Austria, and rallies under the name of Kossuth, their great revolutionary leader; and the Opposition.

My _compagnon de voyage_ belonged to the second, and, a patriot of the old school, he stigmatised the conciliatory policy of Deák as cowardly and unpatriotic. As he alluded to the political compromise of this Prime Minister the tears came into his eyes. To foreigners the Hungarians open their hearts freely, and as we were alone, he spoke without reserve. There are grumblers in every nation, but there is no doubt the Hungarians have good reason to complain.