Chapter IX

Sturdy girls, returning from market with veritable Eiffel towers of empty tubs on their backs, strode up the steep banks from the landing as we fled from the enervating luxuries of the inn at Theben and hastened to paddle towards the busy little town of Pressburg, boasting a new railway bridge, as ugly a château as man has ever devised, and as pleasant parks and gardens as ever soldier and nursery-maid chose for their public flirtations. It claims as its chief historical distinction the honor of having crowned within its walls the Hungarian kings since the dynasty was founded. It is a gay little place, with tastefully decorated shop-windows, and signs everywhere in the Hungarian language. In a brief two hours’ paddle we had passed beyond the limit of a distorted dialect of German, and now heard only the soft music of the Magyar speech. No phase of our journeying was more interesting than the experience with this abrupt philological frontier.

Below Pressburg the Danube branches into three sinuous arms, cutting the great low plain into two long irregular islands, little better than swamps for the most part--at least, as far as our horizon extended. The canalization of the river, which practically comes to an end in this territory, makes the channel quite plain, and diverts the flow of water from the tortuous branches where the villages cluster on the muddy banks. On the first day after leaving Pressburg the

active arguments of hunger persuaded us to explore one of these lagoons in search of an inn, and after a while we came upon a straggling collection of low shingled houses gathered into the semblance of a village by low fences of wattled willow. With a microscopic vocabulary of Hungarian words we succeeded in getting food to satisfy our colossal appetites, and in holding the friendliest relations with the bronzed peasants, who were fast courting oblivion through the medium of strong wine in the Italian-like hostlery. Here we first made acquaintance with Hungarian dust and Danube mud, an intimacy which ripened as we went on, until at last no adjectives would fitly apply to the one or describe the disgusting characteristics of the other. The willow, too, in this first great flat stretch forced itself on our notice, and began to aggravate us with its monotony, turning an otherwise agreeable landscape into a series of object-lessons in simple perspective. But even the willow came to an end here after a while, and for an agreeable change we welcomed

an open country, with broken mud banks, where we heard the plaintive music of shepherds’ pipes, saw stalwart swineherds against the sky, and startled, as we drifted past, great droves of wild-looking cattle cooling themselves in the shallows. The life on the bank became at intervals more busy, and all sorts of domestic operations were carried on in the open air along the muddy shores. Whole families splashed about in the shallow water as little heedful of our presence as if we belonged to them. The River Raab sneaks into the Danube in the guise of a lesser side lagoon, and but for our delightful flower-carpeted camp in sight of the group of barges at its mouth and within the sound of the tattoo of many mills, we should scarcely remember it as a feature of our trip. A brief pause at Komorn, regular and uninteresting architecturally as most Hungarian towns are, did not increase our desire for exploration, and we voted, since our time was limited, to land in the future only at places which, smaller and less Germanized by the commerce of the river, would probably be more characteristic and picturesque. But the great Cathedral of Gran--Esztergom is the sonorous Hungarian name--rising above the ruins of a great brick fortress on a prominent height among vineyard slopes, made us accept a speedy amendment to this resolution, and under the lee of its bridge of boats we drew up alongside of one of the great arks which recall the naval architecture of the pre-deluge period. We sampled the characteristic cookery of its famous restaurant, and passed an hour or two of wild excitement over the wonderful colors in the market-place, where shoulder-high heaps of scarlet paprika (big sweet peppers) set the key for a combination of rich and varied tones that would have exhausted the palette of an old Venetian painter; and when at last an inviting breeze rippled the water, we forced ourselves away and sailed down the beautiful reaches among grand hills, our eyes still full of the kaleidoscopic sparkle of enchanting Esztergom.

Our frisky boats lost the breeze in the narrow, crooked defile below, and we settled ourselves to a quiet drift under the great ruins of Visegrád, where villas, bath-houses, and a level road, gay with ladies and children, marked the little village as the first sybaritic outpost of Budapest. Preoccupied with the beauties of the scenery, we did not at first notice the frantic waving of the Union-jack in the hands of some one on the shore, but we soon turned our bows in the direction of this unmistakable invitation to land, and were welcomed on shore by an English gentleman, a summer resident there, who explained that, having read of our trip in a Vienna newspaper, he and his family had been on the watch for us for many days. Such hearty hospitality as he offered us could not be refused, although it was the Delilah to our Samson strength of purpose, and we went ashore. A party of ladies and gentlemen was speedily formed, and we made an excursion up the hill, through pleasant groves and along shady paths, to the ruins of the old castle of the Hungarian kings, who resided here as early as the eleventh century. Matthew Corvinus enlarged and improved the castle, and it was long the chief stronghold of this region. The royal

crown of Hungary was once concealed in a deep pit cut in the solid rock under one of the towers, and there are various other notable historical legends connected with the place. Another castle near the water’s edge, although it is partially restored, had a sentimental interest for us because we were informed that it had been intended for the summer residence of the unfortunate Prince Leopold. The former commander-in-chief of the Hungarian army in the revolution of 1848, General Görgei, lives quietly in a pleasant villa high above the river. Surrounded by his family and busying himself with all sorts of mechanical operations, to which he is devoted, the old general appears to have secured the greatest blessing known to man--contentment. The weight of the forty odd years that have passed since he gave up his sword has not bowed his straight figure, and his dark eyes still have the fire of youth in them. At his own request we went to call on him, and found him, like all the men of Kossuth’s time, enthusiastically fond of America, and grateful for the sympathetic aid and comfort of the whole English-speaking race. Lingering long in his company, the summer twilight stole upon us before we knew it, and warned us to seek a camp. The tempting offers of hospitality so heartily given, the fascinations of the people and the place, and the unique charm of society which is peculiar to Hungary alone, all these and many other delights made it next to impossible for us to take our leave. But at last we hardened our hearts, pushed off, waved a last farewell to the young ladies who accompanied us a short distance in a wherry, and paddled out into the glowing twilight.

The frequent villas that dot the shores below Visegrád we now looked upon through glasses of different color. Only twenty-four hours before we would have named them landscape-spoilers, and would have turned our faces from them as we passed. But we had caught the infection of the happy land; the microbe which, once in possession, never leaves the willing victim, had begun to attack us, one and all, and we saw possible friends in every pretty garden and in every luxurious pleasure-boat. At this moment less than ever did a great city have any attraction for us, and we wildly planned to cut Budapest altogether, and continue our joyful cruise down into the great wild region beyond, where the river life is active and varied, and where our days should be a succession of pleasant experiences and surprises--where, indeed, we might learn to know, with an intimacy that only such a free life makes possible, the people in their unaffected, simple existence.

Just above Waitzen, a good-sized town with prison and manufactories and busy quay, with barges and peasant market-boats, the river bends gracefully around to the south, divides past a long flat island covered with fertile farms, and then loses itself in the distance where the grand old fortress on the summit of Blocksberg overhangs the suburb of Ofen (Buda in Hungarian) on the right bank, and looks down upon the imposing façades of Pest on the opposite shore. An accident, happy in its result, but threatening for a moment a painful disaster, made a pause at Budapest a necessity. Sudden summer thunder-storms swept

over the river from the cloud-compelling summits in the west, and then cleared away with a strong wind, which, blowing across the current, soon stirred up what the ocean pilots would call a “nubbly” sea. The temptation to hoist sail and triumphantly dash past the populous waterfront of the great city was not long to be resisted, and soon the sparkling river was enlivened by three pairs of snow-white sails. Open-mouthed millers stared at us as we swept past their groaning floats, throwing up spray like so many yachts. Suddenly a polished rudder gleamed in the air, following the total eclipse of one of the canoes, crew and all. A multitude of objects tossed on the waves and bobbed away down-stream, while the humiliated canoist came up, shining like a seal, and righted his water-logged craft. A landing was made, not without difficulty, more soaked and ruined articles were recovered than it would have been thought possible to stow under the mahogany hatches, and we were glad to seek refuge, after the canoe was baled out, in the hospitable boat-house of the Neptune Ruder Verein, a mile or two below the scene of the accident, among the pleasant groves of the Margarethen-Insel (Margitsziget).

We had often remarked that in our independent way of travelling constant variety was the rule, and monotony of incident never possible. If we could have had the choice, we certainly would not have introduced ourselves to the rowing men of the Neptune Verein until our fleet could have passed inspection with credit. But the unexpected event of a capsize forced us to swallow our pride, and we accordingly bundled the wet things out upon the float, and stowed the canoes away among the slender racing craft in the boat-house. Not only had the accident taken the bloom off our self-confidence, but it had upset many pet theories which had from the start been quite undisputed. Our blind faith in the value of india-rubber as a water-proof material had hitherto not been disturbed, but on this the occasion of the first real test elaborate rubber boat bags and air-tight hatches only seemed to aggravate the disaster; for all these contrivances seemed not only to actually suck the water in, but to hold it perfectly when it was inside. We hereafter limited our belief in water-proof receptacles to the ordinary well-corked glass bottle of commerce in which we kept our matches.

What a medley of gypsy music, song, and csárdás, of beautiful women and cheery, sympathetic men, of abundant

hospitality and general good-fellowship, Budapest now remains to us in our memory! It wellnigh proved our Capua, for, being only human, we could but yield to the enchantment. Who shall adequately describe the fascination of the native gypsy music, with its throbbing, wailing strains and its intoxicating rhythm? What writer’s pen or artist’s pencil shall picture the csárdás, with its Oriental action and its exhilarating intensity? It would be easier to convey by words or by lines the sense of a strange perfume than to analyze and explain the charms of the music or the attractions of the dance. Prosaically described, the csárdás is a dance for one or for any number of couples, and is performed in a great variety of ways, the partners sometimes dancing apart and sometimes together. The common fashion we observed during our brief experience, and the one we naturally indulged in as the nearest allied to the dancing we were familiar with, is for the lady to rest her hands on the gentleman’s shoulders, who, in his turn, places his hands on her waist. A long-cherished admiration for the dance forbids me to attempt to give any notion of the step or of the vibrating action of the body, truly interpreting in motion the spirit of the music, which, with sweet insinuating melodies, wild and ever wilder bursts of mad chords, lends the contagion of its tireless vigor to the dancers, and sways them like reeds by the power of its savage harmonies.