Chapter XVI

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

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.

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.

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

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

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.