Chapter XXX: The Heights of the Danube

A frugal supper, consisting of fish from the river and Moldavian cheese--the latter served with a plate of carraways--and, thoroughly tired out from our long day’s excitement and fatigue, we seek “nature’s sweet restorer” ere the moon had risen above the mountain tops.

As we ascend the steps leading to the creaky little balcony by which our rooms were approached, the peaks with their tree-fringed summits frowned down upon us black as Erebus, and half shut out the sky, in which here and there a star was trimming its feeble lamp.

The position of “Hôtel Tivoli” is the best thing about it after its name. Standing in the centre of a large open space covered with grass, it is consequently free from the dust with which almost everything at this time of year is smothered. It is quiet too, and here the traveller can, if he happen to be of that disposition, indulge in the “truly rural” to his heart’s content.

The following morning, after dressing--a feat accomplished under considerable difficulties, our rooms being of the most limited dimensions--we descend for breakfast to the restaurant, which, detached from the house, consisted originally of a plot of garden, but now picturesquely roofed in like a châlet, whose pillars are thickly covered with the vine from which hang grapes in thick clusters.

We are reminded of our proximity to Turkey by the deliciousness of the coffee, which, however, is scarcely better than that we have usually partaken of in many northern parts of Hungary; but it is served in small white jugs of such thick delf that they contain hardly more than the cup of Tantalus, a circumstance which causes András, who waits upon us as usual, to inquire sarcastically of our host--a Moldavian Jew--whether it is his intention to charge in the bill for the coffee or the jugs?

Sitting near us at another small table is a man with a little child on his knee, holding by a long string a pet lamb--a beautiful little creature as white as snow, covered all over like a French poodle with tiny ringlets, which glisten like spun-glass. It has a scarlet ribbon round its neck, and feeds out of the man’s hand.

Presently, having tied the fair white thing to the leg of the table, he leaves it for awhile, and, carrying the child with him, enters the hotel. It bleats plaintively, but is quite happy when, going along to where it is, I take my seat beside it.

The people of Hungary often make great household pets of these beautiful little animals, keeping them until they are full grown--when, alas! they sacrifice them on the altar of mutton.

The owner, who has been to fetch a glass of _schnaps_, now returns, and resuming his seat, holds it to the child’s lips, who greedily imbibes the fiery liquid, its little eyes watering notwithstanding. Observing my admiration of the lamb, he offers to sell it for one gulden and a half, and, had we been on our way to England, we might have purchased it; but, in prospect of a tour through the Transylvanian wilds, an elephant could scarcely have proved a greater encumbrance.

The morning is exquisitely fine, the sky violet blue, and the air fragrant with the perfume of oleanders, which are blooming just outside the enclosure. Every now and then from afar, as the breeze bears it towards us on its wing, comes the roar of the breakers of the Greben rapids, inviting us in their direction. We are to climb the majestic heights to-day, for which purpose some strong, sure-footed quadrupeds will be necessary. We have very strong misgivings, however, as to whether these will be forthcoming, but leave our useful guide to make the needful arrangements, whilst we stroll off meanwhile to the Kroncapelle, only a quarter of an hour’s walk, and a spot of great interest, being the place where, during the war of Hungarian Independence, in 1849, the sacred crown of St. Stephen was concealed. This memorable crown, superstitiously supposed to have been fabricated by angels, was for a long time kept in the “_Alba Regia_,” but was removed to the castle of Buda, where it remained until the great Moslem invasion, when it was deposited for safety in that of Presburg, at which place it reposed until the Turks were expelled from Hungary, when it was again restored to Buda. The history of this crown, from the period of its bestowal on St. Stephen in 1001 up to the seventeenth century, has been one of great vicissitude. At the time of Kossuth’s flight it was buried in a box a few feet beneath the surface of the soil by two Hungarian patriots named Fuelep and Szemere, in which place it lay in safety until 1853, when it was unearthed by a peasant; its hiding-place, some affirm, having been betrayed for the sum of 20,000 ducats by an officer who was in Kossuth’s own staff at the time of its concealment; others declaring it to have been the result of miraculous revelation. So great is the veneration of the Hungarians for this sacred relic, that they believe their beloved country cannot prosper without it, and also that it operates powerfully upon its destinies.

In commemoration of its recovery, a small octagonal chapel has been erected, in the Byzantine style, in the centre of which, surrounded by a stone balustrade, is a well, marking the precise spot where the sacred object lay concealed. Over it rests a block of marble, on which an artificial crown is placed, the counterpart of the true one; and above, suspended from the dome, a lamp hangs, which is always burning, whilst opposite the entrance is a life-size figure of the Virgin and Child, encircled with golden rays.

The chapel was shown us by a woman in a very picturesque and Oriental costume, and whose particular mission in life, apart from keeping the keys and nursing a rampagious baby, would appear to consist in driving away lean dogs from the enclosure. We were just on the point of leaving the chapel when she requested us to write our names in a ponderous book kept for the purpose. After having complied with her request we glanced through the volume, which contains the signatures of several hundred visitors, but amongst them, strange to say, we only lighted on one that appeared English, and to it were added the words, Boston, Mass.

As English persons are not given as a rule to avoid opportunities of the kind, the inference would be that even of the comparatively few who “do the Danube,” fewer still stop at Orsova, notwithstanding that this portion of the great river contains objects of real interest to the antiquary and archæologist. The entire district is, in fact, well worthy the attention, not only of the archæological student in search of historical landmarks which have survived the levelling hand of Time, but of the ordinary tourist also, who cannot but be interested in these memorials of a long-forgotten past.

An avenue of poplars leads from the chapel to the banks of the river, which are here beautifully wooded, many of the trees being festooned with the wild vine. The Danube at this spot looks precisely like a lake, being enclosed on all sides by mountains, from which no opening is visible. At their feet lies the island-fortress of New Orsova which commands the frontiers of three countries, Hungary, Wallachia, and Servia, and forms a very picturesque object with its sombre cypress trees and high mosque reflected in the water.

On the opposite side a Turkish cargo boat is struggling with the rapids, and in the foreground some men are raising their fishing net.

This island during the last hundred years has undergone various fortunes, having frequently changed from Christian to Mahomedan rule. In 1738, after a prolonged siege, it surrendered to the Osmanlis, but in 1790 was retaken by the Austrians. By the Treaty of Sistova it was again delivered up to the Turks, who finally evacuated it in favour of the Christians in 1878.

The fortress, though a heap of ruins, is still occupied by Turks, who, after the war was over, preferring to become Austrian subjects rather than return to their own country, entreated the Emperor of Austria to permit them to remain there. In this miserable place, although in the utmost squalor, no fewer than four hundred and fifty men, women, and children manage to live. The men occupy themselves in fishing, while the women and children work at gold and silver embroidery which they sell to visitors to the island, and thus eke out a scanty subsistence.

Leaving the island and crossing over to the left side of the Danube, we throw ourselves on the ground beneath the shadow of a tree, and revel in the fair and stately beauty of the scene. How lovely is everything! Not a sign is there of human habitation anywhere, whilst from the wooded hills comes the not unmusical but perpetual din of myriads of locusts and living things, bearing witness that not man, but _they_ have dominion here.

Close to our feet a chameleon comes out of a hole and looks cautiously about him. Its rough, granulated skin is of the brightest green, and it measures fully ten inches from head to tail. A large metallic-looking beetle crawling along the sand attracts its attention and whets its appetite, but at this moment the chameleon’s quick ear detects the presence of foes. Turning its curious swivel eyes to the back of its head, it catches sight of us, puts up its back, and then changing colour from green to buff, bursts out all over with black spots; it does not move, but after remaining for a long time as if transfixed, stealthily returns to its hole.

On the other side of the river a long, narrow boat now comes in sight, rowed by two Turkish boatmen, whilst a third, standing at the stern, is using a pole. He wears a scarlet fez, which, creating a small speck of bright colour, is very pleasing to the eye against the background of grey mountains floating in the dreamy haze of sultry noontide. The boat hugs the shore, for there are strong eddies in mid stream even here. The river is broad and the breeze blowing from the north, but when it lulls for an instant, the song of the boatmen reaches us in peaceful and pathetic cadence.

As we sit here and watch the Danube’s majestic waves roll past, and think of the great nations to whom it has in turn belonged, Greeks, Romans, Huns, Avars, Magyars, Turks, French, and Germans, we rejoice in the fact that it has come under the sway of the Magyars once more.

It was near here that Kossuth, that ardent aspirant after political freedom, and the hero of the “War of Independence,” fleeing from his pursuers, crossed the Danube and sought protection in Turkish territory. Before crossing the frontier, he threw himself down for the last time on the soil of his beloved Fatherland for which he had risked so much and fought so hard, pressed on it a sobbing, passionate kiss, and planting his foot on Turkish territory, became, as he himself has so touchingly described it in the memories of his exile, “like a wrecked ship thrown up by the storm on a desert shore.” A Turkish officer greeted him courteously in the name of Allah, led him to a place which he had kindly caused to be prepared for him to rest in for the night, under God’s free heaven, and asked for his sword with downcast eyes, as if ashamed that a Turk should disarm a Hungarian. “I unbuckled it,” he writes, “and gave it to him without uttering a word; my eyes filled with tears, and he, wishing me sound rest, left me alone with my sorrow.

“There I stood in silent meditation on the bank--but no longer the _Hungarian_ bank--of the Danube, the waves of which were mingled with the tears of the Hungarian nation--and which, not far from me, grumbled and roared through the rocky pass of the ‘Iron Gates.’”

“I listened,” he continues, “to this roaring in rude harmony with the storm in my heart, and as I contemplated the annihilation of patriotic hopes so undeservedly extinguished, tears of indescribable grief unconsciously showered down my cheeks.”

This rhapsody from the once Supreme Dictator of Hungary may sound unmanly to the ears of the undemonstrative Briton; but these brave, lion-hearted Hungarians, whom few things daunt, love their country passionately and with a love as tender as that of woman.

It is sad to think that this brave man, who, though disappointed in his attempts at achieving a recognition of Hungary as an independent state, has yet been the means of indirectly conferring lasting benefit upon his country, should--as he describes himself--still be a wanderer, “arrived at the verge of the grave with no hope for the future, and in whose past there is no consolation.” No longer expatriated, he could return to the Fatherland if he would; but he refuses to do so, since, by its own act, it has allowed itself to be merged into the Austrian Empire.

It is gratifying at any rate to know that Kossuth found for many years, together with other Hungarian refugees of the revolutionary period, a safe and peaceful exile in Turkey. The very nation which for so many centuries was Hungary’s most deadly foe, and which, when demanded by Russia and Austria in 1849 to deliver up all those who had sought shelter in its dominions, bravely refused to surrender them.

These thoughts, naturally suggested by this particular spot, concerning the Hungarian hero, whose history has been such a mixture of triumph and humiliation, have kept us lingering too long. It is already past noon; the sun is sending fiery arrows through the topmost branches of the trees, and if we are to make for the heights to-day, it is high time we were on our way.

Back through the long rows of poplars which like sentinels appear to be keeping guard over the little chapel. Still sitting on the steps is the young woman with her baby. She smiles sweetly as we pass, then rises to unlock the door for another visitor, who, at this moment, appears at the wicket gate of the little garden surrounding the chapel.

On nearing “Hôtel Tivoli,” we observe, standing on the green-sward beneath the windows of our room, the steeds which are to carry us “over the hills and far away.” I had no hope from the first of being able to obtain such a modern luxury as a side-saddle in this old-world locality, so that I was not disappointed in that particular at all events, but I was not prepared certainly for the extraordinary arrangement which had been improvised for my especial benefit, and which András, I could see, regarded as quite a clever arrangement. Indeed it was so, and its ingenuity did him wondrous credit, but the whole thing was so droll and altogether original in its conception, that we were speechless. He had found an old wooden chair, and having broken off the legs, he placed it on the creature’s back. This was to form my seat, the _back_ of the chair being placed nearest the horse’s head by way of pummel, to which I was no doubt expected to hold on in case of need!

Having ascertained that the animal was sufficiently padded with rugs to enable it to bear this novel and elaborate erection without injury, and having seen that the girths were safe, we started in triumph, a barbarous-looking muleteer--wearing a lamb’s wool cap very like a mop, preceding us--and András, carrying a basket of the inevitable provisions--oh! that we could live on a periodical lozenge!--gravely bringing up the rear.

Passing through the ancient town we are objects of much astonishment to the natives. Women, carrying baskets and pitchers on their heads, stop to gaze at us, calling the attention of their neighbours to the strange little cavalcade, and no wonder. Others sitting at doorways run in and peep shyly at us through small dust-begrimed windows.

Orsova--pronounced Orshova, the Hungarian _s_ being invariably pronounced as in our English word “shall”--is the last Hungarian town on the Danube, and wears quite an Eastern aspect. The costumes are also entirely un-European. The women wear a long white skirt and a bodice reaching to the throat, generally embroidered with wool in a rich Oriental pattern and well-harmonised combination of green, red, blue, and orange. A broad girdle woven in the same colours encircles the waist, from which hangs a thick fringe extending to the heels. The men, however, wear mocassins, braided jackets, and loose trousers, and look as uncivilised as their surroundings. The roads, which seem to be none other than of Nature’s own making, are formed of sand and large pebbles, over which our horses stumble as they pick their way along. A wooden bridge, and a dark little cemetery as full as it can cram of iron crucifixes, bring us to the outskirts of the town, where the houses are built of unbaked brick and enclosed by strong stockades of closely-plaited withies, bristling throughout with formidable stakes sharpened to the finest point to keep away the wolves which infest this part of the country.

These stockades, which are everywhere seen in the suburbs of Orsova, and which from their thickness and strength might easily have withstood a siege in olden time, interested us immensely. They are perhaps the surviving form of those wooden palisades or hedges called _limes_, with which the Romans surrounded the frontiers of their empire, and which Spartian describes in his account of the life of Hadrian as having been composed of stakes driven into the ground and filled in so as to form a hedge or wall.

In the outskirts of the town, which extend some considerable distance, one of these stockades was being erected, the whole reminding us of the sculpture on Trajan’s Column, on which is represented the construction of the _limes_ that once united the Danube to the Rhine, from which it may be seen that the soldiers, or _riparienses_ as they were called by the Romans, on whom devolved the construction of these stockades, proceeded in their work exactly as we saw the men of Orsova do to-day, their costume even, a short white tunic tied loosely at the waist, and the peaked lamb’s wool cap, scarcely differing from that of the Roman period.

Near the mouth of the Danube the remains of a ditch and mound still exist, supposed to have been made by Trajan at the same epoch as the bridge, for the purpose of connecting the encampments of the various Legions situated along the frontier.

Arriving at the base of the mountains which bound the noble river, we see clouds hanging beneath their summits, and climbing a steep hill, pass an encampment, not, however, of Roman origin this time, but belonging to the “wandering tribe,” from which a number of spindle-legged gipsies rush out and pursue us like a troop of wild animals--_Tschorelo rom_ as they call themselves, words signifying “poor man”--and refusing to leave us, until, quite wearied by their importunity, we bestow upon them a handful of kreuzers.

The climb is steep and toilsome, but we are rewarded by the splendid views which, ever changing, burst upon us continually. On our way we pass through immense flocks of sheep tended by wild-looking shepherds, and presently hear from a distance the hoarse drone of the bag-pipes, the weird music of which seems quite in keeping with the savage grandeur of these rocky fastnesses; and listening to it as we zigzag up the slopes, the thought comes forcibly to the mind, how wonderfully pastoral music, the most primitive adaptation of harmonic sounds, which took its first lessons from Nature herself--the plaintive melody of running brooks meandering through green pastures, and the harsh roar of the mountain torrent dashing over rocks--both gives and takes character for its surroundings. How out of keeping with these stern and majestic solitudes of nature would be the gentle music of the flute, or the crude wild harmony of the bag-pipes with the calm and peaceful plains!

A little further climb, we reach a shepherd’s hut and behold the author of the “crude, wild” sounds sitting at the doorway. An uncanny-looking man, in very truth, with his feet and legs bandaged in coarse linen and tied round with thongs of leather. The hut itself was empty, his dog and bag-pipes apparently being his only companions, and probably for many months together, for these shepherds do not return to the lowlands until winter sets in, nor always even then, some leading their flocks for pasture into Bulgaria, when, as the frosts appear, it becomes scanty on these heights.

And now having reached the summit of the mountain after an ascent of two hours, we alight from our mules, thankful so far as I am concerned with any change of position, András’s impromptu saddle having proved in the using the most perfectly diabolical arrangement it is possible to conceive, and having once descended from it I inwardly determine that, come what may, nothing shall induce me to mount it again.

A good luncheon and some excellent Schiller, a wine made from grapes that grow on the hills near Orsova, go some way towards restoring our peace of body and mind; after which, descending a rocky knoll, we look down upon the Danube gliding majestically between giant precipices and walls of granite, a glorious amphitheatre of weather-beaten rock and hoary crag. As we stand almost spellbound at the grandeur of the scene, something passes over us with a “whirr,” and great stirring of the air. We must have disturbed an eagle’s nest, for an enormous fellow flies screeching across the gorge, his shrill cry echoing from rock to rock, whilst a few moments later another crosses it in the same direction.

Just above us rose a large serrated cone of granite, which F. determined to climb if possible, whilst I made a sketch of the wondrous scene surrounding us. The nest was doubtless there, and its formidable denizens no longer near, he had a great curiosity to have a peep at it.

Looking down a sheer precipice upon the river, we can trace the road which was constructed by the Hungarian Government, between Orsova and Alt-Moldova, as it winds round the rocky buttresses like a tiny thread; whilst opposite, on the Servian side, portions of the Roman road are also distinctly visible even from this dizzy height.

The wind--a mere zephyr in the valleys--blows roughly in our rocky eyrie, and comes howling and hissing against the jutting rocks with a noise similar to that which it makes when blowing in the shrouds of a ship at sea. We are verily in cloudland here. Like a diaphanous curtain drawn silently and gently by an unseen hand, now and then a cloud comes scudding past, encompassing us with mist, and which, veiling all surrounding objects, lends a strange and solemn mystery to the scene. There is something indescribably awful and sublime in our surroundings, and the stillness, in itself so infinite, is broken only by the scream of the eagles which, waking the echoes, seem but to make the silence more profound.

These lofty and solitary crags must be literally full of eagles, for as we sit in calm contemplation of Nature’s wildest and most savage forms as exhibited in the various rock masses around us, they appear to be alive with them. At one moment we count no fewer than five, either perched upon the crags or soaring in the heavens with motionless majestic wing. The eagle is the very terror of the shepherds in these heights, and numbers of their lambs fall victims yearly to the bird of prey.

I need scarcely say the climb to the eagle’s nest proved unsuccessful, for these emperors of the air choose wisely, and fix their abode in places inaccessible to the tread of man.

The shadows were lengthening when--my sketch finished--we hastened from our rocky hiding-place. Clambering over huge boulders, which in some places obstructed our exit, as if Titans had placed them there to bar these solitudes from desecration, we reached once more the peaceful green alp where we had left our horses, and found András and his companion--overcome by their fatiguing climb--lying at full length on the ground sodden in slumber, whilst the mules were grazing close by. We aroused them, eventually, and making them lead our steeds, sent them on ahead, following ourselves on foot.

Thoroughly tired, however, by the time we reach the base of the mountain, we hail the muleteers, and causing them to remove the obnoxious arrangement with which my quadruped is still equipped, and having substituted for it a folded rug, we get on magnificently. Henceforth, till we reach Orsova, we shall be passing over level ground, so that a saddle is no longer of absolute necessity to enable a somewhat practised equestrian to keep her seat, particularly on so dejected and low-spirited an animal as this.

As we enter the old town, the sun is setting and transforming its tumble-down houses into palaces of ruby gold, and bathing with rich purple shadows and vermilion lights their crazy roofs and casements. What bright pictures of semi-eastern life are seen as we proceed along our way! By the roadside is an _ágas_ at which olive-complexioned women are gossiping, dressed as on a gala day, with skirts woven in various tints in which gold thread is largely intermingled. With their gay bodices, also embroidered in gold, and their crimson head-gear, what delicious bits of colour we see everywhere, mellowed by the evening light.

Having passed the crowded cemetery, the wooden bridge, and the hot and dusty town, we dismount at our little inn, and find a snowy cloth laid in readiness for our arrival beneath the vine-covered roof of the outer restaurant. But the air is chill, and, repairing to the inner room, we eat dinner all amongst the happy peasants, who sit playing a game at cards called “_Torrok_”--a quiet, well-behaved, simple folk, whose acquaintance we are glad to make.

Sitting alone, however, at a small table near us, is a Hungarian engineer, engaged at Orsova in some public works. He at first addresses us in Magyar, and finding we cannot converse in that language, tries Spanish with better success. I on my part addressed him in German, which I feel sure, from the fact of his being in the Austrian service, he must thoroughly understand; but he only shakes his head and professes ignorance of what I am saying. How intense is the repugnance with which the Hungarians regard everything German!

Whilst sympathising with the Magyars in their very natural dislike to Austrian rule, it is to be regretted they should carry their antipathy to such lengths; for, after all, it is only “kicking against the pricks” and cannot fail in the end to widen the breach already existing in the Dual Monarchy. For a long time past, the German population, finding themselves shunned by the dominant race, have resorted to the expedient of changing their names into Hungarian form.