CHAPTER XXXI. Skating--Death and funeral of DeAk--DeAk's policy--Uneasiness about the rise of the Danube--Great excitement about inundations--The capital in danger--Night scene on the embankment--Firing the danger-signal--The great calamity averted.

The winter is usually a very pleasant season at Buda-Pest. There is plenty of amusement; in fact, during the carnival, parties, balls, and concerts succeed one another without cessation. The Hungarians dance as though it were an exercise of patriotism; with them it is no languid movement half deprecated by the utilitarian soul—it is a passion whirling them into ecstasy. But dancing was not the only diversion. The winter I was at Buda-Pest a long spell of enduring frost gave us some capital skating. The fashionable society meet for this amusement in the park, where there is a piece of ornamental water about five acres in extent. Here the Skating Club have established themselves, having erected a handsome pavilion at the side of the lake to serve as a clubhouse.

From time to time fÊtes are given on the ice. I was present on more than one occasion, and I must say it would be difficult to imagine a more animated or a prettier scene. The Hungarians always display great taste in their arrangements for festive gatherings. During the gay carnival of 1876 "all went merry as a marriage-bell" till the sad news spread that the great patriot DeÁk was sick unto death. Then we heard that he had passed away from our midst—I say "our midst," for Hungary throws a glamour over the stranger that is within her gates, and, moved by irresistible sympathy, you are led to rejoice in her joy and mourn with her in her sorrow.

Buda-Pest presented on the day of DeÁk's funeral a scene never to be forgotten. It was a whole people mourning for their friend—their safe guide in time of trouble, the statesman who of all others had planted a firm basis of future prosperity.

Francis DeÁk was endowed with that rare gift of persuasion which can appeal to hostile parties, and in the end unite them in common patriotic action. Any one who has attentively considered the state of parties in Hungary during the last decade will know with what irreconcilable elements the great statesman had to deal. To the Magyars he said, "He who will be free himself must be just to others;" while to the Slavs he said, "Labour with us, that we may labour for you." "Reconciliation" and "compromise" with Austria were the most unpopular words that could be uttered at that time, yet DeÁk bravely spoke them in his famous open letter on Easter day 1865. He continued his calm and steady appeal to public opinion till his patriotic efforts were rewarded by the close of that long-standing strife between the Hungarian people and their king.

On the day of the funeral the ground was white with snow, the cold was intense, but a vast concourse of people followed DeÁk to his grave. On the road to the cemetery every house was hung with black, the city was really and truly in mourning; and well it might be, for their great peace-maker was dead, the man who beyond all others of his generation had the power to restrain the impatient enthusiasm of his countrymen by wise counsels that had grown almost paternal in their gentle influence.

While we were still thinking and talking of DeÁks political career, a very present cause for anxiety arose in reference to the state of the Danube. The annual breaking up of the ice is always anticipated with uneasiness, for during this century no less than thirteen serious inundations have occurred. This year there was reason for alarm, for early in January the level of the river was unusually high, and a further rise had taken place, unprecedented at that season.

The greatest disaster of the kind on record took place in 1838, when the greater part of Pest was inundated, and something like four thousand houses were churned up in the flood; nor was this all, for the loss of life had been very considerable, owing to the sudden nature of the calamity on that occasion. The recollection of this terrible disaster within the living memory of many persons kept the inhabitants of Buda-Pest very keenly alive to any abnormal rise of the Danube waters. There were, besides, additional circumstances which created uneasiness and led to very acrimonious discussions. In recent years certain "rectifications" had been effected in the course of the Danube, which one-half of the community averred would for ever prevent the chance of any recurrence of the catastrophe of 1838. But there are always two parties in every question—"Little-endians" and "Big-endians"—and a great many people were of opinion that these very "rectifications" were, in fact, an additional source of peril to the capital.

The case stands thus: the river, left to its own devices, separates below Pest into two branches, called respectively the SoroksÁr and the Promontar; these branches continue their course independently of each other for a distance of about fifty-seven kilometres, forming the great island of Csepel, which has an average width of about five kilometres. By certain embankments on the SoroksÁr branch the rÉgime of the river has been disturbed, and according to the opinion of M. RÉvy, a French engineer,[22] this has been a grave mistake, and he thinks that the Danube misses her former channel of SoroksÁr more and more. He further remarks in the very strongest terms upon an engineering operation "which proposes the amputation of a vital limb, conveying about one-third of the power and life of a giant river when in flood—a step which has no parallel in the magnitude of its consequences in any river with which I am acquainted."

Now let us see which side the Danube took in the controversy in the spring of 1876. On the 17th of February the public mind had been almost tranquillised by the gradual fall of the water-level, but appearances changed very rapidly on the morning of the 18th, for alarming intelligence came to Buda-Pest from the Upper Danube. It seems that a sudden rise of temperature had melted the vast deposits of snow in the mountains of the Tyrol and other high ranges which send down their tributary waters to the Danube. A telegram from Passau announced the startling news that the waters of the Inn had risen eleven feet since the afternoon of the previous day, and further news came that the Danube had risen twelve and a half feet in the same time. Following close upon this came intelligence of a disastrous inundation at Vienna which had caused loss of life and property. The boats and barges in the winter harbour of the Austrian capital had been dragged from their anchorage, covering the river with the dÉbris of wreckage; in short, widespread mischief was reported generally from the Upper Danube.

There was a prevalent idea that Buda-Pest had been saved by the flood breaking bounds at Vienna, but events proved that our troubles were yet to come. There was a peculiarity in the thaw of this spring which told tremendously against us. It came westward—viz., down stream instead of up stream, as it usually does. This state of things greatly increased the chances of flood in the middle Danube, as the descending volume of water and ice-blocks found the lower part of the river still frozen and inert. Even up to the 21st the daily rise in the river was only six inches, and if the large floes of ice which passed the town had only gone on their course without interruption all might still have been well. Unfortunately, however, this was far from being the case. It seems that at Eresi, a few miles below Buda-Pest, where the water is shallow, the ice had formed into a compact mass for the space of six miles, and at this point the down-drifting ice-blocks got regularly stacked, rising higher and higher, till the whole vast volume of water was bayed back upon the twin cities of Buda and Pest, the latter place being specially endangered by its site on the edge of the great plain.

The authorities now devised plans for clearing away this ice-barrier, which acted as an impediment to the flow of the river. They tried to blow it up by means of dynamite, but all to no purpose; and it soon became apparent that the danger to the capital was hourly on the increase. At Pest the excitement and alarm became intense, for the mighty waters were visibly and inexorably rising. We saw the steps of the quay disappear one after another; then the whole subway of the embankment became engulfed. Ominous cracks appeared in the asphaltic promenade of the Corso, and the public were warned not to approach the railings, lest they should give way bodily and fall over into the water, which was lapping at the stonework. The "High-Water Commission" found it necessary to close all the drains, and steam-pumps were brought into requisition; the town was in fact besieged by water, and the enemy was literally at the gates. The ordinary business of life was suspended. The greeting in the street was not, "Good-day; how are you?" but, "What of the Danube?" "Do you know the last reading of the register?" "Does the water still rise?"

"Still rising"—this was always the answer. On the morning of the 23d the river had risen upwards of two feet in twenty-four hours. Hundreds of people now thought seriously of flight from the doomed city. There was a complete exodus to the heights behind Buda. The suspension bridge was crowded day and night by the citizens, carrying with them their wives, their children, and a miscellaneous collection of valuables. In the town the shopkeepers removed their goods to the upper stories, plastering up the doors and windows of the basement with cement; and careful householders laid in provisions for several days' consumption. The authorities had enough on their hands; amongst other things they had to provide means of rescue, if necessary, for the inhabitants of Old Buda, New Pest, and other low-lying quarters. The names of all public buildings standing on higher levels, or otherwise suitable as places of refuge, were notified in the event of a catastrophe. Boats also were drawn up on the Corso and in some of the squares. From the want of these precautions there had resulted that lamentable loss of life in 1838.

Furthermore, the public were to be informed when the danger became imminent by the firing of cannon-shots from the citadel on the lofty Blocksberg, which dominates the town on the Buda side. The day of the 24th had been wild and stormy, the evening was intensely dark; but notwithstanding, thousands, nay half Pest, crowded the river-bank. For hours this surging multitude moved hither and thither on the Corso, drawn together by the sense of common danger and distress.

I was there amongst the rest, peering into the darkness. My brother's arm was linked in mine, and we stood for some time on the Corso, just above the fruit-market, facing Buda; but nothing, not even the outline of the hills, was visible in the thick, black darkness of the night. "Ah! what is that?—look!" cried my brother, with a pressure of the arm that sent an electric shock through my body. Yes, sure enough, there was a flash of fire high up on the Blocksberg that made a rift in the darkness; and then, before we had time for speech, there came a sharp, ringing, detonating sound that made every window in the Corso rattle again. Once, twice, thrice the booming cannon roared out its terrible warning. It was the appointed signal, and we all knew that now the waters had risen so high that Old Buda and other low-lying districts were in danger.

That was a terrible night. The general excitement was intense, and there were few people, I imagine, in all Pest who slept quietly in their beds. Every hour news came of the spread of the inundation. The waters were pouring in behind Pest from the upper bend of the river. Matters looked very serious indeed. All communication with the suburb of New Pest was cut off by the inroads of the flood. The night, with its pall of darkness, seemed interminable; but at length the morning came, and—God help us!—what a sea of trouble the light revealed! Whole districts under water; churches and palaces knee-deep in the flood; and above Pest—a widespread lake creeping on over the vast plain.

The only news of the morning was a despairing telegram from Eresi that the barrier of ice there was immovable. This meant, as I have said before, that there was no release for the pent-up waters in the ordinary course. The accumulated flood must swamp the capital, and that soon. The river had ceased to flow past; it was no longer the "blue Danube" running merrily its five miles an hour, but a dead sea, an inexorable volume of water, slowly, silently creeping up to engulf us. Pest is a city which literally has its foundations made on the sand; a portion of it is built on the old bed of the Danube. Assuming a certain point as zero, the official measurements were made from this, and notices were published that if a maximum of twenty-five feet were attained by the rising waters, then Pest must inevitably be flooded.

As evening came on, with the cloudy forecast of more rain, the gravest anxiety was visible on the face of every soul of that vast multitude. This anxiety was intensified when it was announced that the latest measurement was twenty-four feet nine inches; and what was simply appalling, that the register marked six inches rise in less than an hour. It was clear to every one that the critical moment had arrived. There was little to hope, and much to fear. Darkness fell upon as dismal a scene as imagination could well conceive. If the water once overlapped the embankment at the fruit-market, it must very soon pour in in vast volume; for the streets there are considerably lower than the level of the Corso—as it was, several large blocks of ice had floated or slid over on the quay. At this spot a serious catastrophe was apprehended.

I think it must have been ten o'clock (my friends and I had just taken a hasty supper) when the fortress on the Blocksberg again belched forth its terrible sound of warning. This time there were six shots fired; this was the signal of "Pest in danger." A profound impression of alarm fell on the assembled multitude. Some went about wringing their hands; others left the Corso hastily, going home, I imagine, to tell their women to prepare for the worst. I was unconscious at the time of taking note of things passing round me, and it seems strange, considering the acute tension of my nerves, that I saw, and can now recall with persistent accuracy, a lot of trivial and utterly unimportant incidents that happened in the crowd. I remember the size and colour of a dog that manifested his share in the common excitement by running perpetually between everybody's legs, and I could draw the face of a frightened child whom I saw clinging to its mother's skirts.

We never quitted the Corso. Though this was the third night we had not taken off our clothes, it was impossible to think of rest now. I felt no fatigue, and I hardly know how the last hour or two passed, but I heard distinctly above the murmur of voices the town clocks strike twelve. Just afterwards, a man running at full speed broke through the crowd, shouting as he went, "The water is falling! the water is falling!" He spoke in German, so I understood the words directly. There was great excitement to ascertain if the report was correct. Thank God! he spoke words of truth. The gauge actually marked a decrease of no less than two inches in the height of the river, and this decrease had taken place in the space of half an hour. The river had attained the highest point when the danger-signal was fired. It had never risen beyond, though the level had been stationary for some time.

Every one was surprised at the rapid fall of the Danube; it was difficult to account for. It soon came to be remarked that the vast volume of water was visibly moved onward. If the river was flowing on its way, that meant the salvation of the city—the fact was most important. I myself saw a dark mass—a piece of wreckage, probably, or the carcass of an animal—pass with some rapidity across a track of light reflected on the water. It was difficult to make out anything clearly in the darkness, but I felt sure the object, whatever it was, was borne onward by the stream.

It was a generally-expressed opinion that something must have happened farther down the river to relieve the pent-up waters. Very shortly official news arrived, and spread like wildfire, that the Danube had made a way for itself right across the island of Csepel into the SoroksÁr arm of the river.

Csepel is an island some thirty miles long, situated a short distance below Pest. The engineering works for the regulation of the Danube had, as I said before, closed this SoroksÁr branch, and the river, in reasserting its right of way to the sea, caused a terrible calamity to the villages on the Csepel Island, but thereby Hungary's capital was saved.

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