Читать книгу The Lands of the Tamed Turk; or, the Balkan States of to-day онлайн

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If you do not stop to look at the signs—for what is a city of this era without a host of glaring, gilded advertisements—Buda-Pesth is just as enticing, but on a somewhat smaller scale, as Vienna, and at the end of a fortnight we were loth to leave. As the next slip of our Rundreise book read “Belgrade,” we jammed ourselves into one of the dusty compartments of a crowded railway train bound for the Servian frontier.

Among our fellow-passengers was an aged, rheumatic Jewish woman, travelling from Vienna to Constantinople, who became very sociable, despite her affliction, and lighted one cigarette from the stub of the other as she unveiled to us her past history in broken German.

The railway line from Buda-Pesth to Belgrade, traversing the great Hungarian steppes, is devoid of attractive scenery and the journey of seven hours becomes somewhat tiresome, especially if the season is summer with its accompanying heat and the train is uncomfortably crowded. Agriculture along the route seems to be very much on the wane, but enormous herds of long-horned cattle, flocks of sheep and tens of thousands of pigs tell succinctly of the product of that portion of Hungary. Now and again you may see a native driver in heavy leather boots, white petticoat, or smock, to his knees, and a derby hat (not a very dignified-appearing combination of apparel), tending a large flock of unusually huge geese, tapping the laggards deftly with his long willow switch.