THE ROTHER THURM PASS.
People never keep time in Transylvania, neither do the clocks. By the
one ticking in our room it is just half-past four, whereas our watches,
differing somewhat in opinion, point to a quarter to seven.
The previous evening a droszky had been ordered to be ready at six
o’clock to take us on our proposed excursion to the Valley of the
Aluta, but still it made no sign. At length, after sending András,
two waiters, and the landlord himself to hasten its arrival, at
half-past seven it came dashing under the old archway with “exemplary
punctuality” according as that substantive is understood in Hungary.
Anxious to see some of the by-ways of Transylvania, and having left our
own carriage at Pest on starting for the Danube, we hire one here for a
week, together with a stout pair of horses, for which András agrees to
pay eight gulden a day and the driver’s expenses.
Some difficulty, however, was experienced in finding a driver, the
landlord of the hotel being unable to spare his own for so long a
period. There were plenty of Wallachs to be met with who could drive,
but the difficulty was to find one of sufficiently lax morals to
consent to start on the day we desired. To do so on a _fast_
day would be out of the question, and as Tuesday and Saturday are
_unlucky_ days, and to start on a Friday would inevitably result
in the most disastrous consequences, there were not many days left to
choose from. Monday, however, fortunately happened to be an “off” day.
True, it was the Vigil of St. Philomena, V.M., but on our proposal to
start so early in the morning, that little obstacle was in some measure
overcome.
Few arrangements were necessary for the journey. In a country where
such Oriental hospitality exists, more than one day’s provisions
were unnecessary. Our programme in the first instance was to travel
due south through the Valley of the Aluta into Roumania, and then,
rejoining the high-road at Vestan, journey to Kronstadt, the latter
being only two or at most three days’ distance from Hermannstadt.
The morning is heavenly, and our hearts light as air, as, thundering
through the archway, we emerge into a street and go rattling off
towards the Fogaras Mountains. As we pass the barracks the cavalry are
parading on the plain outside, and fifes and drums playing vigorously;
but away we go into the open country between boundless stretches of
yellowing corn. The road which is wide is crowded with vehicles on
their way to market; waggons filled with hides, barrels of wine, and
farm produce; pedestrians driving cows and calves, the latter so
extremely juvenile that they cannot walk alone and require assistance,
for infantine veal is much esteemed by the “natives.” Other pedestrians
are driving small colts--also weak on the legs--and carrying in their
bosoms tenderly and lovingly wee, snow-white lambs.
Next comes a Transylvanian swine-herd driving his unsavoury flock
of yellow pigs--lean as Pharaoh’s kine--and in form hyenas, with
long, red-brown hair and high backs resembling those we saw when
travelling amongst the Slovaks. All have come from distant villages,
and who shall say how early in the dawn their owners started, for the
Wallachs, whatever else may be laid to their charge, are at any rate
no sluggards. Plenty of “Saxons,” too, are hastening along the road
clothed in white frieze jerkins and felt hats.
The two races are not easily distinguished by their dress, but we
recognise them by a truer sign. The Wallachs as they pass us lift
their hats, and in their soft and melodious tongue exclaim “_Bune
deminiace!_” (good morning). A carriage passes us containing a
Wallachian gentleman, who also takes his cigar from his lips and
greets us with the word, “_Applecaciune!_” which also means “good
morning,” but a form of salutation used between equals, the former
expression being invariably adopted by an inferior when addressing
a superior. Even when lying down in their coats, the otherwise lazy
Wallach, unless he happen to be fast asleep, will rise to perform this
little act of civility, but the “Saxons” take no notice of us whatever,
and go trudging on their way in dogged silence. Very pleasing is the
courtesy of the Wallach, and we are careful to return it, upon which
they lift their hats again and again and add something which we cannot
understand.
Now and then a waggon covered with an awning of plaited reeds, and
filled with peasant women and girls clad in holiday attire, comes
lumbering along, and sometimes an old weather-beaten, time-worn
_calèche_ drawn by three horses abreast, with nodding hood, in
which sit the squires and squireens of the neighbouring country,
smoking long pipes, on their way to Hermannstadt to see the price at
which the produce of their estates sells at the market.
Away right before us tower the Transylvanian Alps, their summits
covered with snow. All the market people have passed by this time on
their way--the last herd of swine; the last shaky little calves and
long-legged, straddling colts; the last waggon-load of “Saxon” or
Wallach girls; and the last family of unkempt, unwashed gipsies, their
legs bound up in flannel _à la Wallach_, and tied round with
leather thongs--all have passed, and we have the road to ourselves with
the exception of a heavy bullock cart driven by a woman with a baby in
her arms, and now and then a waggon driven lazily by a drowsy Wallach.
[Illustration]
Already women from distant and unseen villages have begun their labours
in the pastures, some guiding the rude plough, whilst others are sowing
seed, grain by grain from their blue aprons, like people in the Bible.
On the uplands, stretching across the mystery of blue mountains, stand
the dead stalks of last year’s corn; the brown of the untilled land,
and the yellow lanceolate leaves upon which the sun is shining, forming
just the golden tint the picture needed to rest against the azure
background and render it complete. In other places oxen are turning
up the soil that has been left fallow for three years; for land is so
abundant here that it is only after that interval has elapsed that it
is again cultivated. On these uplands sturdy “Saxon” matrons may be
seen riding _en cavalière_ the leading bullock which drags the
heavy plough, maintaining to this day many of the characteristics of
their Gothic ancestors, who associated themselves with the stronger
sex, not only in the labours of the field, but also to a life of
danger and glory, and whom we read of as “martial heroines,” wearing
“_braccæ_”--whatever those articles of attire may have been--and
when taken captive in arms accompanying the triumphal processions of
Aurelian on horseback.
The Rother Thurm Pass, to which we are bound on this loveliest of
summer mornings, lies in a beautiful valley twelve English miles from
Hermannstadt. Our driver, with a bunch of blue and pink hyacinths in
his hat and another in his button-hole, keeps the horses well up to
their pace. The road, which follows the river, is excellent the whole
way, and we soon come in sight of the red tower which, standing to our
right on the steep mountain side, has given the Pass its name. Behind
its ramparts a soldier was patrolling, although there is little need
of this guard-post now that nothing is to be dreaded from the Eastern
tribes. In 1493 there was a terrible carnage in this peaceful pastoral
valley, when its green hills echoed to the shrieks of the drowning
and the slain, for the Turks, expecting to meet with no resistance,
marched fearlessly over the border and entered the Pass on their way
to the capital. Their intended foray, however, was happily discovered,
and, under the prompt measures taken by the _Burgomeister_ of
Hermannstadt, speedily suppressed. Sending out secret emissaries to
all parts of the district, he gathered together every male peasant
in the borders, and causing them to lie in ambush, they awaited the
coming of the unsuspecting foe, who as they advanced were routed and
driven back with great slaughter. Half-way through the gorge in the
very centre of the stream, a solitary tower is seen, which at one time
no doubt also defended the Pass. It is in a state of ruin now, and,
forming a very picturesque object, adds not a little to the beauty of
its surroundings. At this point the Litriora meets the Aluta and both
flow on side by side without mingling in the least, the one clear as
crystal, reflecting the forest-clad mountains which rise above it, the
other thick and sandy.
At noon we reach the Roumanian frontier, where, in the large kitchen
which formed the entrance to the hostel, we found a number of footsore,
weary-looking women resting whilst they ate their mid-day meal of black
bread. They wore a very Oriental-looking costume, besides which their
lips and finger-tips were dyed, but all looked dreadfully worn and
exhausted.
“They have not yet recovered from their long _Fastenzeit_,”
exclaimed the landlord, a benevolent-looking man, on observing that we
regarded them with pity. “It is wonderful how the poor creatures live,
they eat so little food and do such hard work. They are on their way
to Hermannstadt with fruit and honey, and will have to be back again
to-morrow or they will be beaten by their idle husbands. They are good,
quiet creatures, these Roumanian women; I know them well. The Popas
keep them up to their weekly fasts, and during the forty days of Lent
I have many a time seen them faint upon the road under their heavy
burdens.”
A tumbler of white wine, which we ordered to be given all round as an
accompaniment to their black bread, soon brought light to their eyes
and colour to their pallid cheeks, and we were much struck on observing
that, ere tasting it, each woman stood up, turned her face to the wall,
and uttered a prayer. If they had only known what they were about to
partake of, it would not, I suspect, have been a very fervent one, for
on tasting the wine afterwards we found it to be as sour as vinegar. So
grateful were they, however, at the moment, and so much warmth did it
bring to their hearts, that untying their bundles they withdrew from
them handfuls of walnuts and forced them upon our acceptance, some even
benevolently offering to crack them for our immediate refection in the
most primitive of all methods. Several of these poor women I observed
had _goitre_, that disease so prevalent in all mountainous
districts.
This neighbourhood has an evil reputation for robbers. In an inner
room, the door of which was open, we could see hanging to the wall a
musket and two revolvers, but all were, I suspect, used more frequently
for purposes of sport than as weapons of defence, for the forests in
the vicinity are full of game. Deer abound in the wooded hills that
enclose the Pass; whilst in the higher ridges beyond bears and even
chamois are found; besides which a lynx is occasionally met with,
together with wild-boars and wolves, the latter being the very terror
of the shepherds. Bearing down in large packs they will often destroy
a whole flock of sheep in a single night, killing even when they do
not devour; bears, on the contrary, never attack, and have sometimes
been known, as in the great Slavonian forests on the Lower Danube, to
fraternise with the herds when led to the mountains for pasture.
Later in the day, walking further up the gorge, we crossed a bridge,
and, passing the frontier with its custom-houses and guard-post,
entered Roumania. The trees throwing cool shadows across the road
rendered the walk delightful. How silent all was! not a sound was heard
save the roar of the river, as it flowed beneath over its rocky bed;
not a sign of human life was visible. How dreary must be the lives of
these few soldiers who guard the frontier, completely shut out as they
are from the world of men! To the right, high above us, on the steep
slope of the mountain, were sad evidences, however, not only of their
living, but also dying, here far away from their fellows. Climbing a
rugged path, and looking over the high hurdles which protected it from
the ravages of wolves, was a lonely little cemetery. In the corner lay
the usual pathetic heap of battered wooden crosses--types of man’s
forgetfulness of those who lie in the domain of silence. Near the gates
some gipsies or other travellers had evidently been bivouacking, for a
fire was still smouldering, though all traces of themselves had fled.
Above, rose the summits of Surul and Negoi, the former, though
completely covered with verdure, attaining an elevation of 8000 feet.
The mountains that enclose this valley are very beautiful, and form a
succession of mighty buttresses, between every one of which is a leafy
gorge whence issues a stream of water foaming down its rocky channel to
swell the classic Aluta, which, taking its rise not far from Moldavia,
wends its way southwards till it finally empties itself into the Danube.
Weary with our walk we throw ourselves down by the side of one of
these streams, and watch it running in and out amongst the stones as
it comes gurgling towards us with a pleasant dreamy sound. Presently,
borne over the still air, comes the plaintive sound of a woman’s
voice singing a melancholy strophe, and looking over the crest of the
opposite hill we descry a dark speck which, growing more definite as it
comes zig-zagging down the path, turns out to be a young gipsy with a
baby at her back. She was singing one of those Roumanian _doïne_
or ballads which, like those of the ancient troubadour, are full of
tenderness and love, the one in question ending each verse with the
words _Yuchza! Yuchza!_ which sounded like a call.
Like nearly all the Transylvanian and Roumanian gipsies she was
exceedingly pretty, with small features, full lips, and large lustrous
eyes, her complexion as dark as that of an Asiatic, whilst her hands
were of that peculiar shade of blue black one often sees in the Indians
of the south. We spoke to her in German, but she could not understand
us, the only word she herself seemed capable of speaking in that
language being _Deutsch_, which she uttered interrogatively as
though wishing to know to what nation we belonged.
“_No!_” we replied, in Italian--“_Inglese!_”
“_Englesca! Ah! Dei pace! Dei pace!_” was the rejoinder, in that
sad intonation in which every gipsy speaks.
“Where are you going to take those?” we inquired in the same language,
pointing to a number of new baskets she carried on her arm, and which
appeared to be for sale.
“To Hermannstadt, _buona Signora_.”
“To Hermannstadt? But where will you sleep? You cannot reach that town
to-night.”
“There!” was the laconic reply, motioning in the direction of the woods
opposite.
The bestowal of ten kreuzers brought upon our heads a shower of gipsy
blessings, and as she kissed our hands and went wandering on her way,
we watched the blue mist rising from the valley and shuddered as we
pictured to our minds the young creature lying with her baby in the
lonely woods through the hours of darkness. To the free, unfettered,
true-born gipsy, however, the canopy of heaven is her roof, the horizon
the boundary of her habitation, the stars her companions, and grim
night itself the kind and gentle mother soothing her to sleep, for
familiarity with nature has made her one with it, and it with her.
As we recross the Roumanian frontier, and once more plant our feet on
Hungarian soil we see approaching in picturesque procession a large
herd of long-haired goats accompanied by a man playing the bag-pipes,
the harsh strains of which he seems to be thoroughly enjoying as he
slowly heads his woolly charge. He is a wild-looking fellow, clad from
head to foot in sheepskin, but we address him also in Italian, and he
understands our simple questions perfectly, and tells us he is leading
his flock over into Turkey for pasture. On observing that we take an
interest in his rude instrument, he takes from the capacious pocket of
his loose jacket another consisting of a long horn made from the bark
of a tree, through which he blows lustily, waking the echoes along the
valley for many a mile. He is followed by two lovely Roumanian girls,
of whom it is said there are many in the Sultan’s Harem, who have been
stolen from this district from their parents and carried back captive
to Turkey.
The natives of Roumania or Wallachia proper have a very Grecian type of
feature, and seem to possess even yet the reflection of the Thracian
blood of their ancestors.
[Illustration]