THE “CALVARY.”
Returning to the hotel we hire a carriage to take us to the foot
of a mountain forming one of the most conspicuous objects in the
neighbourhood of this interesting town, and upon which is a “calvary,”
well worthy a visit. Climbing the rugged street with some difficulty,
we pass under the old tower, where a blind man sits, telling his beads
“for the love of God;” but with a mental eye open to the possibility of
stray kreuzers.
At the base of the steepest part of the mountain is an avenue of
trees leading to the first of the line of small chapels which contain
representations of the “stations of the Cross.” At this point, one of
the horses began kicking so violently, and had evidently made up its
mind so firmly not to proceed another inch, that we were obliged to
alight. Possibly the thought of the steep ascent caused it to arrive
at this decision, or perhaps it was a stern Protestant and objected to
“Calvaries” on principle.
A hot and fatiguing pilgrimage up a narrow path, takes us past the
fourteen stations, all of which describe most touchingly the scenes in
our Saviour’s passion. The figures, which are either plaster or carved
in wood, standing out completely in relief, being, in no one instance,
grotesque in either form or colour, but most skilfully and artistically
devised.
The first “station” represents the Garden of Gethsemane, where the
Saviour is kneeling in agony, whilst the Disciples sleep. In the chapel
where He is being crowned with thorns, the sight, as we look through
the grating, is quite startling, the figures and their grouping are so
painfully natural. In the centre sits the meek and patient sufferer,
surrounded by Roman soldiers. A real halter and chain are round His
neck, and a Jewish beggar dressed in brown rags, squatting in the
corner and pulling the cord with which the Holy hands are tied, is so
life-like in his rags, and in the patches of his coarse gabardine, and
so villainous in the expression of his wrinkled, dirty countenance, and
the satanic smile of derision with which he regards the pale Saviour,
from whom drops of blood are falling, that it is difficult to realise
He is not an actual living person.
Not far from the summit of the mountain is the “Nailing to the Cross,”
in the representation of which incident not a detail is wanting. One
man is hammering a nail into the right hand, and another is boring a
hole through the left with a gimlet; whilst the low brows and square
chins of those who are doing the cruel deed, make us wonder from what
class the artists can possibly have taken their models.
Then comes the large chapel on the extreme summit, containing the
“Crucifixion.” The three crosses stand on a large block of real rock,
beneath which and on a level with the ground is a small grating, behind
which souls are represented grilling in the flames of purgatory, the
only really grotesque thing about the whole.
Walking round to the other side of the chapel, and entering by another
door, we find the “Entombment,” and then another tableau of the pale
and lifeless form lying in the sepulchre with the angels watching
beside Him, and the women in the distance bringing spices.
Before several of the “stations” were persons kneeling, tears falling
down the cheeks of some, and there is no doubt that the vivid
representation by these life-size lay-figures of these touching
incidents, bring them before the minds of the ignorant in a manner we
cold Protestants can hardly understand, and I must confess that I could
myself witness few of these scenes so graphically portrayed without
deep emotion.
Two hours have passed away ere we descend the zigzag path, and
traversing the avenue reach our carriage, for we tarried long upon the
sacred heights to see the view, which is wonderful, of the fine old
town, nestling in its amphitheatre of mountains, and the little houses
of the miners dotting the green slopes, and nestling amongst trees. The
horse again kicked on our way back, from which I infer that the first
little demonstration was an exhibition of temper rather than one of
sentiment.
Passing by the kitchen of the hotel which is near the entrance, we
observe, lying on the table amongst sundry joints of meat, vegetables,
and other comestibles, what appears to be a cod divested of its tail
and trussed for boiling, but which now proves on closer inspection to
be the cook’s chrysalis of a baby that she had placed there for safety.
The little creature was as stiff as a board and could not have moved
so much as a finger or a toe to save its life. It looked quite happy
however in its small mummy-wrappers and smiled sweetly as I spoke to
it, seeming as though in its little heart it had a mind to “crow” if it
could only have expanded.
[Illustration]
“Why don’t you hang it up to a door-nail, or to the wall there?”
inquires F. “It is dangerous here, you might pop it into a pot by
mistake.”
At which the mother only laughed and looked down upon her infant so
lovingly that I half expected to see a halo of glory around her head,
the look of love was so ineffable.
It was a bright starlight night, and, a dinner partaken of, we wandered
out to see how the old place looked by lamp-light. Here and there a
feeble light glimmering through some window threw its reflection across
the uneven street, and made the quaint old archways stand out weird and
grim. High above us the lofty and precipitous mountains frowned down
upon the townlike prison walls, and almost shut out the sky. Strolling
up and down the narrow streets, we pass miners on their homeward way;
whilst at the fountain, women stand gossiping as they fill their
pitchers even at this late hour of night. Now and then we come to a
tavern where miners are singing their celebrated songs in hoarse rough
voices, the theme of which is invariably the dangers to which they are
exposed. The airs were sad, and as we listened there seemed something
very pathetic in the thought that the perils to which the lives of
these poor fellows are exposed, should even form the subject of their
thoughts during their hours of recreation.
The lights in the many-storied old houses now begin to die out one by
one, and presently a bell, the tone of which is the deepest and most
sonorous I ever heard, begins to toll slowly.
“It cannot be the hour it is striking,” exclaimed F., as in slow and
measured beat it reached the eleventh stroke. He took out his watch and
held it up to the light thrown from a window of a little wine-shop,
where three men sitting on a bench were drinking.
“It is the ‘_Todtenglocke_’ (death knell),” said some one in
German that moment passing by, as it continued to toll out the tidings
that another soul was departing, and summoned the inhabitants to pray
for its repose. And the slow and solemn “boom” went rolling and echoing
up the gorge, as one swelling buttress after another caught the wave
of sound and sent it on, and up, and up, until it seemed to die away
amidst the stars.
The three men, impelled possibly by its solemn warning, left the shop,
and went staggering homewards; and we ourselves felt it was high time
to “turn in,” if we were to get any rest at all, as we had to be up
again at four o’clock on the morrow to meet the train at Altsohl, to
which place we purposed driving.
* * * * *
What a ghastly-looking meal is breakfast by candle-light! The large
_salle-à-manger_, lighted at one end only; the long stretch of
gloom beyond; the dark doorways which appear to lead to mysterious and
unknown caverns; the ghostly old wooden presses standing against the
wall; the last night’s crumbs lying still unswept upon the floor; and
the marks of wine upon the tablecloth--how wretched it all is!
The coffee is gritty and cold, the butter is flabby, and the rolls
have a peculiar flavour of last night about them. Getting up in the
small hours is, however, as nothing compared with the discomfort
and unsavouriness of the breakfast with which one feels compelled
to fortify oneself before starting on the journey. Above all, how
cadaverous in the dim light look the guests who sit beside one, and who
are also condemned to make an equally early start! What a gloomy and
dishevelled band we appear, as we sit in moody silence, each possessed
of a vague and undefined sensation of melancholy and ill-usage, as
though something doleful were about to happen to us, the precise nature
of which we cannot define!
Emerging from the dark room, we find it is daylight outside, but the
Schemnitz world is still asleep, as we walk down the silent street to
join our carriage. Above the summits of the mountains a long vermilion
streak proclaims that the sun has risen, though yet invisible to us,
and there is a solemn feeling in the cold, still air as though the
spirit of the “passing bell” had not yet died away. All nature seems
to join in telling its sad meaning. The morning star recounts it as it
disappears within the veil. The crescent moon foreshadows it, as it
sinks beneath the hills. The great silence tells it. Yes! the very echo
of our footsteps preaches the sad, unwelcome doctrine, that “all is
passing away.”
We feel much more cheery, however, by the time we reach the bottom of
the hill, and see our carriage--to which _two_ horses only are
harnessed this time--and András’s nimble little figure dodging from
one side to the other, as he arranges the cushions for us, and makes
all “taut” for starting, and we are quite jolly again when once more
jolting along the road to the music of the horses’ bells.
Clattering under the old gateway, we soon reach the open country, and
see the train ascending the hill on the opposite side of the narrow
valley. How the engine puffs and snorts, and what difficulty it seems
to have in dragging itself up the steep incline! It scarcely appears
to move at all, as, cantering down the hill, we quickly leave it far
behind. On the way our progress is momentarily arrested by a little
procession, which, leaving the main road, is wending its way upwards
by a mountain path. It is the “Kost” being carried to a dying person.
Peasant women follow, with little children clinging to their skirts,
some holding lighted tapers, and all walking with heads bent low.
How picturesque, but how melancholy at the same time, are all Roman
Catholic countries!
At Altsohl we find all the women in full costume, the day being
evidently a festival of some sort. There is a great display of
ravishing little top-boots in scarlet and yellow leather, and brilliant
_peltz rökel_--short sheepskin jackets, worked not only in
coloured silks, but in gold and silver thread. The men, too, are in
their Sunday-best, with feathers and flowers in their hats, and smoking
their holiday pipes.
At Altsohl station another painful scene awaits us. More emigrants
are starting for “Amurica,” that country whose streets are paved with
gold. As usual, there are not enough carriages to convey them, and
the agony of the men, women, and children who come to see the last
of them is prolonged. At length the bell rings. Friends embrace each
other passionately, and weep like children. The emigrants take their
places, and the train moves slowly from the platform. The last look is
given through the carriage windows. A thrilling cry of pain goes up
from those left behind--it haunted us for many a long day after--and we
whirl away, the very wheels as they rotate, seeming to echo the words
of the Hungarian whom we met at Schemnitz: “They die by a fence--they
die by a fence!”
[Illustration]