THE BULEA SEE.
Next morning we proceeded to the real object of our excursion, the
Bulea See, a lake which lies at the foot of the Negoi, 6662 feet
above the sea-level, and situated about three hours distant from our
shelter-hut.
There was a steep climb till we had reached the top of the water-fall,
and then we found ourselves in a second valley, larger and wider than
the first, and of a totally different character. Here were neither moss
nor ferns, neither beech nor pine woods—only a deep and lonely valley
shut in by pointed rocks on either side, and thickly strewn throughout
with massive bowlder-stones, each of which would seem to mark the
resting-place of a giant. The only form of vegetation here visible,
besides the short scraggy grass sprouting in detached patches betwixt
the stones, were the stunted irregular fir-bushes (called _krummholz_),
which, blown by ever-recurring gales into all sorts of fantastic
shapes, resemble as many wizened goblins playing at hide-and-seek among
the giant tombstones, crawling and creeping into every hollow which
can afford them shelter from the inclemency of the winter storm; for
now we have entered a third kingdom, and the reign of the pine-tree
is at an end. Having once overpassed the height of 1800 metres (5905½
feet), above which fir-trees do not thrive, these once stalwart and
overbearing giants have degenerated to the misshapen and crooked
goblins we see.
Yet here again we are forced to acknowledge this new metamorphosis to
be but another step in the scale of loveliness. We had been enchanted
by the beech woods, ravished by the pine forest, yet now all at once
we feel that with the desolate wildness of these upper regions a yet
higher note of beauty has been struck; for here Nature, seeming to
disdain such toilet artifices as trees or ferns or cunningly tinted
mosses, like a classical statue, boldly reveals herself in her
glorious nudity, with naught to distract the eye from the perfection
of her sublime curves.
Something of the charm of this desolate stony valley lay no doubt, for
me, in its marked resemblance to Scottish scenery, recalling to my mind
some of the wilder parts of Arran, the upper half of Glen Rosa, or
portions of Glen Sannox, seen long ago but never forgotten; and for a
moment I experienced the pleasurable sensation of recognizing the face
of a beloved old friend in a strange picture-gallery.
The fierce barking of dogs aroused me from my comparisons, and now for
the first time I perceived that at one place the large loose stones had
been piled together so as to form a rude sort of hovel or cavern, the
headquarters of some shepherds come hither to find pasture for their
flocks during the brief mountain summer.
We approached the _stina_, as these _bergeries_ are called, and made
acquaintance with the shepherd, some of the gentlemen at my request
cross-questioning him as to his habits and occupation. He was ready
enough to enter into conversation with us and our guide, seemingly
rejoiced at the sight of other human beings after a long period of
isolation. We learned from him that the shepherds are in the habit of
coming up here each summer about the end of June, to remain till the
middle of September, after which date snow may be expected to set in,
and the shepherd, proceeding southward as the year advances, leads his
flocks into Wallachia and Moldavia to pass the winter. These flocks are
not the property of one individual, but each village inhabitant has his
particular sheep marked with his own sign. All the mountain pastures in
these parts belong to a Count T——, who receives forty-five kreuzers
(about 9_d._) per sheep for its summer pasturage.
This particular flock consisted of about eight hundred head, herded by
four shepherds only, and six or eight large wolf-dogs. The men receive
thirty florins (£2 10_s._) yearly wages, besides a pair of sandals
each, and a certain proportion of food, principally maize-flour, to
be cooked into _mamaliga_, and whatever cheese and sheep’s milk they
require. These wages are considered high enough in these parts, but
the work required is hard and fatiguing. The whole day the shepherd
must creep along the crags with his flock, at places where scarce a
goat could obtain footing, and at night he must sleep in the open air
whatever be the weather, ready to spring up at the slightest alarm of
wolf or bear.
“When did you last see a bear?” inquired our interpreter of the
solitary shepherd.
“This very night, _dommu_” (master), he replied, “the _ursu_ came
prowling about the camp, and had to be driven away by the dogs. Most
nights he does come, and four of my sheep has he carried off this year.
Not one of our dogs but has been torn or wounded by him in turn.”
“And where are your sheep at present?” was the next question, as we
looked round at the deserted camp.
The man pointed upward and uttered a shrill, unearthly cry, which
presently was repeated as by an echo coming from the topmost ledges
of the crags overhead; and there, looking up to where the jagged
peaks were sharply defined against the blue sky, we could see the
white sheep clinging all over the face of the precipitous cliffs like
patches of new-fallen snow. It was wonderful to see how these seemingly
senseless animals obey the slightest call of their shepherd, who by
the inflections of his voice alone guides them in whatever direction
he pleases; and it is almost incredible that out of a flock of eight
hundred sheep the shepherd should be able to recognize and identify
each separate animal.
When we came to see those sheep at close quarters later in the day, we
were surprised at the whiteness and fine quality of their wool—each
single animal looking as though it had been freshly washed and
carefully combed out, like the favorite poodle of some fine lady, and
presenting therein a striking contrast to the flocks down below on the
plains, whose appearance is dirty and unkempt. This superior toilet
of the mountain sheep seems due to the constant mists and vapors ever
flitting to and fro in these upper regions, which thus enact the parts
of cleansing spirits; but why, when they are about it, do not these
benevolent _kobolds_ wash the shepherd as well?
Besides the dogs, there is usually a donkey attached to each shepherd’s
establishment. It serves to carry the packs of cheese and milk, or the
heavy _bunda_ (sheepskin coat) of the shepherd, and follows the flock
about wherever its legs permit. On this occasion we met the inevitable
ass some few hundred yards farther up the valley, standing on one of
the giant tombstones, and with head thrown back, loudly braying up in
the direction of the mountain heights. He, too, had caught sight of
his beloved sheep scrambling so far out of reach up there, and weary
of his loneliness, was thus passionately entreating his eight hundred
sweethearts to return to his faithful side.
Two hours more up the lonely valley brought us to our destination.
There was one last rocky wall to be overcome, and, having scaled it, we
stood with panting breath before the Bulea See, a curiously suggestive
little loch, dark greenish-blue in color, which nestles in the stony
chalice formed by the rocks around.
Nothing but gray bowlder-stones lying here cast about; no plant save
the deadly monk’s-hood growing rank in thick, short tufts of deep
sapphire hue; no sign of life but one solitary falcon soaring overhead,
and some scattered feathers lying strewn at the water’s edge.[81]
The brooding melancholy of this solitary spot has a charm all its
own. This would be the place, indeed, for a life-sick man to come and
end his days, and if there be such a thing as a voluptuous suicide,
methinks these were the proper surroundings for it. Death must come so
swiftly and so surely in those still green waters, which have such an
insinuating glitter; no danger here of being saved and brought back to
unwelcome life by a meddlesome log of floating wood, or the officious
arm of an out-stretched branch. Everything here seems to breathe of the
very spirit of suicide; the cold green waters, the deadly monk’s-hood,
the hovering falcon, all seem to agree, “This is the end of life—come
here and die!”
But let the hapless wretch bent on leaving this world beware of looking
round once more before executing his resolve, for if he but turn and
gaze again at the magnificent panorama at his feet, he will assuredly
be violently recalled to life.
I do not recollect having seen any single view which in its glorious
variety ever impressed me as much as what I saw that day, looking from
the platform beside the Bulea See; neither a framed-in picture nor
yet a bird’s-eye view, it rather gave me the feeling as though I were
standing at the head of a giant staircase whose balustrades are formed
by the nicked-out peaks of the crags on either side, and whose separate
steps present as many gradations of variegated beauty.
Close to our feet lay the stony valley we had just been traversing,
with its gigantic tombstones and wizened dwarf bushes, and the flashing
crest of the water-fall, just visible, like a silver thread, at the
farthest point. Then, after a sudden drop of several hundred feet, our
eye lights upon the pine valley, with the shelter-hut where we had
passed the previous night. With a telescope we could just make out the
place of the camp-fire and the figures of some grazing horses. Of the
third step of this giant ladder—namely, the beech forest—we could see
only the billowy tops of the close-grown trees, a mass of waving green,
touched here and there by the hand of autumn into russet and golden
tints; then far, far below lay stretched the smiling plain, streaked
with occasional dark patches we knew to be forests, and sundry white
dots we guessed at as villages, and the serpentine curves of the river
Alt, winding like a golden ribbon between them.
A long bank of clouds which had been hovering over the plain now sank
down, gradually obscuring that part of the view, but not for long. This
was but another freak of nature, one more turn in the kaleidoscope; for
now the mist has sunk so low that the plain itself appears above it,
and we behold the landscape framed in the clouds, like a delusive _Fata
Morgana_.
This is indeed a picture never to weary of, and after gazing at it for
ten ecstatic minutes, I defy the life-sick man to turn away and carry
out his suicidal intentions. The cold green waters have lost their
attraction for him, and the spell of the deadly monk’s-hood is broken;
for another voice whispers in his ear, and it tells him of life and of
hope: a few minutes ago he had felt like a condemned criminal in sight
of his grave, but now, with this glorious world at his feet, he is fain
to think himself monarch of all he beholds.
The giant’s ladder contains one more step, for by scrambling up the
rocks at one side of the loch one may reach the crest of the mountains,
and walking there for hours on the confines of Roumania, gain an
extensive view into both countries.
This is what some of the gentlemen of our party did, in hopes of coming
across chamois; while the rest of us remained below, well content
with what we had achieved, settling down, not to suicide, but to such
healthier, if more commonplace, pursuits as luncheon and sketching. At
least the luncheon was eaten and the sketch was begun; but beginning
and finishing are two very different things in these regions, and
one cannot reckon without the mountain-sprites, who were this day
mischievously inclined.
A tiny white cloudlet, snowy and innocent-looking as a tuft of
swan’s-down, had meanwhile detached itself from the bank of clouds
below the plain, and was speeding aloft in our direction. Incredibly
fast this mountain-sprite ascended the giant staircase—gliding over
the space it had taken us three hours to traverse in not the tenth part
of that time; jumping two steps at once, it seemed in its malicious
haste to spoil our pleasure. Now it has reached the terrace where we
are sitting; we feel its cold breath on our cheek, and in another
minute it has thrown its moist filmy veil over the scene. The lake at
our side has disappeared; we cannot see ten paces in front, and we
shiver under the warm wraps we just now despised.
The mist, which feels at first like a soft, invisible rain, gradually
becomes harder and more prickly; there is a sharp, rattling sound in
the air, and we realize that we are sitting in a hail-storm, from which
we vainly try to escape by dodging under the overhanging rocks.
As quickly as it came it is gone again, for scarce ten minutes later
the sun shone out triumphant, dispersing the ill-natured vapors. Yet
a little longer will the sun lord it up here as master, and come
victorious out of all such combats; but these impish cloudlets are the
outrunners of the army of the dread ice-king, and will return again day
by day in greater numbers, soon to be no more driven away from these
regions.
FOOTNOTES:
[81] These feathers, of a bluish color, we identified as those of
the garrulous roller, _Coracias garrula_; and as this bird is never
to be found at the aforementioned height, it must apparently have
been crossing the mountains to migrate southward, when its travelling
arrangements were disturbed by the watchful falcon.