A WEEK IN THE PINE REGION.
Our quarters at the shelter-hut in the pine valley were so
satisfactory, and its situation so delightful, that instead of
remaining only two nights, as had been originally intended, we stayed
there a whole week, exploring the valley in all directions, making
sketches of the principal points, and collecting supplies of the rare
ferns and mosses with which the neighborhood abounded, along with the
alpen-rose, which we often discovered still flowering at sheltered
places.
A thorough dose of nature enjoyed in this way acts like a regenerating
medicine on a mind and body wearied and weakened by a long strain of
conventionalities. It is refreshing merely to look round on a beautiful
scene as yet untainted by the so-called civilizing breath of man, who,
too often attempting to paint the lily, invariably vulgarizes when
he seeks to improve the work of the Creator. What unmixed delight to
see here everything unspoiled and unadulterated, each tree and flower
living out its natural life, or falling into beautiful decay, without
having been turned aside from its original vocation, or distorted
to an unnatural use to minister to some imaginary want of sensual,
cruel, greedy, rapacious man; to find one little spot where nature yet
reigns supreme; to be able to gaze around and say that those splendid
fir-stems will _not_ be cut up in a noisy saw-mill, nor yet defiled by
vulgar paint; those late scarlet strawberries hanging in coral fringes
from pearl-gray rocks will _not_ be sold at so much a pint and cooked
into sickly jams; those prickly fir-cones will _not_ be abstracted from
their rightful owners, the red-coated squirrels, to adorn the tasteless
veranda of some popular beer-house; the swelling outlines of those
glorious blue gentians will be flattened in _no_ improved herbarium,
nor those gorgeous butterflies invited to lay down their young lives to
further the interests of science; those brown leaping trout will, thank
Heaven, never, never figure on an illuminated _menu_ card as _truites
à la Chambord_, to flatter the palate of some dissipated sybarite! The
pure light of the north star alone will point out my direction, and
neither Kant nor Hegel will rise from his grave to torment me here.
[Illustration: THE PINE VALLEY.[82]]
* * * * *
It is wonderful how soon one gets accustomed to roughing it, and
doing without the comforts and luxuries of daily life, and it is
delightful to discover that civilization is only skin-deep after all.
On the second morning it seemed no hardship to perform our toilet at
a mountain spring shrouded in a pine-tree boudoir; empty bottles were
very worthy substitutes for silver candlesticks; and for brushing our
dress and cleansing our boots, a wild Wallachian peasant quite as
useful as a trained _femme de chambre_.
Dress and fashion, uniforms and coffee-houses, the wearisome chit-chat
of a little country town, as well as the intricacies of European
politics, had all passed out of our lives as though they had never
existed, leaving no regret, scarcely even a memory. It seemed hardly
possible to believe that such useless and unnatural things as false
hair, diamond ear-rings, military parades, cream-laid note-paper,
calling-cards, sugar-tongs, intrigue, envy, and ambition existed
somewhere or other about the world. Were there really other forms of
music extant than the lullaby of the water-fall, and the wild pibroch
of the wind among the fir-stems? other sorts of perfumes than the pine
wood fragrance and the breath of wild thyme?
While we were thus revelling in the pure ozone above, two emperors
were meeting in some dull corner of the dingy earth below,[83] and all
Europe was looking on and holding its breath, in order to catch some
echo of the royal syllables interchanged.
For our part, we completely skipped this page of European history, and
felt none the worse of it. Everything changes proportion up here, and a
real eagle becomes of far more absorbing interest than a double-headed
one. We were virtually as isolated as though cast on a desert island in
the Pacific; and but for one messenger despatched to assure us of the
welfare of our respective families, we had no communication with the
world we had left.
Here we had a hundred other sources of interest of more absorbing
and healthier kind than the so-called pleasures we had left below.
First there was the water-fall, a never-failing element of beauty and
interest. It was delightful to sketch it, sitting on a moss-grown stone
at the edge of the torrent; it was yet more delightful to clamber up to
its base, and clinging on to a rock, receive the breath of its spray
full on our face, and enjoy at close quarters the musical thunder
of its voice. Not far from this was the place where, three years
previously, the great avalanche had swept over the valley, felling
prostrate every tree which came in its passage. All across one side of
the glen, and half-way up the opposite hill, can still be traced the
ravaging march of the destroying forces; for here the woodman never
comes with his axe, and each tree still lies prostrate where it was
stricken down, like giant ninepins overthrown; and here they will lie
undisturbed till they rot away and turn to soft red dust, mute vouchers
of the terrible power of unchained nature. One felt inclined to envy
the bears and eagles for this glorious sight, of which they alone can
have been the fortunate spectators.
Another point of interest indicated by our guides was the bridge of
fir-stems over a steep ravine, where years ago a terrified flock of
sheep, pursued by a bear in broad daylight, had leaped down over the
precipitous edge, upwards of three hundred breaking their legs in their
frenzied attempts to escape.
The shepherds who lived above in the stony valley came frequently down
to our shelter-hut, and we used to find them comfortably ensconced at
our camp-fire, in deep conversation with the guides. In their lonely
existence it must have been a pleasant experience to have neighbors at
all within reach, and our hospitable camp-fire was doubtless as good
as a fashionable club to their simple minds. They brought us of their
sheep’s milk and cheese. The latter, called here _brindza_, was very
palatable, and the milk much thicker and richer than cow’s milk, but of
a peculiar taste which I failed to appreciate.
There was a shepherdess, too, belonging to the establishment; but let
no one, misled by the appellation, instinctively conjure up visions
of delicate pastel-paintings or coquettish porcelain figurines, for
anything more utterly at variance with the associations suggested
by the names of Watteau and Vieux Saxe, than the uncouth, swarthy,
one-eyed damsel who inhabited the bergerie, cannot well be imagined.
The male shepherds were four in number—two of them calling for no
special description; the third, a boy of about fourteen, with large,
senseless eyes and a fixed, idiotic stare, looked no more than
semi-human. The most distinguished member of the party, and, as we
ladies unanimously agreed, decidedly the flower of the flock, was
a good-looking young man of some twenty years, with straight-cut,
regular features, a high brown fur cap, and a wooden flute on which he
played in a queer, monotonous fashion, resembling the droning tones
of a bagpipe. He had come from Roumania, he told us, and had been for
a time tending flocks in Turkey, where he had picked up something of
the language. It was a curious country, he observed, and the people
there had curious habits—such, for instance, as that of keeping
several wives; the richer a man was, the more wives he kept. Our
young shepherd shrugged his shoulders as he made this remark in a
supercilious manner, evidently of opinion that women were an evil which
should not be unnecessarily multiplied; and certainly, judging from the
solitary specimen of female beauty which the stony valley contained, no
man could feel tempted to embark in a very extensive harem.
We afterwards ascertained that the interesting shepherd with the fur
cap and wooden flute had committed a murder over in Roumania, and been
obliged to fly the country on that account. This disclosure rendered us
somewhat more reserved in our intercourse with our romantic neighbor,
and though we could not exactly put a stop to his visits, we avoided
over-intimacy, and always felt more at ease in his society when there
was a gun or revolver within handy reach.
Our Wallachian guides proved thoroughly satisfactory in every
way—active, obliging, and full of inventive resources. They were
very particular about keeping their fast-days as prescribed by the
Greek Church, and would refuse all offers of food at such times. When
not fasting they were easily made happy by any scraps of cheese or
bacon left over from our meals, or by a glassful of spirits of wine
judiciously adulterated with water. On one occasion a parcel containing
a dozen hard-boiled eggs, grown stale (to put it mildly) from having
been overlooked, was received with positive rapture by one of these
unsophisticated beings, who devoured them every one with a heartfelt
relish not to be mistaken.
Ham, sausages, and bread and cheese, formed the staple of our
nourishment in this as in other Transylvanian mountain excursions—for
after the first day, of course, no fresh meat could be procured. Also,
the Hungarian _paprica speck_—viz., raw bacon prepared with red
pepper—is useful on these occasions, as it gives much nourishment
in a very small compass. I never myself succeeded in reaching the
point demanded by Hungarian enthusiasm for this favorite national
food; so that all I can conscientiously say for it is that, given the
circumstances of a keen appetite, bracing mountain air, and no other
available nourishment, it is quite eatable, and by a little stretch
of indulgence might almost be called palatable. The Magyars, however,
pronounce this bacon to be of such superlatively exquisite flavor as
only to be fit for the gods on a Sunday! So I suppose it can only be
by reason of some peculiarly ungodlike quality in my nature that I am
unable to appreciate this Elysian dish as it deserves.
The Roumanians have, like the Poles, a certain inbred sense of courtesy
totally wanting in their Saxon neighbors; it shows itself in many
trifling acts—in the manner they rise and uncover in the presence of
a superior, and the way they offer their assistance over the obstacles
of the path. One day that I had hurt my foot, and was much distressed
at being unable to join a longer walk, I found in the evening a large
nosegay of ripe bilberries, surrounded by red autumn leaves, lying at
the foot of my sleeping-place—a delicate attention on the part of our
head guide, who wished thereby to console me for the pleasure I had
lost.
The peasants were always pitying us for the disadvantages of our
_chaussure_: how could we be so foolish as to submit to the torture
and inconvenience of shoes and stockings, instead of adopting the
comfortable opintschen they themselves wore? And they almost succeeded
in persuading me to make the attempt on some future occasion, although
I feel doubtful as to how far a foot corrupted by civilization could be
induced to adapt itself to this unwonted covering.
We celebrated our last evening in the pine valley by ordering an extra
large bonfire to be made. Accordingly, three good-sized fir-trees were
felled, and bound together to form a sort of pyramid. A glorious sight
when the flames had scaled the heights, turning each little twig into a
golden brand, and drawing a profusion of rockets from every branch—far
more beautiful than any fireworks I had seen.
One of our guides, called Nicolaïa—the tallest and wildest-looking
of the group—especially distinguished himself on this occasion. He
had evidently something of the salamander in his constitution, for he
seemed to be absolutely impervious to heat, and to feel, in fact, quite
as comfortable inside the fire as out of it. By common consent he was
generally assigned the part of cat’s-paw, to him being delegated the
office of taking a boiling pot off the fire or picking the roasted
potatoes from out the red-hot embers. Standing as he now was, almost in
the centre of the glowing pile, supporting the burning fir-trees with
his sinewy arms, while a perfect shower of sparks rained thickly down
all over his ragged shirt and bare, tawny chest, it required no stretch
of imagination to take him for a figure designed by Doré and stepped
straight out of Dante’s Inferno.
* * * * *
Our last morning came, and with heartfelt regret we prepared to leave
the lovely valley where we had spent such a truly delicious week. An
additional pack-horse having been sent for from the village below, we
were surprised to see the animal in question make its appearance led by
the Roumanian cure of the parish, who, having heard that a horse was
required, had bethought himself of earning an honest penny by hiring
out his beast and enacting the part of driver. Anywhere else it would
be a strange anomaly to see a clergyman putting himself on a level with
a common peasant, attired in coarse linen shirt and meekly carrying
our bundles; but here this is of every-day occurrence. The Roumanian
peasant, however rigorously he may adhere to the forms of his Church,
has, as I said before, no inordinate respect for the person of his
clergyman, whose infallibility is only considered to last so long as he
is standing before the altar; once outside the church walls he becomes
an ordinary man to his congregation, and not necessarily a particularly
respected or respectable individual. This particular popa was, as it
appeared, not only accustomed to serve as driver, but likewise as beast
of burden himself—as he genially volunteered to carry all the mosses
and ferns we collected on the way. I am ashamed to say that we basely
accepted his services, and loaded him unmercifully with the spoils
of the forest, thus unceremoniously apostrophizing him: “Here, popa,
another hart’s-tongue;” or, “Take this ivy trail, will you?” till he
was wellnigh smothered in sylvan treasures.
Our path to the foot of the mountains, where our carriages were to
await us, was a walk of about three hours; but soon after starting,
our sacerdotal porter having volunteered to show us a short cut, which
should take us down in two-thirds of that time, we gladly grasped
at this proposition and at the prospect of seeing a new part of the
forest; and our other guides being on ahead with the horses, we blindly
intrusted ourselves to the guidance of the holy man, who forthwith
began to lead us through the very thickest forest-mazes, over rocks
and torrents, through bogs and brier, up hill and down dale, till
our clothes were torn, our hands were bleeding, and our tempers were
soured. “The way must be very short, indeed, if it is so bad,” was the
reflection which at first kept up our spirits; but we had yet to learn
that brevity and badness do not always go hand in hand, and that an
execrable path may be lengthy as well. Like jaded warriors overcome by
the fatigue of an excessive march, we now disburdened ourselves of our
rich spoils, having no further thought but to find our way from out
this bewildering labyrinth of smooth beech-stems. Clumps of exquisite
maidenhair ferns, but now so tenderly dug up, were callously cast
aside, and the much-prized layers of velvety moss were brutally left
to perish. All noble instincts seemed dead within us, our weary limbs
and empty stomachs being all we cared for. The forest had suddenly
grown hideous, and we wondered at ourselves for ever having thought it
beautiful. The priest was a ruffian luring us on to our destruction.
Utterly losing sight of his sacerdotal character, we abused him in
harsh and vigorous language, which he meekly bore—I must say that
much for him. Perhaps he had heard similar language before, and was
accustomed to it.
Whether the popa had lost his way and did not wish to acknowledge
it, or whether, as I rather suspect, he had never been in the forest
before, remains an unsolved mystery; the result was, however, that
after nearly seven hours of remarkably hard walking we were still lost
in the depths of the forest, and apparently no nearer our destination
than when we had set out.
At this juncture one of the ladies lay down on the ground, declaring
herself incapable of going a step farther. She was nearly fainting
with fatigue and hunger, for all our provisions had been sent on with
the horses. The predicament was a most unpleasant one; for although
the popa swore for at least the twentieth time that we should arrive
in less than half an hour, we had been too cruelly deceived, and our
confidence in him was gone. Half an hour might just as well mean three
or four hours farther; and even if he spoke the truth our unfortunate
companion was far too much exhausted to proceed.
After a brief consultation we determined that, leaving two gentlemen
in charge of the invalid, some of us should go on with the miscreant
priest as guide, sending back a horse and some restoratives to the
spot. This plan proved successful; for after about three-quarters of an
hour more of clambering and climbing, we reached the forest edge, and
found our guides waiting for us and much perplexed at our nonappearance.
“The devil take the popa!” was their hearty and unanimous exclamation
when we had related our adventure; “who could be fool enough to follow
the priest? Did we not know that it was bad-luck even to meet a popa?”
they asked us pityingly; and certainly, under the circumstances, we
felt inclined for once to attach some weight to popular superstition,
and inwardly to resolve never again to trust ourselves to the guidance
of a Roumanian popa.
FOOTNOTES:
[82] Reprinted from a publication of the Transylvanian Carpathian
Society.
[83] The meeting of the Emperors of Austria and Russia at Skiernevice,
in September, 1884.