A STORM IN THE MOUNTAINS.
At the foot of the Tátra, and also in the county of Gőmőr, hidden
deep in the lovely valley of Stracena, is a little brook from which
the valley takes its name, “Stracena” being a Szláv word signifying
“vanished,” or “passing out of sight.”
Leaving Dobsina, we begin the ascent of the Langenberg, and soon look
down upon the little town nestling at our feet, surrounded on every
side by a glorious amphitheatre of mountains, wave after wave and
summit after summit rising one above another till they are seen to fade
away in the misty distance.
A road to the left leads us to a wild and beautiful gorge, which we
gradually descend through stupendous pine forests; a swift mountain
torrent, clear as crystal, which follows the roadway, accompanying the
jingling of our horses’ bells with a sweet and plaintive melody.
Here beauty and grandeur alternate in singular contrast. Now we see
before us huge rock-fragments lying by our pathway which have been
hurled from the heights above, and, anon frowning down upon us with
forbidding aspect, are rugged peaks. But all mingle with the gentler
charms of soft lichen-covered pine, and grassy mead dainty with
forget-me-nots.
The air blows fresh, for it is early morning yet, and the dew still
lingers on the grass, and drips upon us from the pine-branches, each
stem and spine of which is tipped with a crystal bead; whilst on the
mossy banks the lichen flowers peep forth from their soft green beds
like fairy cups, and hold the moisture brimful.
Presently we miss the murmur of the brook which discoursed such
pleasant music as we wound along its margin; its waters grow less in
volume, and it lingers on its way, as if it were flowing sadly. Watch
it closely, for soon it becomes lost to sight and--as its German name,
_Flören-seufen_, poetically implies--vanishes with a sigh!
This is but another of the phenomena so common to the district. The
bed of the stream, consisting of limestone, contains one of the
_tőbőr_, or fissures, so frequently met with in that formation,
through which the water discharges itself, to reappear through another
fissure lower down the valley, till at length it empties itself in the
river Göllnitz.
We have hitherto been traversing the valley of the Graben (grave),
whose name also has reference to the vanished brook, and do not enter
that of Stracena until we reach the little village which bears its
name, a mere cluster of wooden huts chiefly occupied by woodmen, and
others employed in the ironworks belonging to the Duke August Coburg.
To the right rises the singular Macskáshegy, or Cat’s Crag, to the left
the pine-clad Hanneshőh, fit portals to the splendid defile we shall
shortly enter.
Through the gorge flows the river Göllnitz, swelled by the little
_Flören-seufen_, now mysteriously come to life again; the former
an impetuous torrent, lashing itself into spray over moss-covered
boulders, as it winds along the roadway. On either side, tier above
tier and pinnacle above pinnacle, like mighty battlements rise the
cliffs, which, almost shutting out the sky, seem to close us in as with
prison walls.
Here leaving our carriage, and following a Slovak guide, furnished by
the manager of the ironworks, we climb the crags by a narrow pathway
between a chaos of rock and loose stones, and reach a beautiful
oasis--a fertile meadow carpeted with Alpine flowers. We do not pause,
however, except to take breath, till we reach a point where a truly
Swiss landscape is spread out before us--the snow-capped _Tátra_,
in all the glory of Alpine peak, cutting its rugged way into the very
heavens; and here, throwing ourselves down upon a moss-covered bank, we
indulge in well-earned repose, and enjoy the magnificent panorama which
lies before us.
Having rested after our climb, we visit a spot celebrated for its
intermittent spring. On reaching the place, we observe a bowl-shaped
hollow, rather deeper than it is wide, in which lie fragments of a
calcareous nature. The water could only just have disappeared, for the
pebbles in its channel were still wet, and we regretted much that we
had not arrived a little earlier upon the scene. From the moment of its
appearing it continues to increase in volume, until it has reached a
certain height, when it gradually subsides, to return after an interval
of two or three hours. Half an hour is the period of its duration, but
its recurrence varies according to the season of the year.
At the mouth of the spring once stood a mill-wheel, erected for the
purpose of informing visitors to this wildly beautiful gorge that
the waters were beginning to flow, the wheel being so placed that the
stream caused it to revolve and set in motion a hammer, which, striking
upon a metal plate, resounded through the valley. It is said, too, to
have served also as a signal to the wild deer that abound in these
forests, which, on recognising the sound, used to come down to drink!
Soon after again starting on our way, we enter a narrow pass, the
beauty and grandeur of which it is impossible to describe, language
altogether failing in its power of expressing the endless variety
of forms which the rocks assume, as like ruined ramparts they rise
majestically above us. Skirting these mighty precipices, we tremble
lest even the hollow rumble of our carriage, as it reverberates against
the rocks, should shake them down upon us.
As we descend further through the pass, the road becomes so narrow that
there is only just room for our carriage, and we seem to have reached
a _cul-de-sac_, for a lofty pyramid of rock we can almost touch
completely shuts us in. A few more paces, however, and a sharp angle in
the road shows that it has been tunnelled, and we reach the celebrated
Felsenthor. We were just about to enter it, when, from a small fissure
thirty feet above us, an eagle flew out and went sailing up the gorge,
its wild scream echoing from rock to rock.
It had been thundering slightly the last hour or so, but, our minds
pre-occupied, we had taken little heed of its warning voice. Presently
heavy rain-drops began to fall, then a loud clap was heard that almost
seemed to shake the very earth.
“We are going to have a storm,” cried András, descending from the box
and putting up the hood of our carriage.
Contrary to our expectations, however, the rain after a short
time ceased, and the sun shone out again, but there were heavy
thunder-clouds still hanging about the ridges of the gorge that wore
an ominous look, and there was that peculiar stillness in the air that
foreboded a coming storm.
As soon as we have passed the Felsenthor the road widening enables us
to proceed quickly without danger; and the driver whipping the horses
into a gallop, we go on at a rattling pace, passing a gipsies’ camp by
the way, the first we have seen since leaving the lowlands. Emerging
from the gorge, we drive through broad stretches of meadow-like
pastures lying at the foot of mountains, which even here are densely
clothed with enormous pines, reaching to their very summits. Oh the
grandeur and beauty of these Carpathian pine-forests! In the distance
slightly to our left, the heavens wear a leaden appearance, whilst a
broad sheet of dark cloud, extending to the earth in perpendicular
lines, plainly indicates that yonder it is raining in torrents.
Our road fortunately leads us in a contrary direction, but should the
storm overtake us we shall have a drenching. We therefore fly before
it, and, our road soon making a curve to the right, we seem for a while
to leave it behind. Yonder a long belt of pine-forest forms a perfectly
black line against the livid sky. Above it we see the clouds open, and
a flash of lightning, shooting downwards with sharp angles, pierces its
very centre, as if attracted by the peak of some lofty pine rearing its
head above its fellows.
Meeting a Slovak, our driver stops the horses for a moment to inquire
how far we are from shelter. The Slovak points onwards in the direction
we are taking, and we go on again faster than before. But fleet as are
our steeds under the heavy lash of the driver’s whip, the clouds,
travelling still faster, overtake and almost sweep us with their ragged
fringes.
The wind comes with the clouds and sways the pine-trees to and fro.
The crazy hood of our carriage rocks from side to side, and creaks and
cracks as though each blast would send it flying through the air. And
now large hailstones come pelting down upon us, striking the horses
with such violence that it is with difficulty the driver urges them
onwards. But as the centre of the storm gradually passes overhead, the
hail ceases and gives place to heavy rain; and well protected from the
outer elements as we flattered ourselves we were, the fond delusion
is speedily dispelled, for the rain comes trickling in upon us at
every point, as though the hood had been a sieve, and we discover that
whatever else it was made for, our carriage evidently was _not_
constructed to resist a mountain storm.
Before very long we are consoled by András, who, looking over his
shoulder, informs us from out of his sheepskin covering--with which he
is enveloped even to his eyelids--that we are coming to an _álás_,
upon which the horses are once more whipped into a gallop, and in five
minutes we are under shelter.
The _álás_ in question, a long barn-like building, is full
of teams of oxen, which have also been driven to take refuge from
the storm. Near them stand the Slovak drivers in large felt hats,
shoes made of hide, and their legs bound with thongs of leather;
formidable-looking men enough, with their large knives stuck in their
girdles, but in reality as harmless as mice.
Having explored the beautiful valley, or rather gorge, of Stracena,
our intention on starting in the morning had been to return to Dobsina
by a different route. That intention however was destined to resolve
itself into a strong determination not to move another inch to-night,
if we could only find a room where we could dry our dripping clothes
and get something to eat. Opposite the _álás_ is a small inn, of
the very humblest pretensions, so far as we can judge from its outward
aspect; but experience of the byways of this country teaches us to
expect clean mattresses at all events, and our rugs when dried can very
well be made to supply other deficiencies in case of need.
We are now in the North-West Provinces of Hungary, a district inhabited
by Slovaks, a branch of that great Slavonic family which at one time
doubtless peopled almost the entire eastern portion of Europe from the
Volga to the Baltic, and on the south-west as far as the Adriatic Sea,
and who in all probability inhabited the greater part of Hungary until
the invasion of the Magyars drove them from their home on the plains,
and caused them to flee for safety to these mountainous regions of
the Felfőld: the term Slovak being simply adopted to distinguish this
branch from their brethren the Slávs of Southern Hungary. Many of the
Slovaks, however, inhabiting this north-western corner of the kingdom,
are the immediate descendants of the Moravian Tcheks; this part of the
country at the time of the conquests of Árpád having formed a portion
of the principality of Moravia.
Crossing the sea of mud that surrounded the shed--how I realised at
that moment the appropriateness of the national top-boots!--we make
our way valiantly towards the flight of steps leading to the house. A
long stone passage ushers us into the kitchen, with its walls covered
with bright copper vessels of various descriptions. Sitting on benches
are Slovaks, quiet, pensive and contemplative-looking men, one of
whom wears ringlets, and all, in spite of their strange dresses, are
almost effeminate in appearance. The Slávs of Hungary, whether from the
north or south, may generally be recognised at once, and form a great
contrast to the Magyars with their manly and energetic bearing. Besides
which they have soft features, generally blue eyes, and often golden
hair.
[Illustration]
The house is prettily situated on the slope of a pine-clad mountain,
and appears to embrace the double function of farm and inn; for the
window of our chamber, commanding a near view of a shed across another
sea of mud in the back premises, initiates us into the mysteries of
sheep-shearing, an operation here performed by women.
Never can I forget the woe-begone appearance of the sheep, as, shorn of
the covering with which nature had provided them, they came forth from
the hands of the shearers, and bleating plaintively, stood shivering in
the rain, the most pitiable objects possible to conceive; so thin that
they were nothing but skin and bone, whilst their flanks were quite
hollow.
The sheep in the North of Hungary are reared almost exclusively for
their wool and milk, the latter being used for making Slovak cheese,
a commodity met with all over Hungary, and a source of great commerce
amongst the Slovaks. As we dry our wet garments by the kitchen stove,
the sheep-shearers now and then come straggling in to partake of
_slivovitz_, the favourite beverage, and bring with them a strong
odour of sheep.
Our host--likewise a Slovak, judging from his large broad-brimmed
hat--speaks German, as do nearly all the innkeepers even in these
out-of-the-way parts of Hungary. He is a young man of about
five-and-twenty, and appears not a little disconcerted at our
arrival, for it is evident that we are by no means the kind of guests
who usually frequent his modest little inn, a fact which our guide
doubtless for his own honour and glory had already taken care to
impress upon him.
Having purposed returning to Dobsina in time for dinner, we had only
provided ourselves with a light luncheon to partake of in the carriage
as we drove along; but the prospect of finding anything to eat here
was the reverse of encouraging, for the bare idea of our requiring
refreshment of any sort seemed a possibility that had not even
occurred to the landlord, so great was his consternation at our mere
mention of it.
“_Mittagessen! Mittagessen! es ist unmöglich_ (Dinner! dinner! it
is impossible). I have nothing in the house, absolutely nothing, and
the noble strangers doubtless are hungry.”
“_Paprika hendl_,” we suggested.
“_Ach nein!_” he cried, “miserable being that I am; the last
_hendl_ was cooked for a traveller who came this morning.
_Ach!_ why did I let him have it! it was such a beauty too, such
a fine, fat-breasted, beautiful fowl, and only three years old, if the
_Herrschaft_ will believe me.” The tears stood in his eyes, and
he almost tore his hair, as he thought of it, together with the feast
which might have been the “illustrious strangers’,” but for his want of
foreknowledge.
“_Wurst_ (sausage) I have in abundance,” he continued, “of good
quality and various kinds, but the _Herrschaft_ may not care for
that.”
No, we certainly did not think we should, having tasted Slovak
_Wurst_ on our way to Dobsina, and found it unusually impregnated
with garlic.
“Have you no eggs?” we demanded, growing desperate, as we became more
frantically hungry each moment, and the prospects of getting anything
to eat grew less and less.
“Eggs! eggs! Yes!” he replied, a smile of relief suffusing his whole
countenance. “_Goose’s eggs_, they are plentiful, plentiful. See
here!” reaching up to a shelf--“a whole basketful, which I bought just
an hour ago.”
Well, at any rate we shall not starve. “Goose’s eggs,” black bread,
Slovak cheese, and--_slivovitz_. What a _menu_!
Whilst we were partaking of the banquet, our host entertained us with
his history. He was a native of Felka, a village lying at the base of
the Tátra, and was consequently a Zipser, and not a Slovak as we had
surmised. He had, however, married a Slovak girl from this district,
and on the death of his father had migrated hither, bringing his little
_jószág_ and household gods with him. Like Kintu, the Founder of
Uganda, who is said to have taken with him from the north “one wife,
one cow, one goat, one sheep, one banana-root, and a sweet-potato,
and journeyed south in search of a suitable land to dwell in,” he had
established himself here in like manner, and having settled down, his
widowed mother had followed him, and was living in a cottage close
by. He had been married two and a half years, and his wife had that
morning taken her baby and gone to visit her parents, to-day being its
_Namenstag_ (baptismal anniversary), but she would be home soon,
very soon--and all this he informed us of in one breath.
In the corner of the guest-room near the window stands a
spinning-wheel, by the side of which are two small high-heeled shoes;
what expression there is in a well-worn shoe, and how it seems to
partake of the individuality of the wearer! Hanging to a nail just
over them is a baby’s cap, which has retained the shape of the little
round head. The picture is complete, and we feel we have made the
acquaintance of the possessors already.
An hour later, we hear the loud, harsh tones of a woman’s voice in the
kitchen, and those of the landlord expostulating mildly. The woman is
evidently his mother, from the words that pass between them. We cannot
help overhearing through the thin wooden partition, and my thoughts fly
pityingly to the owner of the fat little shoes in the corner.
“She has the key of the _Schrank_, and how can the linen be got
at? There are strangers here and no one to wait on them. It is not
acting as _I_ did when I was a young wife. She ought to have been
home before.”
“It is a long way, the road is heavy after the rain, and the old horse
sometimes gets the _Schwindel_. She will be back before nightfall;
there will have been a little merry-making over the baby,--that is what
is keeping her so long.”
“Merry-making indeed! what does she want more than her husband and her
home, such as she had by birth no right to? She brought nothing with
her to speak of, not twenty yards of house-linen, nothing but a pretty
face. _Pfui!_” exclaimed she snappishly, turning away, “_es ist
immer so._”
The rain had ceased by this time, and picking our way along the wooden
_trottoir_ which surrounded the house, we went for a stroll.
The air was fragrant with the odour of the pine-trees, and the sound
of many waters reached us, each ravine now having its own little
watercourse, which, tearing down the mountain-side, hastened to swell
the foaming river beneath. From a distance the bell of a church tolled
the Ave Maria, and the line of shadow came creeping up the valley.
Looking to our right, we see a cart wending its way slowly down the
hill; the horse with bunches of flowers stuck in his bridle, and
branches of fir ornamenting the cart. In it sits the happy young
mother, with the setting sun glowing in her face as she looks down
proudly upon the little child in her arms.
[Illustration]
The husband and mother-in-law come out to meet her, the latter with
black looks and bitter words. Anticipating a violent action of the
moral elements, and thinking that our presence might possibly break the
fury of the storm, we also go to meet her.
The moment she recognised the form of her _Schwiegermutter_
(mother-in-law) her smile faded, and bending her head sadly over her
sleeping child, she hurried into the house.
In all this we learnt a history, and felt that we had gained an
insight into the life of, at any rate, one Slovak family, which
after all would seem to be identical with our own. Here in this
peaceful region, far removed from the strife of men, is a little home
tragedy being enacted--a tragedy of woman’s struggles and woman’s
sorrows--everywhere the same.
Just as twilight is folding all nature to sleep, András comes towards
us, his face beaming with happiness, and communicates the prosaic but
by no means unwelcome intelligence that he has got some _Forellen_
(trout) for us, and also that he had succeeded in obtaining from the
priest of the village a small _Kalbsbraten_ (joint of roasted
veal). The former we request him to have cooked at once, but to retain
the latter luxury for our journey on the morrow.
We find our guide particularly useful in this district, where, with
the exception of the innkeepers, the people speak a language not a
word of which we can understand. Without him it would be impossible to
get on comfortably, if at all. There is often a difficulty in getting
horses to take us on from stage to stage, besides which the drivers
are occasionally not too civilly disposed. András possesses however
a rather quarrelsome disposition, and is decidedly hostile to all
innkeepers, driving hard bargains for rooms, etc., which we do not
always approve of.
As we were returning to the house, we saw through the window a sweet
picture. In the corner of the kitchen near the raised hearth, the fire
lighting up her figure with a ruddy glow, sat the little wife rocking
the cradle. She had cried herself into comfort, for, although her eyes
were still moist, she was singing softly, and her countenance wore a
placid smile--the sacred mystery of maternal love manifesting itself in
her whole attitude as, forgetful seemingly of all else, she looked down
upon her child.
I stood gazing at her long, thinking what a subject she would make for
an artist; with the spinning-wheel behind her, which had evidently
been taken from the inner room during our absence, the pictorial
surroundings of the kitchen, the bright copper pans and long ladles
hanging above her head, the fire on the hearth, over which hung an iron
crock suspended from the ceiling, the deep warm shadow of her figure
thrown against the wall--till I was awakened from my reverie by our
guide announcing that the _Forellen_ were fried to a turn and
awaited us on the guest-room table.
[Illustration]