SLOVAKS AND RUSNIAKS.
It was on the second day after the events narrated in the preceding
chapter that, leaving Dobsina, to which place we were obliged to return
to pick up our luggage, we started on our way to Poprád, where, leaving
our heavy carriage behind us, we purposed visiting the snowy mountains
of the Tátra.
During a great portion of the way, our route takes us through scenery
differing little from that we have been passing for the last few days.
The geological formation of these mountains of Gőmőr consists of a
confused mass of gneiss containing beds of granite and mica-slate
alternating with sandstone; the whole district containing valley
after valley and gorge after gorge, varying but slightly from each
other in their general characteristics. The flora, however, differs
considerably, not only at the several elevations, but also according to
the aspect.
Ascending another beautiful defile, and following a swift mountain
torrent, we wind through forests of pine mingled with birch and yew,
the latter attaining an enormous size. The sun shines brightly, but
gilds the summits of the mountains only, all beneath being in deep
and solemn shade. No sound is heard save that of the woodman’s axe, as
he fells wood for the charcoal-burners, or the rush of waters hurrying
down the gorge. In this sheltered locality a delicate species of pine
with drooping foliage, whose needles grow on stems resembling slender
threads, takes the place of hardier kinds; and the higher we ascend,
the larger become the yews, their dark glazed foliage and rugged bark
forming a great contrast to the other trees.
On this southern slope of the mountain we lose all trace of the
familiar lichen which elsewhere draped the pines from top to bottom as
with a white fringe; there is, too, a different feeling in the air;
butterflies hover about the wild flowers which grow everywhere around
us; whilst beetles, with outstretched bright metallic-looking wings
of blue and green and gold, glisten in the sunshine; and at last we
have reached the summit of the gorge. What beautiful glimpses we now
gain of the Alpine region beyond, with its peaks all shrouded in snow;
whilst casting our gaze downwards by a precipice of full two thousand
feet, the narrow valley we have left behind looks blue and cold, and
the pines stand silent, stern and motionless, imparting to it an air of
grandeur and repose.
The climb has occupied us just two hours; and beginning the descent on
the other side, we again recognise our old friend the lichen, for the
magnificent pines, which grow here to a height of two hundred feet,
are covered as thickly with it as if it had been newly-fallen snow.
The road is excellent the whole way, and we tear down it at a pace
that absolutely makes us giddy, and takes our breath away when we look
at the yawning gulfs that seem waiting to welcome us, as we turn the
zigzags abruptly and the driver threatens to overturn our unwieldy
vehicle.
We soon however reach a smiling meadow, blue with forget-me-nots, lying
in a hollow surrounded by mountains, and, arriving at an _állás_,
are once more plunged into a sea of mud. The driver unharnesses the
horses, and we are left in a perfectly helpless condition for the
present; for, even had we wished, it would have been utterly impossible
to alight from the carriage. It is true that at some period, probably
anterior to the present century, a person or persons of sanguine
temperament, and possessing no doubt longer legs than the men of the
present age, had placed large stepping-stones wherewith to connect
the shed with the roadway by a miniature bridge, but they were now so
hopelessly embedded in the mud, that any attempt at crossing them must
have led to the most disastrous consequences. A dog tried to accomplish
it--possibly tempted by the prospect of crumbs, and succeeded in
reaching halfway, where, after pausing a while, he wisely thought
better of it, and turning round beat a slippery and disastrous retreat.
It is difficult to give any adequate idea of these quagmires to the
English reader. The Hungarians, as in every other particular, are
conservative in the matter of roads, and have no notion of mending them
even at their own doors. To do so in the plains is, as we have already
seen, almost an impossibility, from the absence of stone. Here however,
where it abounds, nothing is wanting but a little energy on the part
of the people themselves. But everything comes to an end if you only
wait for it; and in an hour’s time, which seemed like a century, the
horses are again harnessed, and by the assistance of two powerful men,
who, taking off their top-boots and tucking up their petticoat-like
_gatyas_, plunge into the dismal swamp and seize the wheels, we
are released from our undignified captivity, and once more landed high
and dry on the roadway.
Our route now lies through a broad valley, and the road henceforth--if
indeed the word be not absolutely a misnomer--is execrable. It is a
marvel how our carriage manages to hold together, as it leaps over
the holes and ruts which beset our path at almost every step. Our
bodies are shaken into jelly and our tempers into vinegar, and we
are right thankful when we see before us a steep hill and find we
have another mountain to climb; slow torture being preferable to the
muscle-wrenching, rib-dislocating agony of the more rapid motion.
As we ascend the mountain we leave yew-trees behind and enter an
entirely new region, clothed with the yellow pine interspersed with
spruce and larch of immense girth, whilst here and there we find a
silver birch, which, emulating the height of the noble conifers with
which it is surrounded, forsakes its own habit, and grows with a tall
straight stem, branching only at the top; its trunk covered with a
deep fringe of red-brown moss. On our way we pass waggons laden with
charcoal and drawn by sleepy oxen, often six and eight in number, and
lastly a herd of these splendid creatures, driven by three men with
such immense hats that, when walking side by side, they could not have
approached within four feet of each other without knocking them off
their heads.
Besides the Slovak race occupying the north-western slopes of the
Carpathians, there is also in this district a sprinkling of Rusniaks,
another branch of the Slavonian family. Both races belong for the most
part to the Greek Church, which imposes on its adherents fasts grievous
to be borne. Not only is there a saint for almost every day in the
year, but it is infinitely more strict in enforcing the observance of
fast days than the Roman Catholic, there being on the average four fast
days to be observed in every week! The result of this is frequently
demonstrated in the thin forms and pallid countenances of Slovaks and
Rusniaks alike.
[Illustration]
At two o’clock we reach Wernár--a Rusniak village, and end our
sufferings for the present at the inn. We enter it by the kitchen, an
apartment shared by a juvenile calf, two geese, and sundry pigeons,
and in which the _Hausfrau_ is occupied in making bread. Even in
this Arcadia there would not always appear to be the peace that might
be expected; for there had evidently been some altercation between the
husband and wife--possibly he had been beating her, an accomplishment
to which Rusniak husbands are said to be not altogether strangers.
Unlike our little Slovak, however, she did not let “concealment feed
on her damask cheek,” but stoutly rated her husband, and proclaimed
her wrongs to the company, as she diligently pursued her occupation and
watered the bread with her tears.
Whilst resting from our labours, and settling into something like shape
again after the dislocating agonies of the journey, some other guests
arrived in a long country cart drawn by five horses, the wheelers
harnessed three abreast. Its occupants were a young woman and her
grandfather, the latter informing us he was a tobacco-planter, having
an estate in the lowlands of Gömör, and both were immensely amused on
hearing we were English, the girl laughing heartily, as she exclaimed:
“English! Then you live in London; and is it possible that you have
come all the way to see _this_ country, where there are no fine
houses and shops and streets? What _can_ you have come _here_
for?” and she looked at us attentively, as though to feel quite sure we
were not demented.
We did our best to convince her that although we were English we did
_not_ live in London, but in a fair green country like this; but
that we had no high mountains and deep gorges and majestic rocks such
as are found here, and that the English loved to see these, regarding
them as amongst the noblest works of God. But she only shrugged her
shoulders, and looked as though she thought we must, after all, be
Bedlamites.
At this moment our conversation was cut short by the arrival of the
drove of oxen we had passed on the road, upon which we ran out to have
another look at the men with the big hats. The charcoal-waggons have
also arrived with _their_ drivers, and the large inn kitchen is
soon filled with guests, consisting not only of Rusniaks, but Slovaks
also from the neighbouring districts, all of whom are the most quiet
and undemonstrative people imaginable, coming in noiselessly, taking
their quota of the national beverage, and then journeying on again.
[Illustration]
What a contrast the Szláv peasants present to their Magyar
counterparts! Their step slow and hesitating, their voices supplicating
and sad, they wear the appearance of a crushed people. The Magyars,
on the contrary, with their frank open brows, dilating nostrils, and
majestic carriage, whose whole expression is one of pride and victory,
bear witness to a noble lineage.
According to the latest returns, there are 470,000 Rusniaks in the
north-east portion of Hungary, and 2,000,000 Slovaks occupying the
north-west; the former supposed to be the descendants of a band of
Russians who “came in with Árpád.”
During the two hours we spend here whilst our horses are being baited,
we have ample opportunity of studying the exterior characteristics
of both races. Their dress is almost identical, the only difference
consisting in their head-gear. The Rusniaks, instead of the large
“_sombreros_” which distinguish the Slovaks, wear ponderous
caps made of black curly sheepskin, which from a distance look like
the wearer’s own hair combed erect, and give them a very wild and
incongruous appearance.
Their garments consist of a loose jacket and large trousers, and are
made of a coarse woollen material the colour of which is originally
white, while their waists are encircled by enormous leather belts,
more than half an inch thick and from twelve to sixteen broad, studded
with brass-headed nails so arranged as to form a variety of patterns.
In these belts they keep their knives, scissors, tobacco-pouch,
a primitive arrangement for striking light and a number of other
small useful articles, and their whole appearance is so perfectly
irresistible that I immediately began sketching one of them on the sly.
But he soon discovered my occupation, and turned away.
“_Stui!_” (stop!) I cry, hazarding a word I had heard when
travelling farther North of Hungary, amongst a different branch of the
Slavonian family.
The expression is at once recognised, and I am instantly surrounded by
a merry crowd, all eager to have a peep at my sketch-book.
“Look at this fellow coming now,” remarked F.: “his hat is a yard wide
if it is an inch. Try and get a sketch of him,” as another man walks
gravely up the steps, and paces along the passage which leads to the
kitchen--his hat so large that he passes the doorway by a mere shave.
The nature of my occupation is by this time understood by all; and no
sooner is their attention attracted to the unusually large size of the
head-gear of the new arrival--no doubt the “last sweet thing” in Slovak
hats--than he is seized by two of his brethren, who, holding him fast,
entreat me to come and sketch him then and there.
“_Stui! Stui!_” they all exclaim, as, taken aback at this summary
and unexpected proceeding, he struggles to get free.
As soon, however, as it is explained by András and echoed by a
chorus of voices that I am “a great English lady”--András opening
his eyes very wide at this juncture to give full importance to the
adjective--“come all this way to take pictures of the Slovaks back with
me to _Ángolország_,” than he stands as still as a statue, though
I doubt whether this appalling information imparted anything definitely
to his mind as to who I really was, whether the Queen of England or of
the Cannibal Islands, or one of the saints in mercy dropped out of his
calendar.
Having already made a sketch of three men and their umbrella-like hats,
I began to feel I had pursued art sufficiently for one day at any
rate, and was about to close my portfolio when I heard a voice behind
me saying in soft and plaintive accents, “_Io som Šlovinsky_” (I
am a Slovak), and, on looking round, I saw another supplicating to be
immortalised, who proved to be so importunate in his solicitations that
it was impossible to give him a denial.
Whilst I am busily occupied, the gravity of my “subjects” is often
upset by proceedings taking place in a remote part of the kitchen. A
long-haired patriarchal goat has also wandered in, prompted possibly
by the prevailing curiosity, and is made by one of the company to
pirouette to the music of the bagpipes, an accomplishment to which
he would seem to be no stranger. I was just putting the finishing
touches to the portrait of a very exacting “subject,” who insisted on
the faithful rendering of every brass nail in his girdle, and which I
trusted would really prove my last sketch for the day, when I observed
the manner in which a more than ordinarily quiet and pensive-looking
young Slovak tried to obtrude himself upon my notice, hoping thereby I
would take him also, but evidently failing in the courage to ask me. I
pretended not to see him however, and after finishing the one on which
I was occupied to the entire satisfaction of the original--who went
into ecstasies over the delineation of his pipe--I closed my book and
abruptly walked away.
Looking behind me ten minutes later, what was my surprise to behold my
young Slovak in tears! Who could resist such an appeal? There is no
help for it, and I am compelled to take him also; which task completed,
neither tears nor supplications prevail with me any longer.
Before leaving, we made ourselves very popular by treating every one in
the room to _slivovitz_, which so worked upon the feelings of a
lame old man with one eye, that coming up he seized my hand and kissed
it reverently. I think he was bent on a somewhat warmer greeting, but I
am thankful to say he suppressed his emotions.
At that moment we could not help thinking what the stern Mrs. Grundy
would have said, could she have witnessed our proceedings for the last
two hours--the _Mesdames_ Vernon Smiths and Ponsonby Joneses of
Society; and their voices came wafted towards us over the Alfőld and
Felfőld as they exclaim one to the other:
“How dreadful, my dear! What vulgar people! We really cannot read
any more of this horrid book. Fancy fraternising with those low-born
savages the Rusniaks and Slovaks! So dirty and common, you know, and
all that sort of thing!”
* * * * *
There being nothing to be met with here but black bread, honey, and the
milk of human kindness, we determined upon halting a little distance
from the village, and enjoying our meal al-fresco of such things as we
happen to have with us.
Starting on our way, and reaching in half an hour’s time a shady nook
close to a clear mountain stream, a fire is soon lighted, and we watch
the boiling of our kettle and the stewing in the little _cazarola_
of some unknown compound, which turns out to be mushrooms that András
had gathered on the way, or rather a species of edible fungus, that one
meets with so often in Italy, called _spongignola_, on account
of its resemblance to a sponge. Nothing can be more delicious, for it
far exceeds in flavour the ordinary mushroom. A roasted chicken formed
part of our _menu_, but, alas! the salt had been forgotten, and
the bread our larder afforded, though not black, was acid and flavoured
with caraways. Oh! how I dislike these Hungarian combinations! but
mountain air gives zest to our appetites, and there are no meals so
pleasant as those we partake of in our carriage or bivouacking by the
roadside.
At five o’clock in the evening we reach Poprád, at which place, being
bound for the snowy heights of the Tátra, we leave all superfluous
luggage behind, and bid for a while a sorrowing farewell not only to
our guide, but to our lumbering old carriage likewise which has carried
us in safety--though with many a lurch--over hundreds of miles of
plains, and through many a verdant valley and rocky gorge.
There is a railway-station here, Poprád being situated on the Kaschau
and Oderberger line.
We were standing in the waiting-room whilst András was arranging for a
carriage of some sort to take us on; when we heard a voice behind us
saying in German:
“Are the _Herrschaft_ on their way to Schmecks?”
Turning round, we saw behind us a gentlemanly man of about forty years
of age. It was Dr. Nicolaus von Sontagh, so well known to all who
visit this neighbourhood, and in whose villa--though a stranger to us
then--we afterwards spent so many happy days.
[Illustration]