THE SNOWY TÁTRA.
Rattling, rumbling, jolting, bumping, and sometimes heeling over at
an angle of 45° as we tear through the streets of Poprád, with what
a magnificent spectacle of blue mountain and snow-capped peak are we
greeted as they rise above the black but picturesque roofs of the
houses!
Running almost into a disabled bullock-waggon as we dash round the
corner--left, Hungarian-like, in the middle of the road for any chance
comer to stumble over--and nearly upsetting, as we take “a header” into
an unexpected hollow, we rock and ride over the holes like a heavy
unwieldy barque over the waves of the sea, till at length, reaching the
open country, we see all at once before us, rising sheer out of the
plains of Poprád like a monster crater, the glorious Tátra rearing its
ermined summits proudly heavenwards till they seem to cleave the very
sky.
This lofty group of the Carpathians, called by the Hungarians “The
_Central_ Carpathians”--though for what reason I am at a loss
to conjecture, except it be that they are situated at almost the
extreme _end_ of that chain!--are about seventy-two miles long
by twenty-seven broad; whilst so completely do they rise out of
the plains like a wall on every side, without what are designated
_Voralpen_, i.e. lower intervening mountains, that a line could be
drawn round almost their whole circumference.
This singular region contains within its limits no fewer than a
hundred and twelve lakes or tarns, which in the language of the people
of the district--German colonists, who settled here in the twelfth
century--are called “_Meeraugen_” (eyes of the sea).
What a bewildering and indescribable fascination there is about
snow-capped mountains! Nothing can be more imposing and impressive
than those towards which we are journeying, with their bold and rugged
peaks sharp as needles, their almost perpendicular sides scoured by a
thousand watercourses, the region of cloud indicated by a long thin
stratum of white vapour, which, hanging halfway between their summits
and their base, seems to sever them in two.
Having passed the villages of Félka and Schlangendorf, we enter a pine
forest, through which a good road runs the whole way to Schmecks.
In consequence of the Tátra being exposed to the north wind during
the greater part of the year, vegetation is much retarded, and the
elevation at which the various species of Coniferæ grow is considerably
lower than that of Switzerland, varying in some instances to the extent
of from 300 to 900 feet. For example, the zone at which the pine
(_Pinus picea_) is found in Switzerland is 4077 feet, whereas in
the Tátra it is only 3585; whilst the difference in the altitude at
which the Scotch fir (_Pinus silvestris_) grows in the two regions
is no less than 900 feet. The larch, on the contrary, strange as it
may seem, is met with in the Tátra at almost the same elevation as in
Switzerland, there being scarcely a hundred feet of difference in the
limits of its growth in the two countries.
Many of the deciduous trees in the outskirts of this forest have not
yet awakened from their long winter’s sleep, and their brown dry
leaves, red and sere, rustle and flutter strangely in the breeze, as if
they were impatient of their bondage and were longing to find rest on
the soft mossy ground, and to mingle with the marl of mother Earth, the
destiny of all nature.
As we gradually ascend the densely-wooded slope which lies at the
extreme foot of this part of the Tátra, we get surrounded in mist; for
that long thin stratum of vapour which we had observed in the plains,
and which, glistening in the sunshine, looked so like a silver line
drawn across them, now that we have at length approached it, turns out
to be a cloud of many miles in width.
The evening is rapidly closing in, and the impenetrable pine forest on
either side adds greatly to the darkness. Since leaving Schlangendorf,
almost two hours ago, we have not seen the ghost of a habitation, nor
met any one on the road. Night has well-nigh overtaken us, and we
are beginning to wonder how soon our journey will be ended, when our
driver, taking us suddenly off the main road, strikes into the thick
of the forest by a mere waggon-track to the left. Is he in league
with the brigands, we wonder? We had all along thought him a wild and
uncanny-looking fellow. I confess to feeling very uncomfortable, for
the neighbourhood is quite new to us, and the silence, solitude, and
gloom of our surroundings are beginning to influence us sensibly.
The utterance of what I fear may have been rather unparliamentary
language on the part of one of us, in a loud key, has the effect of
bringing him to an abrupt standstill.
There is nothing like loud speaking to a Hungarian driver when he is
doing anything you do not like. It is a species of eloquence understood
in all languages, and our present charioteer knows as well all we
are saying as if we had been speaking his own mother-tongue; for,
pointing with his thumb over the tree-tops straight ahead, he makes us
understand that _it_ is _there_.
At this moment, gleaming through the mist, a welcome light is seen
emanating from the windows of a châlet, then another and another,
till a short drive over a gravel road brings us to the door of the
“Sanatorium,” at which we pull up.
How cheery, in this unknown land, is the sound of voices which greets
us from the balcony! Surely lights never twinkled half so brightly as
those which are brought to guide our footsteps up the broad wooden
staircase leading to the house. How cheery, too, is the open fire in
the little _salle-à-manger_, and how glad we are to sit beside it
whilst our rooms are being prepared for our reception! We are now in an
Alpine region at an elevation of 3258 feet, and the warmth of the fire
is pleasant; for, the Tátra being situated so far north, the cold is
much greater than it is in Switzerland at the same altitude.
Having partaken of supper, we retire at once to our rooms, which are
situated on the second story at the end of a long corridor, and in
which fires are also burning. What music there is in pine-logs as they
crackle in the open stoves! and how fragrant the perfume!
“If you look out of your window early to-morrow, you will see the whole
range: the peaks are generally clear at sunrise,” exclaimed the manager
of the Sanatorium, on wishing us “good-night.”
The Tátra was almost the only region we had not already explored during
one or other of our previous visits to Hungary, and great was the
pleasure we anticipated. We are worshippers of mountains. They possess
such an irresistible and inexplicable fascination over me, that I could
not sleep a wink for picturing them to my imagination, and thinking of
the treat that the morrow was to bring. How many times, even when at
length slumber overcame me, did I awake with a start, and opening my
eyes expect to find I had overslept myself, and that it was already
broad day.
Five o’clock. “To-morrow morning” has come at last! I look out of the
window, but surely I must be dreaming still, or have the pixies changed
the room during the night? Where are the mountains and plains? There
is nothing to be seen but murky sky. Ah! it is early yet, and the sun
has not risen; it will be all right presently. I will watch for its
appearing.
Five minutes past five. No! it is _not_ sky, after all, that I
have been looking at, it is mist, for there beneath our windows are
two pine-tops just showing through it like grey spectres. I get up,
however. “Early to bed and early to rise” is the best of rules in
Alpine regions.
But the morning is chilly, as, stepping out of the window, which opens
like a door, I stand shivering on the balcony that, in true châlet
fashion, “runs” round the whole house; and I half regret having adopted
the praiseworthy motto above mentioned, at any rate for this one
morning. Re-entering the room, I shut the door quickly, but carry with
me a ton of vapour at the very least, but enveloping myself in a warm
rug, I try to “come out jolly” under difficulties, and overhaul my
sketches.
Seven o’clock. Delightful sounds of the clattering of cups and saucers.
They are evidently laying the table for breakfast. But it is a long
while yet before the bell will summon us to that welcome meal. Oh for
our own particular and peculiar little tea-pot, and András to make us a
hot cup of the “cheering” beverage!
Heavy steps ascend the staircase and come stumping down the corridor,
and then stop outside the door.
“Rat-tat.”
Disentangling myself from the mountain of rugs in which I have wrapped
myself, I go to see who can be there at this early hour. What joy!
Enter a young and rosy female, more beautiful at that moment than the
most exquisite Alpine flower, bearing in her hands a tray of smoking
coffee and appetising little butter-breads in the shape of half-moons.
And what celestial coffee, too! for celestial is the only adjective
in the vocabulary capable of expressing its delicate and perfectly
delicious flavour and aroma.
Whilst gratefully imbibing it, we wonder how it comes to pass that,
not only in the lowlands of Hungary, but in these far-away mountain
regions, such exquisite coffee can be met with, whereas in England it
is seldom if ever drinkable, that is to say by those who, having once
travelled abroad, have tasted of better things.
_Neu_ (New) Schmecks, at which we are staying, consists of a
cluster of beautiful châlets, erected in the heart of the pine-woods by
Dr. Sontagh, who has created a Sanatorium in this picturesque spot.
[Illustration]
Going down to the breakfast-room, he comes forward to greet us, and
we immediately recognise in him the gentleman who had accosted us
the evening before at the station, whither he had gone to accompany
a friend, but did not return home until after we had retired for the
night.
“There is no chance of your having an excursion to-day, I fear, if this
mist should last,” he exclaimed as we took our seat at his hospitable
board. “But you can at any rate visit the Kolbach Fall; and if you will
allow me, I will be your guide.”
As the Fall is on the way to the Fünf-Seen, however, which we hope to
visit ere we leave the neighbourhood, we decide to-day to potter idly
about our immediate surroundings and spy out the bearings of the land.
The mist, too, clears as the day advances; and though not sufficiently
to admit of an extensive view, yet the winding walks through the pine
forest to the smaller Falls close by, as well as to the little temples
and kiosks which have been erected for the comfort and enjoyment of
tourists, give us ample amusement for our first day’s sojourn in this
beautiful locality, and afford us an opportunity of becoming acquainted
with the general features of the immediate neighbourhood.
Ten minutes’ walk through a narrow pathway edged by crimson heather,
moss, and Alpine flowers of every hue, brings us to “Bad Schmecks.”
Most persons in these enlightened days understand German sufficiently
well to know that “Bad” means a place where there are mineral springs.
But what an ugly-sounding name for such an idyllic region!
Let us ignore it, as I would all names which the Austrians have
translated into their own language, and call it by its pretty
Hungarian--though less commonly known--appellation of Tátra-Fűred.
Having arrived at a finger-post on which its name is written in both
languages, we follow a little pathway in the direction indicated, and
soon recognise through the pine-branches, which almost sweep us as we
pass, the red gable of another châlet, and reaching a small opening in
the forest find, as at New Tátra-Füred, a whole cluster of them, but
standing more closely together, and scarcely so picturesque a place.
This place owes its origin to Count Stephen Csáky, who, in 1797, was
the first to discover the mineral springs which have brought it into
note. There are, however, three other springs in the vicinity, viz. the
_Rainer_, the _Lautsh_, and the _Vámbéry_, besides those
which pass under the singular if not classic sobriquet of Castor and
Pollux.
The bathing season begins on the 15th of May and lasts until September;
but in addition to the bathing establishments, there are several
dwelling-houses for ordinary visitors, amongst which are those
passing under the euphonious titles of the “Adria,” “Flora,” and
“Rigi,” together with the very appropriate ones of “Alpenfee” and
“Sans-souci.” In every instance the Hungarian significations are also
attached to the foreign names.
In 1873, the “Carpathian Exploration Society” was formed for the
purpose of investigating the mountains from a scientific point of view,
of making and improving paths over the various passes, erecting places
of refuge for travellers, as well as organising the proper training of
guides. The Society meets twice a year; in the winter at Késmark, and
in the summer in this place at a châlet called “Priessnitz.”
[Illustration]
This little settlement is at present closed in the winter, but there
is no doubt that as the climate of the southern slopes of the Tátra
becomes better known--which may with truth be called the Hungarian
Engadine--it will be open all the year round, as is the case with the
Sanatorium of Dr. Sontagh. Meteorological observations show that the
temperature of this side of the Tátra group is comparatively even,
the heat never being great in summer; whilst the thermometer during
winter ranges several degrees higher than in the plains. Fogs seldom
visit this elevation during the winter months; and should they appear,
they soon pass over. The air is generally clear and transparent and
the sky blue. We were told by a disinterested observer that there are
days in Tátra-Fűred, during the coldest season of the year, when the
climate is enchanting, and that to those who have visited this region
in the winter the impression left on the mind has been one never to be
forgotten. The dark pine-woods, against which the peaks stand out in
appalling whiteness; the deep blue chasms at their base; the soft and
pearly shadows thrown by the snowy protuberances themselves; the sea of
vapour lying all across the plains, which, rolling and surging as it
floats, resembles a troubled sea, out of which the distant mountains
of Gőmőr rise like a rocky, storm-beat shore--form a spectacle at once
beautiful and majestic.
The winter of 1879–80, which will be remembered as one of more than
ordinary severity and duration throughout Europe, is said to have been
an exceedingly mild one at Tátra-Fűred, the average temperature during
the very coldest time having been from 54° to 60° Fahrenheit.
In exceptionally mild winters, the cranberry with its small myrtle-like
leaves may be seen growing luxuriantly among the green pines in
company with ferns of the hardier kinds, whose bright green fronds
mingle sweetly with the more sombre foliage of the non-deciduous
sub-Alpine flora. At such times the _Veronica officinalis_ with
its small blue flowers and the _Geum montanum_ blossom freely,
each with the same bright hues which delight the eye of the tourist
in summer-time; whilst in the lower Alpine world, clothing itself
but scantily with its white mantle, the dark pines and scattered
rock-masses form a pleasing contrast to the glistening snow-fields of
the higher regions.
It is difficult for the uninitiated stranger to realise the warmth of
this elevation during winter, but meteorological observations carried
over a series of years bear testimony to the fact. The circumstance is
no doubt due to the extreme dryness of the air, and absence of rain and
fog, together with the protection from the wind afforded by the higher
ridges.
The deciduous trees, however, lose their leaves, as well as the larch
its spines, in the beginning of November, when, no longer able to make
further resistance, they resign themselves to the dominion of the
frost-king until the middle of March, when the first spring flowers
once more announce the re-awakening of vegetation.
Nowhere in the region of the Tátra are there any real glaciers, but
lying in some of the valleys towards the north there are vast fields of
perpetual snow, together with unmistakeable evidences of the existence
of glaciers at some former period--of which more anon. The snow does
not lie much on these peaks long after June, the reason assigned being
that their extremely sharp declivities afford no flats or ledges
upon which it can rest. The Alps of Switzerland are as a rule less
perpendicular and pointed, from which circumstance the snow does not
slide down and disappear when the thaw sets in as it does here.
The principal element of these mountains is granite, though of a
somewhat different kind from the ordinary crystalline rock of that
name. This difference is not observable in small blocks, but is very
marked in some of the rocky precipices,--for example, in those of the
Lomnitzer group; a circumstance pointed out to us by Dr. Sontagh, who
is not only a naturalist, but a geologist as well. Here where the rock
forms an upright precipice, the parallelism of the strata, which often
measure four feet in thickness, is very clearly distinguished. Its
bed dips from east to west, slightly inclining from the ridge, which
circumstance causes the small peaks or needles of this mountain to bend
over and assume very singular and fantastic forms.
The mountains of the Tátra constitute the most northern boundary of
Hungary, and the natural wall dividing it from Gallicia or ancient
Poland.
[Illustration]