THE MOUNTAIN HOME.
Tátra-Fűred, lying as it does both between and immediately under two
of the loftiest summits of the whole chain, namely the Lomnitz and the
Gerlsdorf, the most delightful mountain excursions can be made from
it in all directions. But besides these--which must often be left to
the more ambitious climber--are others within an easy distance, one of
the latter being to the _Räubersteine_ (Robber-stones), about an
hour’s pleasant walk through the lovely pine forest.
These stones consist of three colossal blocks of granite, whose
existence can only be accounted for on the theory that they must
have been brought from the somewhat distant heights by some glacial
movement. Twenty paces farther on to the right is a smaller block, at
which point a magnificent panorama of the plains of Poprád, situated
3000 feet below, bursts upon the view, with a gracious wide-spreading
landscape. How sweetly the little towns and villages dot the plains,
the former so quaint and ugly near, but which from a distance look like
toy-towns made of ivory--and sometimes even of silver, as a ray of
sunshine gleaming upon the whitewashed houses and steeples causes them
to glisten like veritable palaces of Aladdin. Surely never did distance
lend such enchantment to the view!
The plains surrounding the Tátra belong to what is called the
_Zips_, a district covering an area of two hundred English square
miles, and inhabited almost exclusively by the descendants of the
German colonists who migrated hither in the twelfth century from their
home in Lower Saxony; a fact which explains the seeming anomaly of
the German language being spoken in this region of Northern Hungary,
otherwise almost exclusively peopled by Slávs.
Over these smiling plains the eye wanders until arrested by the
bold outline of the Königsberg, the Baba, the Borzova, and the
_Teufelshochzeit_ (Devil’s marriage). From the former mountain the
whole of the Tátra chain can be seen, and thither, on first arriving at
these Northern Carpathians, the tourist often repairs--since it is an
excursion that can easily be accomplished from Poprád in one day--in
order that he may be able to form a correct idea of the characteristics
and extent of the whole of the Tátra range, before penetrating into its
interior.
The immediate neighbourhood of Tátra-Fűred is in fact replete with
beauty of every kind, and we never tired of strolling about its
narrow winding paths, breathing the fragrant odour of the pine woods,
and listening to the waterfalls, which, crossed by rustic bridges,
come tumbling over moss-covered boulders quite close to the chalets
themselves.
Our favourite haunt, however, was the “Pavilion,” half a mile distant;
a pretty kiosk, situated close under the Gerlsdorfer-Spitze, from which
it is separated only by a belt of pines. To me no scene was ever more
impressive than that afforded by the plains from this spot. Unlike that
portion of them which is viewed from the _Räubersteine_, not a
sign of habitation is visible, nothing but the plains themselves and
the long deep belts of pines--undistinguishable from this distance
except in colour--which create dark and sombre lines of greenish black
across the landscape. Scarcely a bird or insect disturbs the solitude
of this spot, and one feels completely separated from the world,
and immersed in the lonely heart of Nature. The whole vicinity of
Tátra-Fűred forms in truth one of the most romantic and sweetest places
I ever saw, and one in which I would fain make my home for many months
to come, so entirely do its surroundings content my taste.
A fine day imbues us with a spirit of renewed courage for a climb, and
we start for the Félka Lake, which being situated at a lower elevation
than the Fünf-Seen, and consequently having less snow lying in the
hollows on the way, we have every prospect of reaching.
Just as we were standing on the balcony preparatory to our journey, a
fine deer was brought in, together with a small animal with beautiful
long reddish-grey hair, the size of a badger. The creature had
evidently been just killed by some other animal that had doubtless
designed it for its dinner, for there were no signs of shot-marks on
its body, and it was still warm as it hung over the shoulder of the man
who had found it in the woods hard by.
Our way leads us by a steep and stony path through a forest consisting
almost wholly of the red pine (_Pinus abies_), so called from the
colour of its bark. These lordly trees are draped with two or three
kinds of lichen, dark green, greyish-green, and white, which, hanging
like tresses from each branch and stem, have, when stirred by the wind,
a most singular effect, resembling witches’ hair.
Almost all ferns common to England grow in the Tátra; the “beech” and
“oak” ferns growing abundantly in shady nooks in the Kolbach valley,
together with the “prickly” and the “thorny” ferns (_Aspidium
aculeatum_ and _Aspidium spinulosum_). Besides which the
beautiful _Cystopteris fragilis_ is found growing on the rocks,
and the dark-stemmed _Asplenium trichomanes_.
The forest solitudes are literally full of game; and occasionally, as
our ponies pick their way over the stony path, an enormous bird with
a green and bronze breast rises with a “whirr” from the thick covert
which encloses us, and, stirring the air, startles our ponies with
the fluttering of its great black wings. It is the _Auerhahn_, a
most difficult bird to bag, only experienced “shots” being fortunate
enough to bring them down, for they see at long distances, and have
very sharp ears. There is, moreover, only one moment when the sportsman
can entertain the slightest hope of aiming with effect, viz. when
they _sing_. At this juncture, opening wide their great fans
and throwing their heads far back, they can neither see nor hear. It
is an affair of an instant, and the sportsman, already on the _qui
vive_, must immediately fire, or he will do so in vain.
The Tátra is said to be the only region in Europe where the _Auerhahn_
(_Tetras Gallus_) is found. It is a much larger bird than the peacock,
and has immense claws with barbed edges as sharp as needles. We often
tasted it, in one form or other, whilst staying at Villa Sontagh; the
flesh, though rather coarse and dark, being not altogether unlike
goose. These forests also abound with the _Birkhahn_, the _Haselhahn_,
the _Rebhahn_, and the _Kaiser-Vogel_, or “Emperor bird,” so called
from the deliciousness and delicacy of its flesh, which resembles that
of the turkey. In higher regions still the “Chamois Eagle” and the
“King Eagle” are likewise met with, forming in all a goodly selection
for enthusiastic sportsmen.
As we pursue our way the mountain steeps are covered with flowers,
conspicuous amongst which is the large Alpine anemone, whose size
is much greater than that of the little pet of our own woods, its
rigid foliage and tall inflexible stem covered with a coat of white
down, with which kind mother Nature has furnished it to enable it to
withstand the severer climate of this region.
Our path has hitherto been that by which the Schlangendorfer-Spitze
is approached, but we now strike off into one called the
_Kreuzhübel_, which leads by a direct route to the Félka lake, and
then pass along the ridge of a high tableland, whence we look down upon
the peaceful plains of Poprád, lying at the foot of the southern slopes
of the Tátra; whilst to the north the wild rushing Faelker torrent
comes tumbling towards us.
These heights are perfectly full of chamois. In the moist sand which is
formed by the overflow of the torrent during heavy rains, as well as
in the peaty soil on either side, we see their footprints everywhere
as they flee before us. Not unfrequently we can trace them right into
a clump of _krummholz_, or a group of granite blocks, where,
entrenched as in a natural fortress, we feel quite sure they are hiding
with beating hearts. We also pass, close to our pathway, several
marmot-holes. This animal, which in the plains is scarcely larger than
a squirrel, is here the size of a hare. During the winter months they
sleep, and are then easily captured by the _Jäger_, who, wearing
curiously-constructed snow-shoes, climb these dangerous steeps for the
purpose.
At length getting, even at this lower elevation, into deep snow, we
leave our ponies behind; for, as the poor animals sink into unseen
holes at almost every step, it is neither agreeable nor safe to ride
them any farther, and by scrambling up a steep bank inaccessible to any
quadrupeds but chamois, we hope we may be able to avoid the snow lying
in the hollows.
(I have hitherto forgotten to say that having forsworn “Minsh” and his
idiosyncrasies for ever, I have for the time become the happy possessor
of a sure-footed animal that carries me capitally, and has neither will
of his own, nor any peculiarity whatsoever.)
After struggling through mountain streams, clambering over granite
boulders, and making our way through fields of snow in spite of all
efforts to the contrary, we reach the _Zufluchtshütte_, or “hut
of refuge,” recently built, the one previously standing on the borders
of the lake having been destroyed by an avalanche a few years ago. The
scene is both lovely and desolate, the perpendicular mountains, huge
masses of fallen rock, a lovely little cascade, and the placid lake
reflecting the heavenly blue, presenting a picture of alternate savage
grandeur and gentle beauty.
This exquisite little lake, or, more correctly speaking, Alpine tarn,
lies at a little less than 6000 feet above the level of the sea. The
colour of its water is brightest emerald, except near its shores, where
it fades into the more delicate tint of beryl. Not a ripple disturbs
its glassy surface--a death-like stillness prevails: and as we stand
and gaze upon it, a spell seems hanging over it and us; its intense
loneliness imparting to it quite an eery look, whilst its silence seems
to hold us captive.
Adding to the general desolation, close by stand the ruins of a stone
hut that was shattered by an avalanche; but just within its ruined
walls, in strange contrast to its surroundings, we observe blooming a
lovely little yellow flower, sending forth its fragrance even here, and
looking in its brightness like a wee scrap of sunshine dropped from the
sky.
Near this lake is the beautiful _Blumengarten_, which, rich in
vegetation, contains many rare flowers peculiar to the Tátra. It is
supposed to be situated on the bed of what was also formerly a lake,
evidence of whose existence is seen in the _Wassertümpel_ (pools),
as they are called, of to-day.
This sweet little pleasaunce is watered by a brook which, meandering
through it, falls over a precipitous wall of granite 330 feet in
height, and, forming a lovely cascade, empties itself into the lake.
By this route the Lange-See may be reached, likewise situated at about
6000 feet; a lake supposed to have formerly been much larger than it
is at present, its size having been lessened by the immense number
of stones and boulders which have fallen from the Gerlsdorfer-Spitze
and blocked up its bed. Beyond the Lange-See, the Polnischer
Kamm--Lengyelnyereg, as it is called in the harsh language of the
Poles--is likewise approached. It is however a difficult climb, there
being no pathway, and enormous blocks of granite, sixteen and twenty
feet in height, have first to be conquered; but the patience and
perseverance of the enthusiastic mountaineer will be fully recompensed
by the superb view he will have of the various peaks of the Northern or
Polish Tátra, as well as those of the South, together with the Zipser
plains stretching away beyond.
Lingering in the vicinity of the Félka-See, we search for garnets; one
of the attractions of this lake being the “Granatenwand,” a purplish
grey rock rising abruptly from it. The shore beneath this mountain is
strewn with fragments in which the crimson stones lie almost as closely
imbedded as currants in a plum-pudding, varying in size from a pea to
half an inch in diameter.
Immediately above the lake, forming in fact one of its gigantic walls,
is the Gerlsdorfer-Spitze, its rugged outline cutting into an almost
purple sky. Every Alpine traveller knows how in regions like these the
sky as he ascends appears to come down to meet him, descending lower
and lower as he climbs, till it appears to span him with a palpable
and opaque arch, and also how intense and utterly indescribable is
its blue. We had scarcely expected to observe this phenomenon at an
altitude of little more than 6000 feet, but it is notwithstanding very
marked to-day; and as we cast our eyes upwards towards the empyrean, it
seems almost to touch us; whilst all around in the small _Alpen_,
as the green patches are here called, the blue forget-me-not is paled
almost to cold grey, in contrast with the dome above.
On the western side, and 150 feet above the level of the valley, there
exist evidences of glacial action in the bed of an ancient moraine
a mile in length, containing pointed and jagged blocks of granite,
which could not have fallen from the precipitous heights which rise on
either side (these being formed of dolomite), and must therefore have
been brought hither from a considerable distance by the slow but steady
course of the glacier.
As we stand looking at this mighty stone-stream, now inert, which,
once imbued with motion, travelled silently and imperceptibly day by
day, carrying on its back the _Schutthaufen_, or accumulated rock
_débris_ of ages, the whistling of the marmot--its little pipe
echoed in many a rocky precipice--is the only sound that greets our
ears.
In descending we take a slightly different route, and get into a
field of snow, frozen so hard that it is as slippery as glass. This
frozen sheet of white covers a broad valley hemmed in on all sides by
rugged pyramids and pinnacles of purple rock, and proves to be that
which we had so often gazed at from below, where it appears but a
small and slender line of white--a frozen artery zigzagging down the
mountain side; whilst that huge cone in its centre, whose form we also
recognise, and which looked from a distance but a mere stone, now turns
out to be a pinnacle of rock several hundred feet in height!
Presently we descend another valley, and our feet sink deep in
yielding snow, which, though less dangerous than the previous ice,
is far more disagreeable. Our guide this time is none other than the
Doctor himself, who, ever ready for a mountaineering expedition, had
accompanied us hither also--a circumstance that greatly added to our
pleasure--for with his knowledge of the botany and geology of the
district he proved a most interesting companion.
Whilst descending this gorge, we observed close to us a track made by
a number of chamois. They could only just have passed, for the powdery
snow they had scattered still lay there, and the sand from their
hoofs was still moist and fresh. Seeing footprints to our right, we
fancy they must be those made by ourselves on our upward way, but on
following them they lead us into serious difficulty, the snow masking
under its deceitful mantle such crevasses and holes that we have to
retrace our steps. Before doing so, however, a slight examination of
the footprints convinces us that they are not our own, and at this
instant a shot fired higher up the gorge betrays the presence of
poachers, disquieting our host not a little, to whom the game of this
part of the mountain exclusively belongs. Having been misled some
distance by the intruders’ footsteps, it was a considerable time before
we were able to regain our old track.
Close to our pathway, which was formed by the dry bed of a mountain
stream, we observed many holes fashioned in the sand at a safe distance
from high-water mark. They were nests, and, looking down into one of
them, I saw a number of brown eggs. I was about to thrust my hand in
to take one out “to look at,” when I was checked by the kind-hearted
Doctor, who said gently:
“_Ne les touchez pas, de peur de troubler la mère. Laissez-les, je
vous en prie._”
Before reaching the spot at which we had left our steeds, a thin streak
of vapour that had been lying across the valley, and which we had been
anxiously watching for some time past, began to ascend, and now wrapped
all nature, far and near, within its gloomy curtain. In the distance,
however, we hear the loud “cooey” of the muleteers, and, following
the sound, see them looming through the mist. This soon turns into a
drenching rain, and we arrive at our peaceful and hospitable châlet
somewhat in the condition of drowned rats, but are consoled by the
sight of large fires, made in anticipation of our returning in a moist
condition; for we learnt afterwards that it had been raining almost
ever since we started, although we, up in the heights, had fortunately
escaped it.
Dinner is succeeded by a pleasant evening spent in the company of Dr.
Sontagh and his pretty and amiable wife, and, sitting over the cheerful
pinewood fire, we listen to the daring mountain exploits of the
former. All round the room the walls are hung with the accoutrements
of the chase--guns, pistols, knives, large flat snow-shoes, a net,
chamois-rope, _Jägerhorn_, etc.--together with its trophies, the
heads of deer and chamois, and those of large birds; and as we hear the
wood crackle and watch its merry blaze dance upwards, we feel for the
moment that we must be in the mountain home of some ancient knight.
Taking out the flowers which we have been collecting, we arrange and
press them between sheets of blotting-paper; for Carpathian wild
flowers will be a delightful novelty to our friends at home.
There are various species of flowers which are indigenous to the
Tátra only, amongst which are the _Saxifraga hieracifolia_,
_Dianthus nitidus_ (both of which grow on limestone), _Avena
Carpatica_, _Gentiana frigida_, _Ranunculus pygmæus_, and
the _Campanula Carpatica_; whilst the beautiful _Edelweiss_,
which has been stated, most unaccountably, not to exist at all in the
Carpathians, grows to an enormous size in many districts of these
mountains,--a fact borne out by the splendid specimens we have of it
in our collection of Tátra flowers.
* * * * *
The morrow brings a lovely day. Birds carol in the pine-woods, which,
saturated with moisture from the recent rains, give forth a fragrant
odour as the sun shines hot upon them. The forget-me-not opens its
sweet blue eyes wide to catch the light of heaven. The fragile
_Polygala_ erects its slender spikes, and the delicate _Dentaria
glandulosa_, that yesterday almost fainted under its weight of
moisture, now holds aloft its fairy-bells. The hoary lichen, which
hung dishevelled like matted hair, dries its fringes in the sun, which
filtering through the branches sparkles in the drops still lingering in
the cups of the anemone.
As we canter through the forest to the Cszorba-See, cataracts and
mountain streamlets, swelled by the rain, come dancing, leaping,
hurrying down each rocky gorge and shadowy ravine, till at length
the broad and placid lake--which Nature has hidden deep in mountain
fastnesses from the gaze of all but those enthusiastic lovers who
diligently seek it out--bursts suddenly upon the view.
Lying embosomed in its rocky cradle, the Cszorba-See is one of the
most beautiful lakes of the whole range. Above it rises a glorious
amphitheatre of mountain peaks. On the eastern extremity the
Gerlsdorfer, and on the western the _Spitze_ of the Krivan, rear
their mighty crests, whilst in the centre are the giant blocks of the
Bastei and Szolyiszkó, the whole forming a circle of twelve miles in
extent.
The lake itself, which lies at an elevation of 4355 feet above the
level of the sea, is the largest in the Southern Tátra; and as we stand
on one of the lofty and serried precipices of granite with which it is
environed, we think no scene was ever so enchanting. The crystal bosom
of the water mirroring the sky; the bright green tint of the centre of
the lake; the ethereal blue of its surface where it reposes over the
deeper hollows, and the dark pines on its margin, combine together to
form a gem of mountain, wood, and water.
Though this lake possesses a depth of between sixty and seventy feet,
and is therefore one of the deepest in the whole Tátra, it appears to
feed itself, there being no inlet visible to the eye. It is surrounded
by granite boulders, and partly floored with them too, while the water
is so exquisitely clear that even the pebbles lying at the bottom among
the granite seem close to the surface, and we feel we have only to
plunge the hand in to pick them from their watery bed. As we stood on
its margin we saw numerous triton (_Triton cristatus_) darting in
and out amongst the stones, small fish about three or four inches long,
covered with bright red spots; whilst feeding on the green sedges were
several gold beetles (_Philoperta horticola_) in their glistening
coats of mail. No whistling marmots make their nests in the rocks round
the Cszorba-See; but the visitor, as he sits silently on its shores or
climbs the precipices which wall it in on every side, will not remain
long without seeing a kingly eagle cleave the skies, or, crossing the
region of the lake, reflect its majestic image on its glassy bosom.
During a storm this lake is said to be covered with large waves,
which dash over the rocks, and the scene must then, indeed, be one
of wild grandeur. Its outlet lies towards the south, where, almost
imperceptibly to the eye, it empties itself over moor and fen, even in
the driest months of the year, always flowing, and proving therefore
that, though unseen, it must have a continual inflow. Strange to
say, the water from some cause or other is bitter, possibly from the
pinewood, a great deal of which has fallen into the lake, and which
lies at the bottom.
Hungarian _savants_ declare that this lake is the offspring of an
ancient glacier, the upper end of which formerly extended to the ridge
of the mountain lying between the twin rocks Bastei and Szolyiszkó, and
which filled the valley between them, the base of the glacier resting
on the space where the lake now fills, and which formed its reservoir;
whilst the huge granite wall which is seen to enclose it on one side
was the moraine which the glacier dragged with it in its progress down
the mountain side. It is further believed that interesting remains
exist in this lake similar to those discovered a few years ago in
that of the Neusiedler in the west of Hungary. On this account it has
been proposed by the Carpathian Society to draw off its waters, and
the proposition may doubtless some day be carried out, when it is
conjectured that relics of the Stone or Bronze Age will be brought to
light.
Our last evening at Villa Sontagh has arrived. Going out to bid
farewell to the mountains which have at intervals behaved so badly to
us, we find the Lomnitzer-Spitze rearing its head proudly above the
dark pine-tops and bathed in a rich mingling of bronze and amber, its
graceful outlines pencilled on a clear and mellow sky.
At our feet lie the broad plains, flooded in the softened splendour
of the evening light. The villages with their white spires, lying far
apart amidst the expanse of ripening corn, which an hour ago were
glistening like burnished gold, are now suffused with a faint and
delicate flush of rose, for the sun is sinking in the crimson west.
[Illustration]
Very softly, almost imperceptibly, the stately shadow of the mountains,
marching with silent and stealthy steps begins to steal along the
boundless plains, till the sun, lingering for an instant upon the
highest peak as though it mourned to leave it, sinks at last to rest. A
sombre shade passes over the landscape, like a sudden sadness over the
human face--and thus our last day comes to an end.
“You have been rather too early in the season to meet with fine
weather,” remarked the Doctor, apologetically, as we sat round the
fire for the last time, and the conversation had turned upon that
never-failing resource of shipwrecked talkers, puzzled for a theme--the
weather. We had alluded rather ungraciously, I fear, to the frequent
rain and mist during our sojourn in these heights.
“If you had come a fortnight later, or a month earlier,” he continued,
“you would have been more fortunate, and, besides, this has been an
exceptional year.”
Now, I never remember having visited a new country, or returned to
an old one, nor indeed gone anywhere whatever, but I have been told
that the state of the weather is “exceptional.” Am _I_ then the
cause of these meteorological disturbances--these unseasonable and
unexpected risings and fallings of the barometer--these abnormal rains,
untimely frosts, and bitter cutting winds--these cut-throat fogs, and
murky, sunless skies? As the appalling possibility occurs to me, I feel
inclined to retire within my castle like Giant Despair, and leave the
elements in peace and quiet for ever!
Our visit to the Tátra had in fact been carefully timed, and we had
come early by intention. About three weeks hence, Hungarians and
Austrians will be fleeing to these Alpine regions from the scorching
heat of the Alfőld; gipsy bands and the sounds of revelry will awake
these majestic solitudes; the fashionable world will bring hither their
toilets and their etiquette, all very well in their place, but so out
of time and tune, so hideous, so forbidding, and so altogether contrary
to the poetry of these picturesque surroundings, that in their presence
our whole being would have been set on edge. Besides which, the lonely
beauty of the Alps loses its true spirit when gazed at in a crowd.
How often have we crossed the great Swiss passes in sledges--the St.
Gothard, Splügen, and the Simplon--ere they are open to the ordinary
traveller, that we might enjoy Switzerland before the great rush of
visitors begins! Never is it so grand as in the latter end of May
or the beginning of June, when the snow is still lying in immense
masses far down the mountain sides, and icicles still hang from each
projecting rock and hoary pine. The scene may be desolate, but it is
wild, beautiful, intensely Alpine, and, if I may so express it, _like
itself_; and those who can see beauty in Nature, not only in her
calm and placid moods, but in her savage and austere ones also, will
gain far more than they imagine, by venturing to visit these sublime
fastnesses before the season for the ordinary tourist sets in. They
will then see the glorious Tátra as they are for eight or nine months
in the year, and not during the two or three when they are all smiles
and on good behaviour for company. And what eye does not perceive
that sunshine is sometimes out of harmony with the spirit of mountain
scenery? _Distant_ mountains may look best in sunlight, but near
ones are never so majestic as on a grey day, or when clouds passing
over the face of the sun throw them into alternate glow and gloom.
[Illustration]