ZAKOPANE.
It is high festival at Neumarkt, and men, women, and little children,
emerging from arched doorways, rosary and prayer-book in hand, are
hurrying to church. In the green enclosure outside the building the
people are kneeling in picturesque groups, old men with long white
locks hanging over their shoulders, and decrepit old women in singular
head-gear, all mumbling their prayers in a feeble monotone; whilst
beside them kneel young maids and matrons in every gradation of red and
pink, with broad white scarves covering the head and shoulders.
Inside the church there is a throng of devout worshippers. And what a
curious old place it is, with its side altars and unexpected alcoves,
erected at the top of broad flights of stone steps, where the people
are standing and kneeling in such numbers that, as we leave the garish
day and enter the dimly-lighted sanctuary, the whole length of the
wall extending from east to west appears to consist of a bas-relief of
many-coloured life-sized figures, rather than a crowd of living men and
women!
They are singing in Polish the psalms for the day. There is no choir,
so far as we can ascertain, nor instrument of any kind to lead
them, but the congregation sing lustily, and make up in quantity for
whatever shortcomings there may happen to be in quality. The men and
women chant the verses alternately, and if their voices are not the
most harmonious, their hearts are at any rate attuned to the grateful
utterances of Israel’s great Poet.
The psalm they were chanting when we entered, and which we were able
to recognise from its refrain--“O give thanks unto the Lord, for He is
gracious; and His mercy endureth for ever”--was the one hundred and
thirty-sixth.
It was beautiful to hear them with one accord singing this grand old
psalm, whilst the faithful outside the church, standing with heads
uncovered, united their voices to those within. I can not remember a
more impressive sight. The strange costumes, the singular old edifice,
and the devout attitude of the people, all looked more like a highly
finished picture than anything in real life. Observing the entrance of
strangers, they quietly made way for us, but there were no restless,
wandering eyes, nor any idle curiosity evinced to know who or what we
were. The form of religion which we profess may differ from theirs, but
beneath the shadow of these ancient and glorious mountains, all minor
dissimilarities vanish out of sight, and our hearts mingled with theirs
as the grateful hymn of praise rose like incense to the Common Father
of us all, and we felt that it was “good for us to be here.”
Besides the costumes of the peasantry we noticed amongst the
worshippers many pertaining to persons of the better class; and were
made acquainted for the first time with the true _polonaise_, a
long garment of black cloth, half tight, half loose, edged with broad
gold lace, very handsome in itself, as well as becoming to the figure
of the wearer.
It is not however all _couleur de rose_ at Neumarkt, or Nowýtarg,
as the town is called in Polish. The inn at which we have taken up
our temporary abode is of the dirtiest description. Standing in the
narrow courtyard beneath our room, all amongst the kitchen and the
stables, both of which are in the closest juxtaposition, are several
repulsive-looking Jews in greasy black gowns extending to the heels.
These Gallician Jews, although wearing the hair short behind, allow the
front locks to remain unshorn, which they twist into long ringlets, and
which, hanging down each cheek, give to the wearers a most unmanly and
comic appearance.
On descending to the lower apartments, we find the general sitting-room
also full of Jews, talking in loud tones of _jochs_ of land and
_massen_ of gold, and having already had a surreptitious peep into
the shades where the cook reigned supreme, we determine to leave our
carriage here for a few days to give the horses a thorough rest, and
to hire another to take us on to Zakopane, a village lying at the foot
of the Northern Tátra, where we hope to find, if humble, at any rate
cleaner accommodation.
Whilst waiting for a vehicle to be got ready for us, we again stroll
out into the town, and are presently accosted by a Polish gentleman who
had that morning arrived from Cracow.
“Throughout Gallicia,” said he, in German, upon our mentioning the
reason of our leaving Neumarkt for Zakopane, “the inns are invariably
kept by Jews, who are not only dirty, but the very bane of our land.
Those who have inns encourage the peasants who come to them for
spirits or other intoxicating liquors to buy on credit, preferring
the credit system infinitely to receiving payment at the time; for the
wily Jew knows full well that each customer possesses as security a
_joch_ or two of land--an inheritance handed down to him for many
generations. The Gallician peasant lives a hard life, and enjoys his
glass of _slivovitz_, needing but little encouragement to exceed
his intended quantity, and heeding little the cost of that which he
does not pay for then and there. At length, though long deferred, the
day of reckoning comes, and then money is wanting to pay the bill
that has possibly been accumulating for years. One household treasure
after another has to be resigned, and when these are exhausted the
_jochs_ have to be mortgaged. So frequently in fact does this
latter happen, that in some districts whole villages are virtually in
the hands of Jew creditors, who hold the entire population in bondage.”
The Poles of this province keep their festivals as we keep Sundays.
It was a considerable time therefore before a person could be found
who would drive us; but a young Pole of elastic conscience was at
last unearthed, and the landlord, chagrined at our speedy flight,
informed us in no very civil tone that the _britzska_ is ready.
Notwithstanding this imposing signification, our vehicle is none other
than a cart whose sides consist of two rough planks of unpainted
wood. The seats however possess iron backs, an unusual luxury in this
mode of conveyance, for which we feel truly thankful. The horses, two
grey bony creatures, at least sixteen hands high, are ornamented with
bridle-knots and streamers cut out of scarlet leather, so that with
such a _tout ensemble_ we are conscious of presenting a very
commanding appearance as we rattle over the uneven pavement and go
dashing out into the road that leads in a direct line to the mountains
which rise above us--a majestic stretch of peaks, shrouded in snow.
[Illustration]
We pass a crucifix, and off goes our driver’s hat. Another, and off it
goes again. A group of men come walking along the road, who also bare
their heads in passing. I never saw so many crucifixes and shrines in
any country in my life. Yonder is a piece of cultivated land; it too
has its crucifix. They do these matters magnificently here, for all are
painted in black and gold. Two roads meet, and guarding them is the
image of a saint; whilst every little rivulet that comes trickling down
the hillside “with a sweet complaining” is watched over by a St. John
Nepomucensis. In fact, so frequently are these wayside shrines met with
in this country, and so persistently do the people uncover their heads,
that we begin to wonder they wear any hats at all; whilst in the
villages saints may truly be said to swarm. Surely the crops can never
fail nor barns be empty if the saints, whose spiritual presence would
seem to be a great living reality with these dear devout Gallicians, do
that which is expected of them.
Here the traveller sees no images with blackened eyes and broken noses,
nor any with dilapidated and faded garments, as in other countries
nearer home. All are as spick and span as paint and gilt and varnish
can make them; and the manner in which the faithful “shovel on” the
colour is both exemplary and praiseworthy.
A very favourite saint, if we may judge from the frequency with
which shrines are devoted to his reception, is St. Nicolas; and if
we might be permitted to express an opinion, it would be that he is
very hardly used. None other than the St. Claus of our juvenile days,
whose particular mission it is to slide down sooty chimneys and watch
the behaviour of children both good and bad, it is nothing less than
cruelty to expect him to look after _bees_ as well. But here he
is again, in all the majesty of gilt mitre and purple robes, standing
in an alcove in which a number of bee-hives are reposing, watching the
movements of those busy workers, and seeing that they “improve the
shining hour.”
It is only fair to say that the villages over which these titular
divinities preside with untiring vigilance and unblinking eye do them
no small credit. There are no signs of poverty apparent anywhere, and
the low one-storied log-built houses are pictures of warmth and plenty.
As we proceed, the distant lowing of cattle comes borne towards us.
A church whose steeple we just catch sight of through the trees is
tolling its little cracked bell for vespers, and there is in everything
an all-pervading sentiment of happiness and peace. Responsive to the
call, the villagers are hastening in its direction; the women in their
beautiful costume, a short dark-blue under-skirt, over which are worn
garments in various and distinct shades of brilliant red.
This blending of various degrees of the same colour is exceedingly
artistic, and the effect from a short distance both rich and
harmonious. The women all wear the clean white muslin scarf over the
head before alluded to, the ends of which are trimmed with lace or
fringe, and which evidently constitutes their church-going attire.
The costumes of the stronger sex however--whose privilege it is to
be ugly--are seldom really picturesque anywhere, nor are they here.
A long loose garment of coarse brown cloth, very baggy about the
sleeves--indeed, very baggy everywhere--forms their Sunday garment.
But even this shapeless gaberdine is not left unadorned in its elegant
simplicity, but is ornamented with a very elaborate trimming of scarlet
cloth, cut with infinite skill into strips one narrower than the other,
until the thickness of half an inch is attained. The edge of each
strip is scalloped, and the effect when new exactly resembles a heavy
trimming composed of small red beads.
In this particular, the outer garment of our driver is quite a study
in its way, and one we have ample opportunity of pursuing as we jog
along the road, until by a similar accident to that which befell
ourselves on the way from the cobalt mines at Dobsina, he suddenly
doubles up, and for a space becomes lost to sight amongst the straw
at the bottom of the cart. By a series of jolts and jerks of more than
ordinary violence, the box-seat had collapsed in consequence of the
straps breaking which attached it to the side. F., alive to the danger
which this catastrophe threatened, seized the reins, but, contrary
to his expectations, instead of our fiery Arabs attempting to run
away, they instantly pulled up short; for were they not accustomed to
little _contretemps_ of the like nature, and had they not been in
momentary expectation of one occurring ever since we started? As soon
as he has picked himself up and shaken himself into shape again, the
driver, with the greatest calmness and deliberation, searches amongst a
number of old chains and straps in a corner of the vehicle for a piece
of rope, repairs the fracture as if it were the most ordinary episode
possible, and we continue our route.
By this time the vesper bells have ceased their chiming, and the late
comers crowding the churchyard kneel close under the walls of the
sacred edifice, till they surround it like a ring. On the mountain
slopes women in blue and red--the “keepers at home”--are driving in
the kine, for the nights in this region are always cold. Surely Nature
herself must have taught these people how to dress! Where all is green,
how pleasing to the eye is a little patch of red--its complementary
colour--giving warmth and animation to the landscape!
Wending their way through the pine-woods which we have now entered,
these peasant women make the most ravishing pictures imaginable. But
to-morrow they will lay their gay attire in the long coffer with which
every house is provided, until the following Sunday or the next
festival comes round again, and, donning their every-day garments of
faded pink and red, will be seen working in the fields like men.
Following the road through the thick forest, we now come to an opening,
and see in front of us a splendid mountain, which seems to bar our
further progress as it rises in bold bare bluffs above the ragged
pine-tops at its base. Below flows the _Weisse Dunajecz_, clear as
crystal, which at this point sometimes assumes all the appearance of a
lake, but is to-day dwindled to a mere rivulet flowing through the deep
channel of its white and pebbly bed. A turn to the right, and we find
ourselves facing a large square stone building of one story, to which
the driver first points, and then placing his open palm against his
cheek, closing both eyes and leaning his head on one side, intimates by
mute gesture that this is the inn where we are to sleep to-night.
Dismissing him and his bony animals with a _pour-boire_ with which
he seems more than satisfied, we enter the house and find ourselves
standing in a long comfortless stone passage, out of which lead rooms
at right angles with each other. There is no lack of ventilation here,
at any rate, and one would imagine that the dwelling must have been
originally constructed with an especial view to the entertainment of
the four winds of heaven, which I should imagine must be its only
guests for at least three-fourths of the year.
There is, however, a homely something about the place which is
difficult to define, and a glimpse of the large kitchen adjoining the
sitting-room convinces us at once of its perfect cleanliness, whilst
a combination of savoury odours, suggestive of the familiar process
known in the technical language of kitchens in general as “dishing
up,” proceeds from that mysterious apartment, to which our hunger
gratefully responds. Although we have been travelling since early
morning, we have partaken of nothing save two hard-boiled eggs left
from the provisions with which we were hospitably provided on leaving
Tátra-Fűred, and the fossil remains of a piece of sausage, the relic of
an even more remote repast; but who after this will venture to question
the sustaining qualities of the classic garlic!
The table is laid for four guests, who soon appear; a lady and
gentleman from Cracow, and two Germans, one of whom is not only a
Count, but a huntsman, judging from his style of dress, which was a
kind of William Tell “get up,” and only wanted a bow and arrow to
render his resemblance to that interesting hero complete. We could
not ascertain from the conversation that ensued what had been the
day’s success of this enthusiastic young sportsman, but there was a
great talk of “_Gemsen_” (chamois), “_Hirsche_” (deer), and
such familiar and domestic animals as “_Bären_” (bears), all of
which we heard whilst sitting at another table close by. His clothes,
evidently quite new, bore no honourable marks such as one would suppose
his to possess who had encountered these quadrupeds in the chase;
moreover his hands were as white as those of a woman, and his long
thin fingers, adorned with a variety of large oval rings, gave rise to
doubts as to whether so effeminate and dainty a creature could even
have joined issue with a sparrow.
After dinner they all went to the village some little distance off,
where there is a billiard-room for visitors, and we were glad to be
alone.
“Ah,” exclaimed our host, a Pole from Warsaw, when he found that we
were English, “a countryman of yours was the first to climb the
Eisthaler-Spitze from Zakopane; his name was Ball; not many can
climb _him_,” by which I imagine he meant the mountain, and not
Mr. Ball, who, though renowned for his Alpine explorations, I never
heard was a person of more than ordinary dimensions. “Ah! he was
great, and noble, and brave,” alluding this time to Mr. Ball, and
not to the mountain. “It is a long time ago now, nearly thirty-seven
years, but there are some who still remember _der tapfere Englische
Bergsteiger_” (the brave English climber).
“There is to be a chamois hunt to-morrow, got up for the Herr Graf,”
continued he, referring as we fancy to our friend of the William Tell
costume. “But it was snowing on the heights yesterday, and they will
have some tough climbing up yonder”--pointing through the wall to the
great mountain outside. “You will not have much sleep, I fear, after
four o’clock, at which hour they will be starting.”
A chamois hunt! It was the dream of my childhood verified. A born lover
of Alps and Alpine pursuits, has not my heart gone “pit-a-pat” many a
time over the bold exploits of the chamois hunter? Ah! if I had only
been a boy, I would have grown into a chamois hunter too, and lived in
a lonely châlet beneath some snowy peak. And here I am at last in the
very place of chamois hunters! We must rise with the sun to see them
start; and who knows but that in our own climb to-morrow, we may come
in for a little of the sport--from a distance, at any rate.
Ascertaining which way they are likely to go, we order ponies to be in
readiness at seven o’clock, determining to ride as far as we can, and
then take to our feet, or even “all fours” if necessary. The mountains
are very precipitous in the Tátra, much more so as a rule than those
at the same altitude in Switzerland, and ponies we knew would not be
able to carry us very far on the way, but to be saved even a couple of
miles of road would be a comfort when we have a hard climb before us.
A guide and provision _Träger_ are also told off to accompany us,
and I retire for the night feeling that one of the desires of my life
is about to be accomplished.
[Illustration]