THE CHAMOIS HUNTER.
The morning broke just as such mornings should, but so seldom do; the
dark and sombre mountains, rearing their perpendicular walls of granite
high into the zenith, stood out blue and sharp against the rosy sky,
as the sun, still far below the horizon, sent upwards his crimson
messengers.
[Illustration]
Long before it was light, however--for dawn defers her coming in
this mountain gorge--we were suddenly awakened from a sound sleep by
hideous, unearthly, and perfectly indescribable noises outside our
window, which we afterwards learned proceeded from a duet, if not a
trio, of cow-horns. We had fallen asleep under the impression that
we should be aroused from our slumbers by the sweet and inspiriting
music of the _Jägerhorn_, but how cruelly was this fond delusion
dissipated! We had hardly recovered from the effects of the first
deafening blast, when another burst from the inharmonious trio
of sound, followed by the snapping of rifles, awoke throbbing and
reproachful echoes in the stern mountains, and this time brought the
Herr Graf out of his apartment. _We_ had also obeyed the rude
summons, and, hastily attiring ourselves--elaborate toilets being at
the best of times out of place in the mountains--were soon standing
outside the barrack-like building in the chill morning.
Mountain air is much more provocative of hunger than sleep, so that
getting up in the small hours is not nearly so uncomfortable a
proceeding as in one’s snug home in the lowlands. In any case it was
well worth the effort on this occasion, if only to see the breaking of
the morn, and to watch one beautiful object after another, rock and
tree and flowing water, take shape and grow out of the dim chaos of
night.
The hunting party, consisting of about seven men, all either _Jäger_
or _Treiber_ (huntsmen or beaters), were being regaled with coffee
before the start; besides whom were several provision _Träger_ and
porters for promiscuous baggage, which they carried strapped to their
backs like knapsacks. At a little distance, talking confidentially to
the landlord, is the youthful Count himself, in all the panoply of the
chase, not a single accompaniment wanting. In addition to his hunting
costume, he wears wound round his body a large net and rope. The use of
the former was somewhat difficult to define, and left us in doubt as to
whether it were intended for a hammock, or for catching fish in one of
the Alpine lakes in the vicinity of which they were about to beat.
“How do you manage to exist in these solitudes during the long
winter?” we inquired of our host after they had gone, as he spread the
snowy cloth for our breakfast.
“What can one do?” replied the little man, with a look of sad
resignation: “the time seems long, very long, but one must have
patience, and then the summer comes, bringing with it the visitors.
Ah,” he continued, with a sigh, “we are no longer at home in our once
peaceful land. Where Russia rules, no Pole’s house is his own, and none
can tell what we have to suffer. In Austrian Poland we are safe from
persecution, but in _Russian Poland_----I am a self-imposed exile,
and would rather be a peasant under Austrian rule than a prince under
that of Russia.”
Well fortified by an excellent breakfast for our own climb, we mount
our ponies at the appointed hour, and crossing the foaming Bystre,
at the ironworks of the Baron Ludwig Eichhorn, ascend a steep path
through the forest; after leaving which we again reach the region of
_krummholz_, which is growing in dishevelled masses on the abrupt
precipice of the Thalkessel.
Our ponies, unaccustomed for nine whole months of the year to carry
human freight, have, as may be readily supposed, like my old friend
Minsh, their respective idiosyncrasies, and I have a shrewd suspicion
that the one on which I am seated has never before carried anything of
greater importance than a sack. It manifests in fact such a spirit of
antagonism to me personally, that before I had been in the saddle many
minutes, it did its best to get rid of me entirely by running close to
ledges of rock--where any presented themselves on the left side of the
path--as well as against trunks of trees and prickly brushwood or any
other obstacle of the like nature, evidently hoping thereby quietly
to rub me off as it would have done a fly, or leech, or any other
obnoxious and irritating parasite. I must say that considering their
patriarchal titles--their names were Abraham and Sarah--they behaved
very badly indeed, the former having an uncomfortable trick of keeping
to the outer or precipice side of the narrow paths, causing one leg of
his rider to hang over the yawning abyss immediately beneath, as if to
give him timely warning of the kind of “promised land” _he_ had
to expect unless he took heed to his ways. Beyond this odious habit,
however, Abraham pursued his course with austere dignity, looking
neither to the right nor to the left.
We are getting on fast with our knowledge of the Polish language. When
we wish to go faster, we give the patriarchal pair a gentle reminder
with a bramble--which has been furnished us in lieu of a whip--and
exclaim in commanding tones “_Jedj prentko!_” and when we desire
to stop, cry “_Stu-i!_” At length, after a climb of an hour and a
quarter’s duration, we reach a grass-covered hollow lying between two
mountains, and, leaving the ponies behind, continue our climb on foot.
Following our guide and scrambling through the branches of the
spreading _krummholz_, we soon stand at the foot of the Felsenkegel,
from whence we have a magnificent view of the north-western portion
of the Tátra chain, here called the Krapak. But, beautiful as it is,
we do not linger at this spot, having a long climb before us to the
Frozen and the Black Lakes, called respectively, in the Sláv dialect
of the district, _Zamárly Staw_ and _Czarny Staw_. Retracing our steps
as far as the meadow where our ponies are grazing, we cross a babbling
stream and begin to ascend the mountain by a more gentle slope, till
we see the Black Lake before us, lying snug and warm in the lap of
enfolding mountains, and which, next to the Cszorba-See, is one of the
loveliest of which the Tátra boasts. To the west, floating still and
calm in its oval-shaped basin, lay a small rocky island covered with
the dark _krummholz_. Not a ripple disturbs the tranquil bosom of the
lake, for here, as at the Félka tarn, perfect silence reigns, and not a
bird or insect breaks the stillness. Above rises the Kóscielec-Spitze,
reflecting its mighty walls in the clear black-green waters, its every
outline and feature defined sharply as in a mirror.
“In stormy weather,” exclaimed our Polish guide--who, fortunately for
us, spoke German--pointing in the direction of the great peak, “he
sends down huge pieces of himself into the lake. I saw him once in a
storm of wind and rain when, overtaken in the mountains, I had to flee
for shelter beneath that low overhanging rock opposite. It was an awful
thing to see him then: the fragments came tumbling down his face, as
though he had been a giant weeping tears of stone, and, plunging into
the lake with a roar like thunder, sent the water halfway up his sides
like a mighty _Springbrunnen_” (fountain)--and he spoke of the
mountains, as so many Alpine guides are wont to do, as though they had
been living, sentient things.
These mountain lakes, so far removed from the abode of man, with their
dark still waters, possess a weird and indescribable fascination, and
always seemed to me to be the abode of some great Spirit, which brooded
over them and held them as in thrall. In their silent presence a
silence crept over us too--a spell which seemed to forbid the utterance
of words. So greatly did this Black Lake impress me individually that
I dreamt of it that night. I dreamt that I was standing here alone; it
was twilight, as it nearly always is in dreams; when there came to me
a presence, felt, not seen, and said, “All those who venture within my
sanctuary and once behold my Spirit, I hold them mine for ever.” And
instantly I felt my feet grow rooted to the spot. I could not move.
Then in struggling to get free I awoke, feeling thankful it was, after
all, “but a dream.”
The Frozen Lake, lying at an elevation of nearly 6000 feet above the
level of the sea, is approached from the eastern bank of the Czarny
Staw. A short but steep climb over large boulders of granite brings us
to a small plateau, whence we look down upon it, lying in its snow-girt
cradle: and here again the scene is one of grandeur and sublimity
impossible to describe. Surrounded by gigantic rock bastions, whose
ravines and gullies are filled with colossal fields of snow extending
to the lake itself, it seems held in their icy grip; silent, immovable,
the most dreary and desolate but impressive thing in nature. As we
stand looking down into its frozen depths, a golden eagle--the first we
have seen in the Northern Tátra--flies out of a fissure in the rocks
and with motionless wings cleaves the azure deeps, and then, swooping
down again, seeks its solitary nest.
No vegetation is here, not even _krummholz_, for no plant could
find sufficient soil upon these barren rocks in which to germinate
and spread its roots and grow. No lonely Alpine flower holds up its
grateful petals to the light. All is barren, sterile, desolate, as if
there had once been a curse upon the land that blighted it for ever.
Throughout this rocky labyrinth the eye searches long in vain for
outlet. We seem shut in as by lofty battlements and prison-walls, but
yonder, nevertheless, there is a narrow gorge through which we make our
exit.
The _Träger_, who for some time past had been loitering in the
rear, and whom we feared might--in a paroxysm of hunger--be making
a raid upon the provision-bag, now comes in sight. Our suspicions
were incorrect however, for we soon find that that inestimable
and much-injured individual, in a burst of benevolence and with a
singleness of heart quite affecting to contemplate, has been collecting
wood for us in some lower elevation, and now comes toiling breathless
up the steep with a large faggot on his shoulders, filling our hearts
with such remorse on account of our evil thoughts concerning him, that
we inwardly determine to make it up to him by the bestowal of an extra
florin on his leaving us at night.
A few handfuls of dry moss, which he had also brought up with him, make
the wood crackle and send up a hundred merry sparks playing amongst the
grey and sombre rocks, and a bright fire soon burns cheerily. Throwing
ourselves down before it, we dine like lords, and, after resting for an
hour, journey on again with joyful countenance.
The day is lovely. It is indeed a model day, a day of days. Not a cloud
flecks the sky, which is of that intense, opaque, and sapphire tint
known so well to all Alpine travellers, whilst the air is so clear,
and so altogether intoxicating in its freshness, that we are scarcely
sensible of fatigue as we climb yet higher, now over loose stones which
give way beneath the feet, and now through wastes of dazzling snow,
till we reach our goal,--a lofty ridge whence a superb view of almost
the entire Tátra is obtained, and which extends as far as the Alps of
Liptau.
Below, at our feet, is the highest of the Fünf Seen, lying at an
elevation of more than 7000 feet. Of the peaks, the Krivan is lord
over these bleak territories, though not by any means the highest,
the Eisthaler and Lomnitzer _Spitzen_ carrying off the palm in
this respect. But it is not the actual elevation of mountains which
impresses the beholder, it is rather their shape, position, and
altitude relative to surrounding objects; and I do not think I ever
remember having seen, even in Switzerland, so truly wild and majestic
a panorama as that of the Tátra and Krapak which is presented to the
traveller from this point. In Switzerland the mountains, if I may so
express it, are more civilised. In the Tátra they are wild, barren,
savage; there is less of gracious beauty, but more of ruggedness in
their formation. It is--as I have elsewhere observed--as though Nature
had worked herself into a state of frenzy, and created them without
either forethought or arrangement.
The lowest of these mountains of the “Central Carpathians” is more
than 1000 feet above the region of perpetual snow, whilst the highest
is nearly 3800 feet above it; yet on neither, except in inconsiderable
quantities, does snow rest much after the beginning of June,--a
phenomenon all the more singular from the fact of their northern
position, there being no less than 2½° difference between Switzerland
and the Tátra region. The average temperature of Kesmark and Poronin
shows a difference of 32·81°; whilst the difference in the elevation
of these two places is 313 feet. If it be allowed that a decrease
in temperature occurs in the upper region in the same proportion, it
follows that the theoretical snow-line in the Tátra will be at an
altitude of 6254 feet, according to which perpetual snow ought to lie
everywhere under the lofty ridges; and yet, although there are ravines
in which large masses of snow are found which do not melt even during
the hottest summer, a peak covered with eternal snow is nowhere found.
The chief reason of its not remaining on the higher peaks and ridges is
doubtless their extreme declivity and the absence of ledges or flats on
which to rest; the consequence being that the first thaw causes it to
slide away and leave the peaks bare.
Not far from the ridge on which we have been standing is the pearl
of all the Tátra lakes--the Fisch-See--and the rock pyramid of the
_Meerauge_, but we feel we have had enough climbing for one day,
and decide to rest on our laurels at this spot.
Although it was not far from here that the _Jäger_ were to beat,
not a voice or sound of shot has reached us, and the mountains and
gorges are as still as if the earth had reached that period when all
life had passed away, and they stood alone in empty desolation.
Looking down upon a field of snow, however, we presently see a small
black dot--a mere fly it looks from this distance. F. raises his
binoculars and has a look at it. It is a pedestrian, and carries a
staff in its hand. How infinitely does this mere suggestion of human
life seem to add to the loneliness of our surroundings! What poetry
is there in that small black speck, and what a history Fancy weaves
concerning it, as it threads its solitary way over the glittering snow!
It is an aged pilgrim, perhaps, making his way to some holy well in
the heart of these mountains, where so many streams find their rocky
cradle, or perhaps one of those poor men who spend their time in these
solitudes searching for gentian-roots.
“Let us go down and meet him, it is on our way home,” exclaimed F. in a
gush of benevolence. “Ten to one he is hungry, poor beggar, and we can
give him the remains of the provisions; both guide and _Träger_
have had as much as they can eat for one day, I’m sure.”
Imagine our surprise when, descending towards the black speck which
had so excited our sympathies as it toiled over the snow, we found
it develop into no less a person than the Herr Graf himself, who had
evidently been botanising all the time we pictured him to ourselves
as circumventing the wily chamois. Not in the smallest degree
disconcerted by our having lighted upon him thus suddenly in the mild
and contemplative capacity of botanist, which he had exchanged for the
excitement of the chase, of which we supposed him at that very moment
to be the hero, he greeted us naïvely, saying:
“I left the _Jäger_ up there in the heights. There is a poetical
endurance in the manner in which those fellows hunt, which we
lowlanders cannot understand. I did not see the fun of perching behind
a snowy pinnacle and freezing all day for a possible chamois, so that,
having waited in that interesting attitude a full hour, and no game
having showed itself, I came away.”
He had not been idle, however, in his subsequent occupation, having
collected more than twenty specimens of Alpine flowers, amongst which
was one that we had diligently sought for on our way up, but sought
in vain, the _Gentiana frigida_, which grows at the highest
elevation of all the gentian tribe.
Preceding us to the plateau whence we looked down upon the Frozen Lake,
he led us over a small meadow to a group of sombre granite boulders,
looking almost black in contrast with the dazzling snow-fields
everywhere around, and pointed to a narrow shelf of rock. There in very
truth was the lovely little flower in all its pure and simple beauty,
looking down upon us from its shrine of sanctity all amongst the
spotless snow--a whole tuft of it reflecting the cerulean blue. Beauty
such as this is an awful thing. In that lowly flower there was a grace
and purity not of earth’s devising, and I left it where it was, for to
handle it seemed little short of sacrilege.
Home at sunset to a dinner of _Auerhahn_ soup, red deer served
with cranberry sauce, and _Kaiser-Vogel_ to follow, we feel like
hardy mountaineers with a vengeance. The Russians have taken their
departure, and some new guests have arrived, who have come hither from
Schmecks to make the ascent of the Eisthaler-Spitze. They report a
continuance of fog at the little bathing-place, and we congratulate
ourselves on having escaped it on this side the Tátra.
Going to the doorway, we find the moon shining brightly. It scarcely
seemed night, but merely a spiritual and ethereal extension of day.
Tired though we were, the temptation was too strong to be resisted:
we must have a stroll up the gorge, for the beautiful mountain stream
which came scampering from its frigid birthplace all amongst the clouds
seemed to beckon us towards it. It was the same little brook which rang
such a merry peal as we rode past it in the morning, and which, falling
over mossy stones, and running in and out amongst them, formed tiny
bays and sandy shores, where the fairies might have bathed and then
danced on its sands in the moonlight. It flows sadder now, though not
less quickly, and its melody is more plaintive. Presently the moon,
travelling on its pathway through the heavens, begins to cast a shadow
from the highest tree-fringed summit of the gorge. Slowly it creeps
downwards like a thing of life, slowly but surely. First the topmost
branches of the trees are enclosed in darkness, then the rocks; and
now it touches the little silvery torrent. It crosses it and begins
the ascent of the opposite side. It is almost dreadful to stand and
watch it, so like is it to the shadow that so passes over our own
lives. On it comes relentless, never pausing, but creeping onwards,
upwards; shutting out first this object, then that, till everything is
encompassed in the gloom, and I almost shudder as the last light dies
upon the topmost crag, and the spirit of the scene has fled, so like is
it to death.
[Illustration]