YETTA.
A year has passed since we stayed at Tátra-Fűred and Zakopane and made
our journey across the plains. Since then we have been to England,
and planted our _krummholz_ and Carpathian flowers, nearly all
of which are growing: even the former has taken quite kindly to its
English home. And here we are back again in the Northern Tátra, for
the second time, waiting for the _diligence_ to take us on to the
world-renowned salt-mines of Wieliczka.
The faithful András is again with us, and once more awaiting our return
at Poprád with the same old lumbering vehicle that accompanied us on
our former travels through Hungary, but which, having been patched up
during our absence, has entered on a new lease of life.
In the square at Neumarkt the same Jews are standing idly about the
pavement as when we were last here, and their sole occupation still
appears to be to watch other people’s movements. Their interest
however at the present time is centred in the departure of the yellow
_diligence_ in which we are just about to take our seats.
There was no _coupé_, so that we were obliged to journey in the
_intérieur_, our fellow-travellers consisting of a gaunt man--a
Pole--and a young woman whose nationality we could not determine, but
from whose general appearance we imagined to be Rusniak.
The process of shaking down is one of no small difficulty, but we
manage it at last, and are soon rattling along at the usual pace
at starting. The young woman referred to was on her way to Lubień,
wherever that place may be,--a fact made known to us by the name
which was marked in scrambling letters on a large cardboard box
that she persisted in carrying on her lap, and which half filled
the _diligence_. I ventured to remonstrate with her on this
proceeding, but she defended herself and her box so vigorously in
her own particular vernacular, that if she had been carrying a
boa-constrictor instead, there is not one of us who would have had the
courage to make any further objection.
The other passenger was a man of grave and sedate countenance--as are
nearly all the Poles--who seemed to find it impossible to dispose
satisfactorily of his feet and legs. They proved a source of intense
irritation to the young female who sat opposite, and I should
say--judging from the painful attitude he assumed in his endeavours to
stow them away--of no small dislocation to himself. But they too shook
down at last, and with the exception of an occasional flash from her
dark eyes, as every now and then he involuntarily trod upon her toes,
all things went on smoothly enough.
The distance between Neumarkt and Wieliczka is forty-five miles, the
latter being situated near the beautiful Vistula, which waters the
plains of Gallicia, and which, hastening on its northern course,
finally empties itself into the Baltic.
It was on these fertile pastures that the progenitors of the Poles
had their original seat, dwelling on the rich banks of the Vistula;
the word Pole itself being derived from the Slav word _polska_,
meaning a level field, or plain.
The vast salt-fields of Wieliczka--which, according to a popular
tradition, were accidentally discovered during a vigilant search made
to recover a wedding-ring--lie immediately under the town of the same
name; and, whilst extending to the great breadth of 10,000 feet in a
north-easterly direction, penetrate to the depth of more than 1700
feet, and consist of four distinct stories.
Permission to explore this singular region was readily granted on
application, and a guide and several boys carrying torches told off
to accompany us. Having been solemnly robed in white cloaks, we took
our places in a kind of lift, and were suddenly plunged into the mouth
of the shaft, through which we descended to a distance of thirty-five
fathoms, when we were landed on what may be called the topmost story
of these wonderful excavations, and found ourselves standing in a
vaulted chamber, which, but for the surrounding darkness, might have
been the gigantic packing-room of some warehouse. Here men were busily
occupied in filling barrels with salt for transmission to its various
destinations. Our guide however, preceding us across this busy hive,
led us through long galleries to inner halls and chambers hewn out
of the salt-rock. There was no oppressive feeling in the air as we
followed him through corridor after corridor; and the boy-guides
illuminating our pathway with their broom torches lit up the white
walls, which sparkled as though they had been set with myriads of
gems. Neither was there any difficulty in our progress; we walked as
comfortably as if we had been in the open air, till we reached a
salt-lake, where we found a small flat-bottomed boat in readiness to
take us across to the opposite side. As we stepped into it, clad in our
white sepulchral vestments, and assisted by a dark and muscular Charon,
it was difficult to believe we were not about to cross a veritable
Styx: the black waters in which the torches were reflected; the curious
dress of our attendants, with their singular Sláv physiognomies,
together with our own ghost-like garments, all favoured the illusion.
Occasionally a dull report was heard like the boom of cannon, which
seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth as the miners blasted
the rock in some distant excavation.
The salt is exceedingly compact, and, as a rule, unmixed--except
near the surface--with any extraneous matter. These mines have been
worked without cessation for more than 900 years, and yet the work of
quarrying has still gone on in the different stories, until some of the
chambers have attained the size of from 1000 to 2000 feet in width and
100 in height. Numerous fossils are continually being found imbedded in
the rock, which is supposed to be of Tertiary formation.
One of the most interesting objects connected with these subterranean
perforations is the fine Gothic chapel hewn out of the salt-rock, with
its statues, enormous crucifix, and altar formed entirely of the same
substance. One of the statues represents St. Cunegunda, the owner of
the ring whose search was followed by such wonderful results, and on
whose annual festival, as patroness of the mines, mass is said in the
chapel in the presence of all the miners.
As in Hungary, the salt found here is a monopoly of the Austrian
government, the out-turn from these mines alone being from fifty to
sixty thousand tons annually.
On our return from Wieliczka, hiring a carriage, we start at once for
the _Dunajecz_, which we were unable to visit on our last year’s
sojourn in the Northern Tátra. As we bade adieu to Neumarkt, that place
of sordid Jews and devout Catholics, the rugged peaks were beautiful
in the morning light; not a cloud dimmed their outlines, which were
sharply pencilled on the sky. The peasants of both sexes were at work
in the fields, and all was pastoral and lovely. By this time, however,
we were so frantically hungry that we fully endorsed Dr. Johnson’s
sentiment that no view, however exquisite, is perfect unless it have
an inn for its immediate foreground. There was, however, not one to be
met with between this and Altendorf, a good four hours’ journey; and we
decided therefore to stop at the house at which we slept last year on
our way through this district, and where we were certain to meet with a
hearty welcome.
It was not long before we approached the outskirts of the village, and
found ourselves standing in the porch of the rambling old dwelling with
its black wooden balcony, rendered familiar by our previous visit.
Entering the homely kitchen, we expected to be greeted like old friends
and recognised with joyful acclamation, but there was no one in it but
a young child and a priest seated on a settle, who rose as we entered,
bowed, and, uttering the words “_Servus domine spectabilis_”--a
form of salutation still frequently used by many of the priests of
Hungary--left the room.
“Where is Yetta?” we inquire of the child. She could only speak
Polish, but at the mention of the name she pointed to the church nearly
opposite the house; and I could see that she meant “dead.”
“And the _Grossvater_?”
Again she pointed in the same direction.
“What! dead too?” I ask.
“_Nein! nein! nicht todt_” (no! no! not dead), she manages to say.
At this juncture, however, the _Hausmutter_ came in from an
adjoining apartment and demanded what was our pleasure.
“Martcha,” I cried, “do you not remember _die Engländer_ who were
here a year ago, and whom you promised never to forget?”
She passed her hand over her forehead, as if to dispel some intervening
mist and recall some long-forgotten memory, and then burst into tears.
“Yetta is gone!” she exclaimed, so soon as her sobs would let her. “She
died just three weeks ago, and her little baby lies with her in the
_Gottesacker_ yonder.”
“And the old man, your father, what of him?” we inquire eagerly. “Is he
well?”
“Well, but quite childish,” was the reply. “Since Yetta died he
has often wandered in his mind, and stands about the grave all
day. We cannot keep him from it. Ah! if he would but go into the
_Kapelle_, and say ‘Our Father,’ he might find comfort. But the
trouble has hardened him. He will not think but that the good God was
cruel to take her from him, and he so old.”
All this she told us as she busied herself in preparing the coffee and
spreading the cloth for our breakfast, after which we go over to the
_Gottesacker_ with Martcha, where she says we are sure to find him.
He is leaning on a wall not far from a new-made grave, over which an
iron crucifix has already been placed, and on which we can read, in
bright gilt letters on the black, the name of Yetta Poschaska, followed
by a word we cannot read and by the figures 19 and 1880.
As we approached, he raised his cap slightly, but did not recognise
us, and then resumed his previous attitude with an almost vacant look,
nothing in the expression of his face denoting emotion of any sort.
“I wish he would but come into the church,” whispered Martcha. “Perhaps
he would, if you were to ask him: he has never been there since.”
“Her spirit is not _there_,” said the priest, who happened to be
passing by, and pointing to the sod, “but up yonder, _in dem blauen
Himmel_” (in the blue heaven).
“That is nothing to me,” he replied curtly; “I cannot see her there.”
“Come, father,” said Martcha, shaking him gently by the arm, “the two
_Engländer_ are here again, and want to see the church; won’t you
show it to them?”
“_Lasz mich in Ruh’!_” (let me be!) he answered peevishly, “she
would like to feel her old grandfather was near her. Show them the
church yourself, can’t you?”
As we went into the quaint antique building, however, he followed
slowly, and half involuntarily, as though unconsciously to himself he
was glad of the companionship of human voices. We were observing the
curious pictures and other objects surrounding the walls, when, looking
round, we saw Martcha kneeling at one of the gaily decorated shrines,
whilst the old man, following her example, was kneeling also, but quite
mechanically as it seemed, his face wearing the same stolid look as
before.
Leaving the church very softly, we wander across to the quiet territory
of the dead. The great mountains, piled peak above peak as far as eye
can reach, rise sheer from the village with its dark foreground of
picturesque wooden houses.
[Illustration]
As we linger in the little cemetery, which is thickly sown with graves,
and think of the once busy hands and loving hearts now lying at rest
beneath, we wonder how _they_ must feel who have no belief in the
spirit’s unceasing consciousness, and how terrible must be the blank
when those they love are wrested from them; how terrible, too, the
contemplation of their own short and ever-fleeting lives. And there was
something so still and beautiful in the surroundings of this spot,
with the great mountains in their solemn majesty keeping watch over the
long green mounds, that made one feel somehow nearer heaven.
It was eleven o’clock by the time we bade farewell to Martcha, the old
man, and the peaceful village, and were on our way again, through the
broad valley that leads to the _Rothe Kloster_. As we approach the
volcanic rocks, on one of which it stands proudly even in its decay,
we discover that the whole scene is much grander when approached from
the north than by the way we reached it from Altendorf. Opposite, on
the other side of the river Dunajecz, on a lofty crag stands a castle,
the two seeming to menace each other from their battlemented heights,
whilst on the crest of the lower pinnacles are small chapels, each with
its crucifix and shrine.
Sending our carriage on to await our arrival at a place called
Scyavnicza (pronounced Schevaniska), we walk down to the river, and
find two men awaiting us with a raft which had been previously ordered
by the landlord of the inn at Zakopane. They are Poles, but are dressed
like Slovaks, with broad felt hats and immense leather girdles.
The mountains of the Dunajecz here divide the Carpathian chain; those
to the left being called the Pieninen.
The excursion down the Dunajecz is one of the most popular of the whole
Tátra, the river passing through a narrow cleft in a rock, which it
entirely fills; whilst the mountains and precipices on either side are
so precipitous that they rise sheer out of the water, and do not admit
even of the smallest footpath along its margin. The sun is just in that
position in the heavens when, without having sunk towards the horizon,
it throws shadows deep and long, and the narrow gorge--one side of
which is immersed in profoundest shade, whilst the other is golden in
the blaze of sunlight--presents a marvellous effect as the raft, formed
of two small flat-bottomed boats lashed together, takes us through its
windings.
The water of the Dunajecz is perfectly clear, the rocks and vegetation
that rise above it being reflected in its depths with marvellous
distinctness. In some portions the river flows silently along, and
there is scarcely a ripple on its surface; in others, however, it
becomes a rapid and boisterous torrent, covered with crests of foam.
No one who visits the Tátra should fail to pass through this beautiful
defile.
Emerging from the gorge at its northern outlet, we reach the village of
Unter-Scyavnicza. It is the custom at this spot for young Polish girls
to await the arrival of the rafts, and hold boughs and flower-garlands
over the heads of the visitors as they step on shore. Most gladly
would we have dispensed with this “function” had it been possible, but
they had completely taken possession of us, and accompanying us across
the white and pebbly shore of the river--which at this point takes a
sharp bend to the right--they help us to climb its steep banks to the
village, laughing merrily all the while and chattering together their
(to us) hopelessly unintelligible Sláv dialect. I never beheld such
a group of merry light-hearted sirens, as having been rewarded by a
“consideration” they went scrambling back over the loose pebbles with
their naked feet in the hope of crowning with unearned laurels some
other unsuspecting hero of the gorge.
Leaving the village, we climb a steep hill and find ourselves
surrounded by châlets built in such a truly ornamental style, that they
look like sylvan palaces. There are baths here, much frequented in the
season by Prussians as well as Russians and Poles.
On the top of the hill we recognise our carriage. The driver, having
failed to find a place where he could bait the horses in the village
below, had added to their fatigue by bringing them up the ascent in the
vain hope of meeting with an _álás_; but, alas and alack-a-day!
he was unsuccessful, and our only plan now is to take them on to a
place called Kroschenko and there give them two hours’ rest; it will
fortunately be on our way to Altendorf, where we shall now be compelled
to pass the night.
We soon get into a good post-road, which we follow until we reach
Kroschenko, a large village lying amongst verdant hills.
There are no fewer than 190,000 Jews in this province alone, and
one would suppose from the number that are met with everywhere that
the whole neighbourhood must be given over into the hands of the
Israelites. Standing about the principal street, or sitting in groups
on the benches beneath the houses, wherever we turn we see these
black-robed gentry: old Jews with snow-white ringlets; middle-aged
Jews with iron-grey ringlets; boy Jews with black ringlets--the last,
dressed like their elders in the long greasy toga, forming the most
incongruous-looking objects in the universe.
Even in this little place there is a government lottery. As we walk up
the street we pass a small shop where spirits are sold. Close to the
door on an oval shield we notice the hideous black eagle on the yellow
ground, near which is a board with the numbers last drawn. Entering
this den of iniquity--for so in truth it might be named--we find it
full of women of all ages drinking the coarse white brandy of the
district, which is distilled from potatoes. Some of them had already
imbibed too freely of the unwholesome beverage, yet the shopkeeper,
an old man of unmistakable type, a Jew of Jews and Hebrew of Hebrews,
still pressed them to take more. Hastening from the close, dense
atmosphere into the pure and open air of heaven, we breathe again,
and pass more Jews, none of whom seem to have any occupation, for
they sit or stand about the place smoking their long pipes, gossiping
and talking of money. Whenever we happened to be near enough to
hear their conversation, the most conspicuous words invariably were
“_tausend Gulden_,” “_hundert Gulden_,” “_Joch_,” and “_Kreuzer_,” and
involuntarily a feeling of intense pity filled our hearts for the race,
so degraded and fallen, who were once called “the elect people of God,”
and whose glorious country, the country of David and Solomon and Jesus,
is subdued, crushed, and trampled under foot by an infidel power.
It was a relief to turn not only from the actual presence of these
repulsive-looking Jews, but from the melancholy contemplation of their
fallen estate, and find at the other end of the village a Christian
church with its standard of the cross. Entering it, we gratefully
inhale the fumes of incense which still pervade its precincts. No
service is taking place, but the door stands open. Kneeling on the
pavement here and there are lonely women, laying bare the secrets of
their hearts to the Great Unseen, and who, having withdrawn for a while
from the toil and business of their weary lives, have brought into the
peaceful seclusion of these walls their many wants and burdens.
Like all we have hitherto seen in Gallicia, the church is full of
banners and grotesque pictures. Hanging on the north wall was the
picture of a saint whom we had not hitherto recognised as belonging to
the calendar, and who, clad in the costume of ancient Rome, with sword
and helmet, was engaged in pouring water upon flames,--an extremely
popular saint, I should imagine, in a country like this, where fires
are of such frequent occurrence.
As we pass once more beneath the Red Convent on our way to Altendorf,
the sun is setting, and, blazing against its ruined walls, transfigures
its blocks of tufa into molten gold. On the slopes of the serried
hills, that glow like red-hot cinders, the small white patches of
calcareous matter intermingled with the lava glisten like silver. But
already the shadow thrown by the crumbling pile is creeping down the
eastern slope, and, looking back for one last look as we cross the
wooden bridge, the whole is swallowed up in gloom.
[Illustration]