THE MOUNTAIN FUNERAL.
Twilight has drawn her curtain across the saffron sky, and the lights
of day have died on the metal cupola of the church as we once more
reach Altendorf.
Alighting on its outskirts, we send our carriage on with the luggage to
the inn, and walk through the village; in doing which we are greeted
with many a nod and smile of welcome from the “gentle Slovak,” as we
are recognised in passing. Within a hundred yards of our destination we
behold our old friend Gretchen the hostess--whose acquaintance we had
made on our former visit--hot in the pursuit of a flock of geese, which
she is vainly endeavouring to drive home, and which evince such decided
and unmistakable reluctance to return to the family mansion, that had
we not arrived upon the scene at that critical juncture to render
timely aid, it is doubtful whether it would have been accomplished
before nightfall. Just as we were bringing our interesting occupation
to a triumphal close by chasing the last unruly emblem of ourselves
into its unwished-for shelter behind the inn, a Dunajecz raft-man
presented himself to our notice, offering for sale a large fish, which
he called _Lachsen_.
“_Lachs_” being the German word for salmon, we had some curiosity
to taste what this fish was like; but inasmuch as its possessor
demanded a florin a pound for it, and refused to part with any unless
we took the whole, and moreover, although hungry, we did not quite
think we could eat fourteen pounds of fish at one sitting, we declined
further negotiations, and F., in the most polished German--which the
Slovak, I fear, failed fully to appreciate--commended it to his own
digestion, and expressed the hope that he might find it agree with him!
The little “_Wirtschaft_,” or inn, kept by a worthy couple, was
entered by the customary stone kitchen. Beyond it, however, was a small
inner room in which a bright fire was burning, and from which the
welcome fumes of coffee-roasting reached us; a cup of that invigorating
beverage being the very thing we wanted, but a luxury we hardly
expected to meet with in a Slovak village. In twenty minutes’ time
however we are once more regaling ourselves with _café à la crême_
such as cannot be conceived out of Hungary or the Sublime Porte, and we
ascertain from the housewife, who speaks German, that the great secret
in its manufacture lies, not only in grinding the berry just before
it is required, but in roasting it also--exactly so much and no more
than is needed for the moment, grinding it before it has had time to
cool, then boiling and serving it immediately, with hot cream as an
accompaniment.
Whilst sipping leisurely this delicious nectar, which is far too good
to partake of hurriedly, we are reminded of a popular American author’s
recipe for German coffee; and if to _German_, how much more
applicable to _English_:--
“Take a barrel of water and bring it to a boil; rub a bit of chicory
against a coffee-berry, and convey the former into the water. Continue
the boiling and evaporation, till the intensity of the flavour and
aroma of the coffee and chicory has been diminished to a proper degree;
then set aside to cool. Now unharness the remains of a once cow from
the plough, insert them in a hydraulic press, and when you shall
have acquired a teaspoonful of that pale blue juice which a German
superstition regards as milk, modify the malignity of its strength with
tepid water, and ring up the breakfast. Mix the beverage in a cold cup,
partake with moderation, and keep a wet rag round your head to guard
against over-excitement.”
Although destitute of every luxury attendant on civilisation, this
funny little place is at any rate far better than the generality of
inns in Hungarian towns, and especially that of Neumarkt. The beds
are clean, and Jews with their corkscrew curls and frowsy Israelitish
odour are happily absent. It is true that a pet fowl which had made
a snug roosting-place in a corner of the stove insists on descending
and having a share of our dinner, and that a calf keeps up a gentle
lowing in the adjoining apartment. But these rustic accompaniments are
rather interesting than otherwise, and for the rest we are thankful
with small mercies, and can make ourselves quite contented with such
things as we have. In the outer room, Slovaks, home from their labour
in the fields, sit and drink their _Schnäpschen_ (small glasses of
spirits). The room is full of these wild-looking creatures, formidable
even to us who know them so well, in their slouching hats, long hair,
and broad brass-bound girdles, as night wears on and one cannot
distinguish clearly the mild expression of their faces. They are,
however, perfectly orderly and quiet, and we are disturbed by no noise
or ribaldry such as would be usually heard in most country inns under
similar circumstances.
At eight o’clock we stroll out into the village. It is bright
moonlight, and the distant rhythmic beat of anvils in the direction of
the gipsy camp invites us towards them, and assures us its occupants
are still awake. We had not forgotten these wretched beings since last
we saw them a year ago, and were just descending the little pathway
leading to their wretched hovels when we were met by two gipsy women,
who, instantly recognising us, cried--
“_Inglesca! Inglesca!_”
Beckoning both to follow, we returned to the inn, and bestowed upon
them and theirs such things as cost us no sacrifice to part with, but
which, if we might judge from their expressive voices as they thanked
us in their unknown tongue, must have carried joy into their camp that
night. And what sacrifice would not have been amply rewarded by the
gratification of making for once in their lives these poor outcasts
happy? Hastening back with their bundles, they left us, uttering their
thanks in that sweet modulation of the voice that always seemed to me
more like singing than the mere utterance of words.
I have elsewhere spoken of the melancholy inflexion of the Magyar
voice; the same may be observed in that of the Slovaks, and indeed to
a greater or less degree in that of all the inhabitants of Hungary.
It exists, however, to an incomparably greater extent in that of the
Hungarian gipsies, particularly amongst their women, whose voices, once
heard, linger on the ear, and can never be forgotten. They are sad,
sweet, and low; qualities which, blended together, form a minor cadence
often as melodious as the tones of an Æolian harp. I have sometimes
tried to believe that these children of nature must have learnt to
speak thus from the wailing of the wind, the sighing of trees, or the
sad complaining of streams as they flow through tall grasses and murmur
plaintively and mysteriously in the forest shade, but I fear that the
sad inflexions of their utterance are due to the long centuries of
oppression and misery to which their whole race has been subjected.
Sitting on the “word-bearer” beneath the gable in the calm, soft
moonlight, we gossip with our hostess Gretchen.
“Do English people ever stay here on their way to the Northern Tátra?”
we inquire.
“Yes, we have before some years seen three English gentlemen,” she
replied in her Teuton idiom, “and two ladies have been here also, but
to what nation they belonged I cannot say; only as they were pleasant
and good and _schön_, I think they must have been English!”
As we sit here we watch the people of the village quietly entering
or leaving the house, often taking their _Schnäpschen_ without
speaking, and going on their way again.
Presently a flock of sheep come trooping by on their way to the distant
plains; large, long-legged, bony creatures with spiral horns, and
the longest, shaggiest wool I ever saw. They are accompanied by two
shepherds, whom they follow, reminding us of the East; sheep in Hungary
never being driven. They follow the shepherd as in ancient Scripture
times.
A great deal of Slovak cheese is made in this district, and the poorer
classes subsist almost entirely upon it and, of course, black bread.
However poor a family may be, they invariably have a few sheep which
they keep for the purpose. The cheese is sometimes made by themselves,
but far more frequently the little flock is made over, for certain
months in the year, to a herdsman who has a sheep-dairy, and who
contracts to supply fourteen pounds of cheese from the milk of each
animal, reserving whatever else he may make above that quantity as
his own profit. Sometimes these dairymen have as many as 500 sheep
committed to their charge; indeed, the combined flocks of a whole
village.
The Slovak peasants are generally spoken of as being exceedingly poor;
but this was by no means the impression we formed concerning them when
travelling through their country on either occasion. That they have
but little money I can readily believe, but of the kind of poverty too
often seen in agricultural districts in England, where a labourer has
to support his family on twelve or fifteen shillings a week, we saw
none. Here every one works for himself, except in rare instances, the
Slovak as a rule having inherited a _joch_ or two of land from his
forefathers, on which he grows rye for his black bread and potatoes.
In addition to this, he owns a cow or two, together with a few sheep
and pigs. The long wool of the sheep the women spin, and then have
woven into material for their outer garments. Possessing almost every
requisite for their simple lives, what need have they for money?
The “gentle Slovak,” however, is greatly despised by his proud and
haughty Magyar neighbour, who at one time designated him by the
opprobrious title of “_tót_,” a word signifying “not a man at
all.” “_Tót nem ember_” being a favourite motto of the ancient
Magyars when alluding to the Slávs. The servant of no man, not only
the haughty Magyar peasant, but the Slovak likewise, possesses a
self-respect and quiet dignity of manner which are very pleasant
to see, and I could not help wishing our own poor had but the same
advantages joined to the same inherent thrift and industry.
There is, however, one virtue in which the Slovaks eminently fail;
namely, cleanliness. Their wooden houses, surrounded on three sides
by sheds containing their little live stock, are full of dirt and
discomfort. The room in which they live, adorned with crucifixes,
grotesque coloured prints and images bought at the neighbouring fairs,
is ill-ventilated and ill-furnished, and seldom lighted by more than
one small window, whilst the one room is used for all purposes.
Unlike their Magyar sisters, the Slovak women are exceedingly plain.
But a Slovak baby is, on the contrary, the wee-est and prettiest little
creature possible. At three years old, they are such tiny atoms of
creation that, clinging to their mothers’ skirts, they look mere dolls,
and with their small round faces, large eyes, long eyelashes, and
pensive expression are so irresistibly pretty, that I have often been
seized with the desire to kiss them, until, having sought diligently
for a clean patch on their faces for the purpose, I have had to
relinquish that impulse in despair.
The following day being Sunday, our intention had been to start at
6 A.M. for Kesmark, in order to attend the early service at the old
Lutheran church. The carriage which brought us hither from Zakopane,
however, to our great annoyance and surprise, had silently departed
some time during the small hours of the night! It is true we only hired
it in the first instance to bring us on to Altendorf, but, having
ascertained on arrival here that there existed not the ghost of a
conveyance, we arranged with our Zakopane driver, by the help of the
fair Gretchen, who acted as interpreter, that he should take us as far
as Kesmark, we on our part agreeing not only to pay extra for the use
of the carriage, but promising him a handsome “_na vordken_” (gratuity)
besides.
Here was a dilemma! Left stranded high and dry in a Slovak inn, its
charms grew wonderfully less as soon as the prospect of spending an
indefinite period within its shelter was presented to our minds, or at
any rate until some friendly vehicle passing--goodness knows when, a
year hence, probably--might come to tow us off again. It was as much
as even patient travellers like ourselves could endure with anything
like philosophy. The miscreant had also sneaked off without even paying
for the baiting of the horses. What could be his motive for playing us
false? Unfortunately F., in the plenitude of his goodness and out of a
full heart, had paid him at once on arrival, and bestowed upon him his
“_na vordken_” besides, and he was gone, the fiend! _gone for
ever_.
“Had any one heard him depart?” inquired the landlord of a group of
neighbourly Slovaks, who had already scented something unusual in the
near horizon.
“No!” was the reply from a chorus of voices, accompanied by a murmur
to the effect that whatever time he managed to make his escape, and
wherever he might happen to be at present, he would in all probability
spend his future in a warmer climate than that to which he had been
accustomed in the Northern Tátra for so deceiving “_die erwürdigen
Engländer_” (the gracious English people).
Our case received the sympathy of the entire Slovak population. Women
left their cows and came to the fore. The gentle Slovak for once
grew quite ferocious under the insult that had been offered to the
“strangers.” Finally, the “fat boy” arrived upon the scene, panting
under the weight of the big baby.
Now during our travels through this country I trust I have proved
beyond all question that we do not regard our dignity as a thing of
such light and airy weight that it can be taken off its balance by
anything on wheels, but there _are_ limits to indifference to
appearances, as well as to bodily endurance; and, anxious as we were
to quit Altendorf and proceed on our journey, we did not feel quite
prepared to avail ourselves of a vehicle--although deeply grateful for
the offer--which an amiable Slovak neighbour, who had gone back to his
own premises to fetch it, now brought in triumph to our rescue. Neither
did we feel disposed to invest in a pair of broken-kneed, half-starved
ponies which another amiable Slovak offered to part with to _draw_
the said vehicle, at the alarming sacrifice of sixty gulden each--about
£5, the average price of such animals in this district.
[Illustration]
We had just decided to resign ourselves to our fate, until a carriage
could be fetched from Kesmark, when a youthful Slovak Hodge, pointing
in the direction of the road by which we had come from Zakopane, and
opening his eyes very wide, gave vent to the laconic word in the
_platt_, or colloquial Slovatian of the district, “_Posri!_”
(Behold!)
There in truth in the distance, surrounded by such a cloud of dust that
not only the wheels of the carriage but the horses’ legs were quite
hidden, came the object of our indignation and regret--the faithless
driver, seated high upon the box above the white cloud, looking
like some dark phantom poised in mid-air. He was repentant, then.
Conscience, that faithful monitor, had pricked him on his homeward way,
and he is returning to us with all speed, humbled and subdued. We would
be magnanimous, and exercise forgiveness, that noblest of all virtues.
A volley of Slovatian expletives more or less complimentary greeted his
approach, but to our chagrin he seemed neither repentant nor subdued;
on the contrary, giving a flourish to his whip and pulling the horses
up short, he pointed triumphantly to their shoes, and said in Slovatian:
“_Hotovo!_” (Done!)
Then, and not till then, did it occur to us that he had spoken the
previous evening about the necessity of the animals being shod in the
event of our taking them on to Kesmark over more miles of mountain
road. To this end he had arisen when we and the Slovak world were still
in dreamland, and, having driven them to our friends the gipsies at the
outskirts of the village, had had it done.
At nine o’clock however, the driver having been made radiant by a good
breakfast, we get once more under weigh. The morning is fine, but dark
clouds hang ominously overhead, and occasionally obscure the sun. In
the quiet little Slovak villages through which we pass, people dressed
in their Sunday best are coming from church. But the gipsies, who meet
us at the entrance to each, and to whom the day brings no rest from
labour--the foretaste of that more perfect rest, when, these sad lives
of ours, being over, that home is reached “where the wicked cease from
troubling and the weary are at rest”--are at work as on all other days,
lustily striking their small anvils. Gipsy urchins, too, run after us,
turn somersaults, and indulge in various other gymnastic exercises, in
the hope--vain, alas!--of engaging our attention. But at last, having
to climb a steep hill, we pass through another village, where a little
bevy of gipsy children keep pace with us; and two of them are carrying
such infinitesimal specimens of babies, so small and so old-looking,
and with such large brown, melancholy eyes, that they touch our hearts,
and cost us unlimited kreutzers. Following them was a pretty little
gipsy boy with immense black eyes, his skin almost as dark as that
of a Hindoo, and whose only garment was a blue-and-white checquered
handkerchief, tied by the corners round his neck, whence, hanging down
square over his little back, and extending to his heels, it formed a
sort of Spartan mantle.
Stopping the carriage, we alight and put a kreutzer into each of his
tiny hands, lest the older ones might rob him of his share of those
we had already thrown to the whole party. But he stood silent and
pensive. For him the possession of money seemed to bring no joy as to
other children; he was one who looked as though he had been born with a
weight of care upon his small shoulders, and was an atom of humanity
that touched us to the quick. With a dull and heavy feeling at the
heart, we left him standing in the road, and, re-entering the carriage,
once more wandered on our way.
Continuing the ascent, we see, not far below the summit of the green
alp we have to cross, a long procession of white-robed figures, for
such they appear to us from a distance, but as they come slowly
zigzagging down the steep we find it is a funeral. On an open bier,
drawn by two white oxen, is laid the coffin. Where not covered with
chaplets of flowers, we see it is painted white with gilt panels, and
yet it is evidently the funeral of some peasant. Following the bier
are some fifty women dressed in the pretty costume of the district, a
short woollen skirt of broad red-and-blue stripes, worn over a blue
petticoat, the head and shoulders covered with a long white muslin
scarf. It is a picturesque scene as they come pattering along the road
with naked feet, and we do not lose sight of them till we reach the
summit of the pass, and enter a forest of pines.
We had scarcely proceeded another mile when the rain, which had been
threatening all the morning, began to pour; and as we commenced the
descent of the mountain on the other side, it increased with such
violence that umbrellas were of small avail. In half an hour’s time
we were reduced to the condition of sponges, and were so miserably
water-logged that, approaching a woodman’s hut which stood a little
above the road, we sent the driver up to see whether we could take
refuge in it, and he soon returned with the gratifying intelligence
that although empty it contained a large fire. The grass under the
pines was long and thick, but it was impossible to be wetter than we
were already, so we determined upon taking shelter in the hut until
the storm should be over. It could not have been long vacated, for the
fire, which had evidently been just replenished, was burning brightly
on the raised hearth. A pile of wood also stood in a corner, and we
heaped it on without ceremony until we had a splendid blaze, which soon
dried our soaking, sodden garments. Until we reach Poprád we have no
change of raiment whatever--the possibility of such a storm as this not
having entered into our calculations when we gave our other garments to
the gipsies--and I am afraid it just crosses our minds that “virtue”
has hardly been “rewarded” in this instance quite as it might have been.
Whilst we ourselves are revelling in the warmth of the hut, our
horses--which have been unharnessed--are grazing in the forest hard
by, and the driver is crouching by another fire which he has made for
himself under an adjoining shed. And we wonder what the owner of the
hut would think were he suddenly to return and find his dwelling thus
taken possession of.
The storm was of short duration, and in an hour’s time, leaving on a
bench a small gratuity for the worthy woodman by way of remuneration
for our having, during his absence, invaded his little domain, we go
on our way rejoicing, and soon find that the storm had been so partial
that there had been no rain whatever a mile farther on.
Nearing Béla, we meet carts and waggons drawn by two, three, or even
four oxen, filled with peasants on their way from church to their homes
many a mile distant in the heart of the beautiful mountains, which
again tower above us, and cut their rugged way into the deep clear
blue. In many of these waggons, as the oxen crawl leisurely along,
one of the peasants may be seen reading the Bible, for we are once
more amongst the Zipser Protestants, whilst the others sit, with heads
uncovered and eyes bent low, listening to the “word of life.”
Having passed through the quaint old town of Béla, we cross another
green alp, and from the summit of it gain a wondrous panorama of the
plains of Zips and the southern slopes of the Tátra rising out of them,
and then, descending further, we see Kesmark lying beneath us like a
toy-town, its white houses glistening in the sun.
[Illustration]