CHAPTER XX.
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.
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.