CHAPTER XXII.
ZIGZAGGING.
One more delightful and joyous day spent in climbing the pine-clad Nosol, and in driving to the beautiful valley of Kościelysko, terminates our stay at Zakopane.
Starting for the former at 9 A.M., we are accompanied not only by a guide, but by the Herr Graf himself, who still wears his William Tell costume and looks meekly ferocious with his moustache well cosmetiqued for the occasion. At his side dangles a miniature barrel, filled, before leaving the inn, with some invigorating beverage in readiness for any emergency that might befall us on the way. He is likewise armed with his gun, for who knows but that a chamois or two, or a spotted deer, might cross our pathway, these animals being such very friendly game. Should either do so, it would be provoking not to have a shot at him. In addition to these equipments of the chase he carries on his shoulders a small scarlet flag, but for what purpose, other than that of effect, we are as greatly at a loss to determine as in the case of the net of the previous day.
The noble pine forest up which we were slowly zigzagging is one of nature’s own gardens at this time of year, and our progress would have been arrested every moment as we stooped to gather the lovely Alpine flowers which were blooming in lowly beauty at our feet, had not our guide warned us that time is a fast fleeting substantive, and that if we went on loitering in that fashion we could never expect to be “auf der Spitze.”
Climbing with the aid of the Tátra staff—a strong hatchet-headed stick, with which we are each provided, and which every one uses on this northern side of the mountains—we catch hold of roots and branches of trees, and ascend the precipitous mountain that would otherwise have been impossible to climb. As we approach the summit, the noble pines bear evidence to some recent tempest, for all is dire disorder; the tops of some, partially severed from their trunks, are upheld by the branches of the trees next to them, whilst others again that have succumbed to the fury of the storm-king are lying like prostrate giants where they fell, their beautiful foliage withering in the sunlight, whilst the young and feathery larches are either strewn about or bowed like withies almost to the ground.
“Four hundred trees were blown down on this mountain alone during the storm,” remarked our guide, as he pointed to a splendid monarch of the woods that, torn up by its roots, was poised against another tree, and formed a pointed arch above us.
Whilst travelling in the Carpathians it has been a constant marvel to us that any pines are left standing, for not only are these splendid primeval forests exposed to the ravages of the north wind, and ruthlessly cut down by the inhabitants, but it is the rarest thing possible to see young trees planted in their place. It is true that the forests being vast in extent, and the country thinly populated, it is scarcely likely there will ever be a lack of wood, but it is sad to see one of the most beautiful characteristics of this mountain land gradually dwindling away.
In an hour and a half from the time of our leaving the valley, we stand on the summit of the Nosol. For the last twenty minutes of our way it has been a terribly hard climb, but we now find ourselves well repaid by a magnificent view of the surrounding country. Below lies the village of Zakopane, which contains 2500 inhabitants; its houses, which, after the Polish custom, are erected in groups, looking like mere toys. To the south rises the rocky summit of the Giewont, which, although of lower altitude than others behind it, far exceeds them in grandeur. Two peaks of this singular mountain form themselves into pyramids, which at one season of the year serve as a clock to the inhabitants of the village, the sun at noon standing almost immediately over a chasm which lies between them.
The Edelweiss grows in great abundance on the Nosol, its silvery-white bracteal leaves and woolly flowers contrasting vividly with the blue gentian. I was sitting silent and alone, making a rapid sketch of the rocky labyrinth around, when something came behind me and threw a handful of these lovely Alpine flowers into my lap. It was a little child, who with another, scarcely older than herself, had come from the village below, both having scrambled up the steep face of the mountain, by a shorter way than that by which we had come—scrambled up, goodness knows how! Both were such perfect little rustics, and had such bright colours and rosy lips, that they looked like Alpine flowers themselves, as, wandering in and out amongst the rocks in search of the beautiful gentian and other flowers, they made them into bunches and stuck them in my hat, and then without the least shyness threw themselves on the soft grass beside me, prattling in their strange Sláv tongue, and watching me while I sketched.
F. and the Graf, under the leadership of the guide, had gone for a further climb to a group of rocks on the extreme summit, and I was glad of the companionship of these little mountaineers. Presently out of the sweet melody existing in their hearts they began to sing, not in any regular succession of sounds modulated by art, but carolling like forest-birds, until, with the impulsiveness of childhood, they jumped up suddenly and were gone.
I shuddered as I watched them zigzag down the dizzy height by the steep and almost imperceptible pathway, singing as they went and taking no heed to their footsteps. I watched them out of sight, and felt that the Angels must indeed have special charge over these mountain “little ones,” for one false step would have sent them rolling over and over to a depth of full a thousand feet.
On the return of my companions, we go to visit the remains of a glacier moraine, which consists of blocks of granite and other débris forming the bed and sides of what must have been a broad glacier no less than a mile long. The surrounding rocks are of dolomite: consequently the stones, like that of the Félka valley, must have been brought hither from a considerable distance by ice-masses.
Some of the pines in this district are very singular, having no lower foliage at all, only little patches of green upon their tips and extreme points of the branches, and they look old—so old—with icicles hanging from their stems, that we are forcibly reminded of the primeval forests of the mountains in the far East, where they stand and lie by thousands, dead, and blanched by time, looking like phantoms of themselves. The cones which fall from these Eastern forest-trees, from some cause or other, have ceased to germinate; and there being no inhabitants in those wilds to replant the forests with young pines, the splendid primeval pine-woods will soon be quite extinct.
Gazing at these fine weather-beaten old fellows as, winding round the mountain, they are perpetually presented to our view, our minds, as I have said, revert sadly to the Nemesis that has overtaken those in the more distant land; and we wonder whether, in that cycle which is silently weaving gradual but unmistakable changes in the world of nature, the same causes which so mysteriously affected the cessation of their growth and natural reproduction will—it may be centuries hence—operate here also, and many of these mountains be robbed of one of the chief features of their beauty, unless man intervenes to prevent the possibility, and plants them with young trees.
We had left orders before starting that Abraham and Sarah were to be in attendance at two o’clock to take us on to the Kościelysko-Thal, so that we tarry no longer in the neighbourhood of the Nosol, but descend the mountain as quickly as we can. On nearing the inn, the first things which attract our notice are these interesting animals, already saddled and patiently awaiting our return; for we are nearly an hour later than we had intended. A meal hastily partaken of—for day is waning, and there is no time to be lost—and we are cantering off to the beautiful defile, a quadruple cavalcade, not only the Graf but the guide himself accompanying us à cheval, for the distance is too great to walk our ponies and admit of his going with us on foot.
The road is excellent, and takes us through forests nearly the whole way. In the small clearings in the pine-woods what sweet pictures are seen! piles of newly-cut wood, and happy peasants in bright-coloured clothing, lighting up the dark green foliage and tall grey stems of the trees.
The entrance to the valley is guarded by two rocks, which create a portal so narrow that we can only just pass in on our ponies; thus jealously does Nature secure from intrusion one of her grandest sanctuaries.
On the other side of this natural gateway we find a small meadow, in which a cow and two goats are peacefully grazing. But no sooner does the former catch sight of the Graf’s red flag—who is some twenty yards ahead of us—than gathering herself up, with head and tail erect, she waits his nearer approach with menacing aspect, evidently ready for an attack.
The effect of this bovine demonstration on the Graf’s weak nerves was startling. Paralysed with fear, he stood gazing at the infuriated animal for some seconds until, whether from pity or scorn, the creature forsook its threatening aspect and walked quietly across to another part of the meadow.
Not far off is Alt-Kościelysko, where there is a hut in which benighted travellers can, when necessary, find shelter till the following morning. Proceeding farther still, we come to another pass, called the “Upper Gate,” scarcely broader than the former, there being only room for the pathway and the stream that flows beside it. It is at this point that the grandeur and beauty of the gorge may with truth be said to commence.
On either side the rocks, rising almost perpendicularly, assume the most marvellous and fantastic forms, and to many of these names have been assigned. Thus, about half a mile from the Upper Gateway there is a narrow cleft called “Krakow,” on account of the resemblance the rocks are said to bear to some of the old buildings of the ancient capital of that name.
Leaving a giant rock behind us, 3400 feet in height, on which the Browns, Joneses, and Robinsons of Hungary, Poland, and Germany have inscribed their names, and on which, to the inexpressible astonishment of our guide and the Herr Graf, I need scarcely say we did not immortalise our own, we pass on to another yet more magnificent group of rocks, and are not overtaken by the Graf—who has been enlightening future tourists with a long list of his titles—until we have entered a forest leading to a small lake which lies in its centre, and whose waters are almost black from the boggy nature of its bed. As we approach it, a flock of wild ducks rise from its margin and soar away over the tree-tops. F. shouts to our gallant sportsman, who is still slightly in the rear, but on his joining us we ascertain that he had brought every mortal thing with him with the exception of powder and shot. These it had escaped his memory to bring! So that, although the sedges are evidently full of game, we were not permitted to witness his prowess; a circumstance which I shall always feel was a most fortunate circumstance, so far as our own lives were concerned.
We have a lovely ride home, the moon shedding such radiance over all things far and near that the night was once more almost converted into day. Not until ten o’clock did we espy the roof of our hostel, and recognise the hoary pate of the hospitable landlord, standing outside in the moonlight, watching for us anxiously and wondering what could have kept us so late. There were tidings for us, too, which the old man was burning to communicate. The Jäger had returned and brought down from the heights not only a chamois, but some smaller game, together with a bear. Great was the excitement in the inn, from which came the sound of many voices; for the Jäger, who had arrived only an hour previously, were being regaled with supper in the kitchen. Having been two days in the mountains, they were doing full justice to their well-earned meal, and formed an exceedingly picturesque group, and one which might have done capitally for a representation of freebooters or robber-knights, so thoroughly did they sustain the character so far as externals were concerned.
The game lay in an álás opposite, whither one of the Jäger soon accompanied us. The chamois, which had received its shot in the neck, was one of only moderate size. It had been roused—so said the Jäger—at a place not far below the Frozen Lake; and had fled for safety to the peak beneath which the Graf had been stationed, having passed within a few yards of the very stone behind which he had been concealed, about two hours previously.
The party slept in a Zufluchtshütte or hut of refuge, and then beat a forest for bears. The one they had bagged was a fine shaggy old fellow, but very much mutilated, having received no fewer than seven shots,—a great pity, on account of the injury to its skin.
The Count did not seem so chagrined at his absence from the sport as one would naturally have imagined, but took a very lively interest in its results. He is to depart early on the morrow to catch the morning’s train at Poprád, where, journeying by the Kaschau and Oderberger railway, he will return to the Vaterland, no doubt full of his daring exploits.
As we leave the shed and re-enter the inn where our own repast now awaits us, we hear him giving directions for the head and skin of the chamois, together with that of the bear, to be forwarded to him so soon as they have been cured; after which they will doubtless be carefully suspended in the baronial hall, in the company of the William Tell hat and the various accoutrements of the chase, as a witness to successive generations of the valour of their ancestor.
The story will be recorded of how one Ludwig von ——, in the year of our Lord 188-, did fight with a bear, how that he was seized in its grip, and hugged like a baby; but by the strength of his mighty arm, and without either gun or lance, or any weapon whatsoever, did overcome the powerful monster, and fell it to the ground, where it immediately lay dead before him. A bear erect, rampant, on a fess gules, will be added to the family escutcheon, and the name of Ludwig von —— will be immortalised for ever.