At the foot of the Tátra, and also in the county of Gőmőr, hidden deep in the lovely valley of Stracena, is a little brook from which the valley takes its name, “Stracena” being a Szláv word signifying “vanished,” or “passing out of sight.”
Leaving Dobsina, we begin the ascent of the Langenberg, and soon look down upon the little town nestling at our feet, surrounded on every side by a glorious amphitheatre of mountains, wave after wave and summit after summit rising one above another till they are seen to fade away in the misty distance.
A road to the left leads us to a wild and beautiful gorge, which we gradually descend through stupendous pine forests; a swift mountain torrent, clear as crystal, which follows the roadway, accompanying the jingling of our horses’ bells with a sweet and plaintive melody.
Here beauty and grandeur alternate in singular contrast. Now we see before us huge rock-fragments lying by our pathway which have been hurled from the heights above, and, anon frowning down upon us with forbidding aspect, are rugged peaks. But all mingle with the gentler charms of soft lichen-covered pine, and grassy mead dainty with forget-me-nots.
The air blows fresh, for it is early morning yet, and the dew still lingers on the grass, and drips upon us from the pine-branches, each stem and spine of which is tipped with a crystal bead; whilst on the mossy banks the lichen flowers peep forth from their soft green beds like fairy cups, and hold the moisture brimful.
Presently we miss the murmur of the brook which discoursed such pleasant music as we wound along its margin; its waters grow less in volume, and it lingers on its way, as if it were flowing sadly. Watch it closely, for soon it becomes lost to sight and—as its German name, Flören-seufen, poetically implies—vanishes with a sigh!
This is but another of the phenomena so common to the district. The bed of the stream, consisting of limestone, contains one of the tőbőr, or fissures, so frequently met with in that formation, through which the water discharges itself, to reappear through another fissure lower down the valley, till at length it empties itself in the river Göllnitz.
We have hitherto been traversing the valley of the Graben (grave), whose name also has reference to the vanished brook, and do not enter that of Stracena until we reach the little village which bears its name, a mere cluster of wooden huts chiefly occupied by woodmen, and others employed in the ironworks belonging to the Duke August Coburg. To the right rises the singular Macskáshegy, or Cat’s Crag, to the left the pine-clad Hanneshőh, fit portals to the splendid defile we shall shortly enter.
Through the gorge flows the river Göllnitz, swelled by the little Flören-seufen, now mysteriously come to life again; the former an impetuous torrent, lashing itself into spray over moss-covered boulders, as it winds along the roadway. On either side, tier above tier and pinnacle above pinnacle, like mighty battlements rise the cliffs, which, almost shutting out the sky, seem to close us in as with prison walls.
Here leaving our carriage, and following a Slovak guide, furnished by the manager of the ironworks, we climb the crags by a narrow pathway between a chaos of rock and loose stones, and reach a beautiful oasis—a fertile meadow carpeted with Alpine flowers. We do not pause, however, except to take breath, till we reach a point where a truly Swiss landscape is spread out before us—the snow-capped Tátra, in all the glory of Alpine peak, cutting its rugged way into the very heavens; and here, throwing ourselves down upon a moss-covered bank, we indulge in well-earned repose, and enjoy the magnificent panorama which lies before us.
Having rested after our climb, we visit a spot celebrated for its intermittent spring. On reaching the place, we observe a bowl-shaped hollow, rather deeper than it is wide, in which lie fragments of a calcareous nature. The water could only just have disappeared, for the pebbles in its channel were still wet, and we regretted much that we had not arrived a little earlier upon the scene. From the moment of its appearing it continues to increase in volume, until it has reached a certain height, when it gradually subsides, to return after an interval of two or three hours. Half an hour is the period of its duration, but its recurrence varies according to the season of the year.
At the mouth of the spring once stood a mill-wheel, erected for the purpose of informing visitors to this wildly beautiful gorge that the waters were beginning to flow, the wheel being so placed that the stream caused it to revolve and set in motion a hammer, which, striking upon a metal plate, resounded through the valley. It is said, too, to have served also as a signal to the wild deer that abound in these forests, which, on recognising the sound, used to come down to drink!
Soon after again starting on our way, we enter a narrow pass, the beauty and grandeur of which it is impossible to describe, language altogether failing in its power of expressing the endless variety of forms which the rocks assume, as like ruined ramparts they rise majestically above us. Skirting these mighty precipices, we tremble lest even the hollow rumble of our carriage, as it reverberates against the rocks, should shake them down upon us.
As we descend further through the pass, the road becomes so narrow that there is only just room for our carriage, and we seem to have reached a cul-de-sac, for a lofty pyramid of rock we can almost touch completely shuts us in. A few more paces, however, and a sharp angle in the road shows that it has been tunnelled, and we reach the celebrated Felsenthor. We were just about to enter it, when, from a small fissure thirty feet above us, an eagle flew out and went sailing up the gorge, its wild scream echoing from rock to rock.
It had been thundering slightly the last hour or so, but, our minds pre-occupied, we had taken little heed of its warning voice. Presently heavy rain-drops began to fall, then a loud clap was heard that almost seemed to shake the very earth.
“We are going to have a storm,” cried András, descending from the box and putting up the hood of our carriage.
Contrary to our expectations, however, the rain after a short time ceased, and the sun shone out again, but there were heavy thunder-clouds still hanging about the ridges of the gorge that wore an ominous look, and there was that peculiar stillness in the air that foreboded a coming storm.
As soon as we have passed the Felsenthor the road widening enables us to proceed quickly without danger; and the driver whipping the horses into a gallop, we go on at a rattling pace, passing a gipsies’ camp by the way, the first we have seen since leaving the lowlands. Emerging from the gorge, we drive through broad stretches of meadow-like pastures lying at the foot of mountains, which even here are densely clothed with enormous pines, reaching to their very summits. Oh the grandeur and beauty of these Carpathian pine-forests! In the distance slightly to our left, the heavens wear a leaden appearance, whilst a broad sheet of dark cloud, extending to the earth in perpendicular lines, plainly indicates that yonder it is raining in torrents.
Our road fortunately leads us in a contrary direction, but should the storm overtake us we shall have a drenching. We therefore fly before it, and, our road soon making a curve to the right, we seem for a while to leave it behind. Yonder a long belt of pine-forest forms a perfectly black line against the livid sky. Above it we see the clouds open, and a flash of lightning, shooting downwards with sharp angles, pierces its very centre, as if attracted by the peak of some lofty pine rearing its head above its fellows.
Meeting a Slovak, our driver stops the horses for a moment to inquire how far we are from shelter. The Slovak points onwards in the direction we are taking, and we go on again faster than before. But fleet as are our steeds under the heavy lash of the driver’s whip, the clouds, travelling still faster, overtake and almost sweep us with their ragged fringes.
The wind comes with the clouds and sways the pine-trees to and fro. The crazy hood of our carriage rocks from side to side, and creaks and cracks as though each blast would send it flying through the air. And now large hailstones come pelting down upon us, striking the horses with such violence that it is with difficulty the driver urges them onwards. But as the centre of the storm gradually passes overhead, the hail ceases and gives place to heavy rain; and well protected from the outer elements as we flattered ourselves we were, the fond delusion is speedily dispelled, for the rain comes trickling in upon us at every point, as though the hood had been a sieve, and we discover that whatever else it was made for, our carriage evidently was not constructed to resist a mountain storm.
Before very long we are consoled by András, who, looking over his shoulder, informs us from out of his sheepskin covering—with which he is enveloped even to his eyelids—that we are coming to an álás, upon which the horses are once more whipped into a gallop, and in five minutes we are under shelter.
The álás in question, a long barn-like building, is full of teams of oxen, which have also been driven to take refuge from the storm. Near them stand the Slovak drivers in large felt hats, shoes made of hide, and their legs bound with thongs of leather; formidable-looking men enough, with their large knives stuck in their girdles, but in reality as harmless as mice.
Having explored the beautiful valley, or rather gorge, of Stracena, our intention on starting in the morning had been to return to Dobsina by a different route. That intention however was destined to resolve itself into a strong determination not to move another inch to-night, if we could only find a room where we could dry our dripping clothes and get something to eat. Opposite the álás is a small inn, of the very humblest pretensions, so far as we can judge from its outward aspect; but experience of the byways of this country teaches us to expect clean mattresses at all events, and our rugs when dried can very well be made to supply other deficiencies in case of need.
We are now in the North-West Provinces of Hungary, a district inhabited by Slovaks, a branch of that great Slavonic family which at one time doubtless peopled almost the entire eastern portion of Europe from the Volga to the Baltic, and on the south-west as far as the Adriatic Sea, and who in all probability inhabited the greater part of Hungary until the invasion of the Magyars drove them from their home on the plains, and caused them to flee for safety to these mountainous regions of the Felfőld: the term Slovak being simply adopted to distinguish this branch from their brethren the Slávs of Southern Hungary. Many of the Slovaks, however, inhabiting this north-western corner of the kingdom, are the immediate descendants of the Moravian Tcheks; this part of the country at the time of the conquests of Árpád having formed a portion of the principality of Moravia.
Crossing the sea of mud that surrounded the shed—how I realised at that moment the appropriateness of the national top-boots!—we make our way valiantly towards the flight of steps leading to the house. A long stone passage ushers us into the kitchen, with its walls covered with bright copper vessels of various descriptions. Sitting on benches are Slovaks, quiet, pensive and contemplative-looking men, one of whom wears ringlets, and all, in spite of their strange dresses, are almost effeminate in appearance. The Slávs of Hungary, whether from the north or south, may generally be recognised at once, and form a great contrast to the Magyars with their manly and energetic bearing. Besides which they have soft features, generally blue eyes, and often golden hair.
The house is prettily situated on the slope of a pine-clad mountain, and appears to embrace the double function of farm and inn; for the window of our chamber, commanding a near view of a shed across another sea of mud in the back premises, initiates us into the mysteries of sheep-shearing, an operation here performed by women.
Never can I forget the woe-begone appearance of the sheep, as, shorn of the covering with which nature had provided them, they came forth from the hands of the shearers, and bleating plaintively, stood shivering in the rain, the most pitiable objects possible to conceive; so thin that they were nothing but skin and bone, whilst their flanks were quite hollow.
The sheep in the North of Hungary are reared almost exclusively for their wool and milk, the latter being used for making Slovak cheese, a commodity met with all over Hungary, and a source of great commerce amongst the Slovaks. As we dry our wet garments by the kitchen stove, the sheep-shearers now and then come straggling in to partake of slivovitz, the favourite beverage, and bring with them a strong odour of sheep.
Our host—likewise a Slovak, judging from his large broad-brimmed hat—speaks German, as do nearly all the innkeepers even in these out-of-the-way parts of Hungary. He is a young man of about five-and-twenty, and appears not a little disconcerted at our arrival, for it is evident that we are by no means the kind of guests who usually frequent his modest little inn, a fact which our guide doubtless for his own honour and glory had already taken care to impress upon him.
Having purposed returning to Dobsina in time for dinner, we had only provided ourselves with a light luncheon to partake of in the carriage as we drove along; but the prospect of finding anything to eat here was the reverse of encouraging, for the bare idea of our requiring refreshment of any sort seemed a possibility that had not even occurred to the landlord, so great was his consternation at our mere mention of it.
“Mittagessen! Mittagessen! es ist unmöglich (Dinner! dinner! it is impossible). I have nothing in the house, absolutely nothing, and the noble strangers doubtless are hungry.”
“Paprika hendl,” we suggested.
“Ach nein!” he cried, “miserable being that I am; the last hendl was cooked for a traveller who came this morning. Ach! why did I let him have it! it was such a beauty too, such a fine, fat-breasted, beautiful fowl, and only three years old, if the Herrschaft will believe me.” The tears stood in his eyes, and he almost tore his hair, as he thought of it, together with the feast which might have been the “illustrious strangers’,” but for his want of foreknowledge.
“Wurst (sausage) I have in abundance,” he continued, “of good quality and various kinds, but the Herrschaft may not care for that.”
No, we certainly did not think we should, having tasted Slovak Wurst on our way to Dobsina, and found it unusually impregnated with garlic.
“Have you no eggs?” we demanded, growing desperate, as we became more frantically hungry each moment, and the prospects of getting anything to eat grew less and less.
“Eggs! eggs! Yes!” he replied, a smile of relief suffusing his whole countenance. “Goose’s eggs, they are plentiful, plentiful. See here!” reaching up to a shelf—“a whole basketful, which I bought just an hour ago.”
Well, at any rate we shall not starve. “Goose’s eggs,” black bread, Slovak cheese, and—slivovitz. What a menu!
Whilst we were partaking of the banquet, our host entertained us with his history. He was a native of Felka, a village lying at the base of the Tátra, and was consequently a Zipser, and not a Slovak as we had surmised. He had, however, married a Slovak girl from this district, and on the death of his father had migrated hither, bringing his little jószág and household gods with him. Like Kintu, the Founder of Uganda, who is said to have taken with him from the north “one wife, one cow, one goat, one sheep, one banana-root, and a sweet-potato, and journeyed south in search of a suitable land to dwell in,” he had established himself here in like manner, and having settled down, his widowed mother had followed him, and was living in a cottage close by. He had been married two and a half years, and his wife had that morning taken her baby and gone to visit her parents, to-day being its Namenstag (baptismal anniversary), but she would be home soon, very soon—and all this he informed us of in one breath.
In the corner of the guest-room near the window stands a spinning-wheel, by the side of which are two small high-heeled shoes; what expression there is in a well-worn shoe, and how it seems to partake of the individuality of the wearer! Hanging to a nail just over them is a baby’s cap, which has retained the shape of the little round head. The picture is complete, and we feel we have made the acquaintance of the possessors already.
An hour later, we hear the loud, harsh tones of a woman’s voice in the kitchen, and those of the landlord expostulating mildly. The woman is evidently his mother, from the words that pass between them. We cannot help overhearing through the thin wooden partition, and my thoughts fly pityingly to the owner of the fat little shoes in the corner.
“She has the key of the Schrank, and how can the linen be got at? There are strangers here and no one to wait on them. It is not acting as I did when I was a young wife. She ought to have been home before.”
“It is a long way, the road is heavy after the rain, and the old horse sometimes gets the Schwindel. She will be back before nightfall; there will have been a little merry-making over the baby,—that is what is keeping her so long.”
“Merry-making indeed! what does she want more than her husband and her home, such as she had by birth no right to? She brought nothing with her to speak of, not twenty yards of house-linen, nothing but a pretty face. Pfui!” exclaimed she snappishly, turning away, “es ist immer so.”
The rain had ceased by this time, and picking our way along the wooden trottoir which surrounded the house, we went for a stroll. The air was fragrant with the odour of the pine-trees, and the sound of many waters reached us, each ravine now having its own little watercourse, which, tearing down the mountain-side, hastened to swell the foaming river beneath. From a distance the bell of a church tolled the Ave Maria, and the line of shadow came creeping up the valley.
Looking to our right, we see a cart wending its way slowly down the hill; the horse with bunches of flowers stuck in his bridle, and branches of fir ornamenting the cart. In it sits the happy young mother, with the setting sun glowing in her face as she looks down proudly upon the little child in her arms.
The husband and mother-in-law come out to meet her, the latter with black looks and bitter words. Anticipating a violent action of the moral elements, and thinking that our presence might possibly break the fury of the storm, we also go to meet her.
The moment she recognised the form of her Schwiegermutter (mother-in-law) her smile faded, and bending her head sadly over her sleeping child, she hurried into the house.
In all this we learnt a history, and felt that we had gained an insight into the life of, at any rate, one Slovak family, which after all would seem to be identical with our own. Here in this peaceful region, far removed from the strife of men, is a little home tragedy being enacted—a tragedy of woman’s struggles and woman’s sorrows—everywhere the same.
Just as twilight is folding all nature to sleep, András comes towards us, his face beaming with happiness, and communicates the prosaic but by no means unwelcome intelligence that he has got some Forellen (trout) for us, and also that he had succeeded in obtaining from the priest of the village a small Kalbsbraten (joint of roasted veal). The former we request him to have cooked at once, but to retain the latter luxury for our journey on the morrow.
We find our guide particularly useful in this district, where, with the exception of the innkeepers, the people speak a language not a word of which we can understand. Without him it would be impossible to get on comfortably, if at all. There is often a difficulty in getting horses to take us on from stage to stage, besides which the drivers are occasionally not too civilly disposed. András possesses however a rather quarrelsome disposition, and is decidedly hostile to all innkeepers, driving hard bargains for rooms, etc., which we do not always approve of.
As we were returning to the house, we saw through the window a sweet picture. In the corner of the kitchen near the raised hearth, the fire lighting up her figure with a ruddy glow, sat the little wife rocking the cradle. She had cried herself into comfort, for, although her eyes were still moist, she was singing softly, and her countenance wore a placid smile—the sacred mystery of maternal love manifesting itself in her whole attitude as, forgetful seemingly of all else, she looked down upon her child.
I stood gazing at her long, thinking what a subject she would make for an artist; with the spinning-wheel behind her, which had evidently been taken from the inner room during our absence, the pictorial surroundings of the kitchen, the bright copper pans and long ladles hanging above her head, the fire on the hearth, over which hung an iron crock suspended from the ceiling, the deep warm shadow of her figure thrown against the wall—till I was awakened from my reverie by our guide announcing that the Forellen were fried to a turn and awaited us on the guest-room table.