It was on the second day after the events narrated in the preceding chapter that, leaving Dobsina, to which place we were obliged to return to pick up our luggage, we started on our way to Poprád, where, leaving our heavy carriage behind us, we purposed visiting the snowy mountains of the Tátra.
During a great portion of the way, our route takes us through scenery differing little from that we have been passing for the last few days. The geological formation of these mountains of Gőmőr consists of a confused mass of gneiss containing beds of granite and mica-slate alternating with sandstone; the whole district containing valley after valley and gorge after gorge, varying but slightly from each other in their general characteristics. The flora, however, differs considerably, not only at the several elevations, but also according to the aspect.
Ascending another beautiful defile, and following a swift mountain torrent, we wind through forests of pine mingled with birch and yew, the latter attaining an enormous size. The sun shines brightly, but gilds the summits of the mountains only, all beneath being in deep and solemn shade. No sound is heard save that of the woodman’s axe, as he fells wood for the charcoal-burners, or the rush of waters hurrying down the gorge. In this sheltered locality a delicate species of pine with drooping foliage, whose needles grow on stems resembling slender threads, takes the place of hardier kinds; and the higher we ascend, the larger become the yews, their dark glazed foliage and rugged bark forming a great contrast to the other trees.
On this southern slope of the mountain we lose all trace of the familiar lichen which elsewhere draped the pines from top to bottom as with a white fringe; there is, too, a different feeling in the air; butterflies hover about the wild flowers which grow everywhere around us; whilst beetles, with outstretched bright metallic-looking wings of blue and green and gold, glisten in the sunshine; and at last we have reached the summit of the gorge. What beautiful glimpses we now gain of the Alpine region beyond, with its peaks all shrouded in snow; whilst casting our gaze downwards by a precipice of full two thousand feet, the narrow valley we have left behind looks blue and cold, and the pines stand silent, stern and motionless, imparting to it an air of grandeur and repose.
The climb has occupied us just two hours; and beginning the descent on the other side, we again recognise our old friend the lichen, for the magnificent pines, which grow here to a height of two hundred feet, are covered as thickly with it as if it had been newly-fallen snow. The road is excellent the whole way, and we tear down it at a pace that absolutely makes us giddy, and takes our breath away when we look at the yawning gulfs that seem waiting to welcome us, as we turn the zigzags abruptly and the driver threatens to overturn our unwieldy vehicle.
We soon however reach a smiling meadow, blue with forget-me-nots, lying in a hollow surrounded by mountains, and, arriving at an állás, are once more plunged into a sea of mud. The driver unharnesses the horses, and we are left in a perfectly helpless condition for the present; for, even had we wished, it would have been utterly impossible to alight from the carriage. It is true that at some period, probably anterior to the present century, a person or persons of sanguine temperament, and possessing no doubt longer legs than the men of the present age, had placed large stepping-stones wherewith to connect the shed with the roadway by a miniature bridge, but they were now so hopelessly embedded in the mud, that any attempt at crossing them must have led to the most disastrous consequences. A dog tried to accomplish it—possibly tempted by the prospect of crumbs, and succeeded in reaching halfway, where, after pausing a while, he wisely thought better of it, and turning round beat a slippery and disastrous retreat.
It is difficult to give any adequate idea of these quagmires to the English reader. The Hungarians, as in every other particular, are conservative in the matter of roads, and have no notion of mending them even at their own doors. To do so in the plains is, as we have already seen, almost an impossibility, from the absence of stone. Here however, where it abounds, nothing is wanting but a little energy on the part of the people themselves. But everything comes to an end if you only wait for it; and in an hour’s time, which seemed like a century, the horses are again harnessed, and by the assistance of two powerful men, who, taking off their top-boots and tucking up their petticoat-like gatyas, plunge into the dismal swamp and seize the wheels, we are released from our undignified captivity, and once more landed high and dry on the roadway.
Our route now lies through a broad valley, and the road henceforth—if indeed the word be not absolutely a misnomer—is execrable. It is a marvel how our carriage manages to hold together, as it leaps over the holes and ruts which beset our path at almost every step. Our bodies are shaken into jelly and our tempers into vinegar, and we are right thankful when we see before us a steep hill and find we have another mountain to climb; slow torture being preferable to the muscle-wrenching, rib-dislocating agony of the more rapid motion.
As we ascend the mountain we leave yew-trees behind and enter an entirely new region, clothed with the yellow pine interspersed with spruce and larch of immense girth, whilst here and there we find a silver birch, which, emulating the height of the noble conifers with which it is surrounded, forsakes its own habit, and grows with a tall straight stem, branching only at the top; its trunk covered with a deep fringe of red-brown moss. On our way we pass waggons laden with charcoal and drawn by sleepy oxen, often six and eight in number, and lastly a herd of these splendid creatures, driven by three men with such immense hats that, when walking side by side, they could not have approached within four feet of each other without knocking them off their heads.
Besides the Slovak race occupying the north-western slopes of the Carpathians, there is also in this district a sprinkling of Rusniaks, another branch of the Slavonian family. Both races belong for the most part to the Greek Church, which imposes on its adherents fasts grievous to be borne. Not only is there a saint for almost every day in the year, but it is infinitely more strict in enforcing the observance of fast days than the Roman Catholic, there being on the average four fast days to be observed in every week! The result of this is frequently demonstrated in the thin forms and pallid countenances of Slovaks and Rusniaks alike.
At two o’clock we reach Wernár—a Rusniak village, and end our sufferings for the present at the inn. We enter it by the kitchen, an apartment shared by a juvenile calf, two geese, and sundry pigeons, and in which the Hausfrau is occupied in making bread. Even in this Arcadia there would not always appear to be the peace that might be expected; for there had evidently been some altercation between the husband and wife—possibly he had been beating her, an accomplishment to which Rusniak husbands are said to be not altogether strangers. Unlike our little Slovak, however, she did not let “concealment feed on her damask cheek,” but stoutly rated her husband, and proclaimed her wrongs to the company, as she diligently pursued her occupation and watered the bread with her tears.
Whilst resting from our labours, and settling into something like shape again after the dislocating agonies of the journey, some other guests arrived in a long country cart drawn by five horses, the wheelers harnessed three abreast. Its occupants were a young woman and her grandfather, the latter informing us he was a tobacco-planter, having an estate in the lowlands of Gömör, and both were immensely amused on hearing we were English, the girl laughing heartily, as she exclaimed:
“English! Then you live in London; and is it possible that you have come all the way to see this country, where there are no fine houses and shops and streets? What can you have come here for?” and she looked at us attentively, as though to feel quite sure we were not demented.
We did our best to convince her that although we were English we did not live in London, but in a fair green country like this; but that we had no high mountains and deep gorges and majestic rocks such as are found here, and that the English loved to see these, regarding them as amongst the noblest works of God. But she only shrugged her shoulders, and looked as though she thought we must, after all, be Bedlamites.
At this moment our conversation was cut short by the arrival of the drove of oxen we had passed on the road, upon which we ran out to have another look at the men with the big hats. The charcoal-waggons have also arrived with their drivers, and the large inn kitchen is soon filled with guests, consisting not only of Rusniaks, but Slovaks also from the neighbouring districts, all of whom are the most quiet and undemonstrative people imaginable, coming in noiselessly, taking their quota of the national beverage, and then journeying on again.
What a contrast the Szláv peasants present to their Magyar counterparts! Their step slow and hesitating, their voices supplicating and sad, they wear the appearance of a crushed people. The Magyars, on the contrary, with their frank open brows, dilating nostrils, and majestic carriage, whose whole expression is one of pride and victory, bear witness to a noble lineage.
According to the latest returns, there are 470,000 Rusniaks in the north-east portion of Hungary, and 2,000,000 Slovaks occupying the north-west; the former supposed to be the descendants of a band of Russians who “came in with Árpád.”
During the two hours we spend here whilst our horses are being baited, we have ample opportunity of studying the exterior characteristics of both races. Their dress is almost identical, the only difference consisting in their head-gear. The Rusniaks, instead of the large “sombreros” which distinguish the Slovaks, wear ponderous caps made of black curly sheepskin, which from a distance look like the wearer’s own hair combed erect, and give them a very wild and incongruous appearance.
Their garments consist of a loose jacket and large trousers, and are made of a coarse woollen material the colour of which is originally white, while their waists are encircled by enormous leather belts, more than half an inch thick and from twelve to sixteen broad, studded with brass-headed nails so arranged as to form a variety of patterns. In these belts they keep their knives, scissors, tobacco-pouch, a primitive arrangement for striking light and a number of other small useful articles, and their whole appearance is so perfectly irresistible that I immediately began sketching one of them on the sly. But he soon discovered my occupation, and turned away.
“Stui!” (stop!) I cry, hazarding a word I had heard when travelling farther North of Hungary, amongst a different branch of the Slavonian family.
The expression is at once recognised, and I am instantly surrounded by a merry crowd, all eager to have a peep at my sketch-book.
“Look at this fellow coming now,” remarked F.: “his hat is a yard wide if it is an inch. Try and get a sketch of him,” as another man walks gravely up the steps, and paces along the passage which leads to the kitchen—his hat so large that he passes the doorway by a mere shave.
The nature of my occupation is by this time understood by all; and no sooner is their attention attracted to the unusually large size of the head-gear of the new arrival—no doubt the “last sweet thing” in Slovak hats—than he is seized by two of his brethren, who, holding him fast, entreat me to come and sketch him then and there.
“Stui! Stui!” they all exclaim, as, taken aback at this summary and unexpected proceeding, he struggles to get free.
As soon, however, as it is explained by András and echoed by a chorus of voices that I am “a great English lady”—András opening his eyes very wide at this juncture to give full importance to the adjective—“come all this way to take pictures of the Slovaks back with me to Ángolország,” than he stands as still as a statue, though I doubt whether this appalling information imparted anything definitely to his mind as to who I really was, whether the Queen of England or of the Cannibal Islands, or one of the saints in mercy dropped out of his calendar.
Having already made a sketch of three men and their umbrella-like hats, I began to feel I had pursued art sufficiently for one day at any rate, and was about to close my portfolio when I heard a voice behind me saying in soft and plaintive accents, “Io som Šlovinsky” (I am a Slovak), and, on looking round, I saw another supplicating to be immortalised, who proved to be so importunate in his solicitations that it was impossible to give him a denial.
Whilst I am busily occupied, the gravity of my “subjects” is often upset by proceedings taking place in a remote part of the kitchen. A long-haired patriarchal goat has also wandered in, prompted possibly by the prevailing curiosity, and is made by one of the company to pirouette to the music of the bagpipes, an accomplishment to which he would seem to be no stranger. I was just putting the finishing touches to the portrait of a very exacting “subject,” who insisted on the faithful rendering of every brass nail in his girdle, and which I trusted would really prove my last sketch for the day, when I observed the manner in which a more than ordinarily quiet and pensive-looking young Slovak tried to obtrude himself upon my notice, hoping thereby I would take him also, but evidently failing in the courage to ask me. I pretended not to see him however, and after finishing the one on which I was occupied to the entire satisfaction of the original—who went into ecstasies over the delineation of his pipe—I closed my book and abruptly walked away.
Looking behind me ten minutes later, what was my surprise to behold my young Slovak in tears! Who could resist such an appeal? There is no help for it, and I am compelled to take him also; which task completed, neither tears nor supplications prevail with me any longer.
Before leaving, we made ourselves very popular by treating every one in the room to slivovitz, which so worked upon the feelings of a lame old man with one eye, that coming up he seized my hand and kissed it reverently. I think he was bent on a somewhat warmer greeting, but I am thankful to say he suppressed his emotions.
At that moment we could not help thinking what the stern Mrs. Grundy would have said, could she have witnessed our proceedings for the last two hours—the Mesdames Vernon Smiths and Ponsonby Joneses of Society; and their voices came wafted towards us over the Alfőld and Felfőld as they exclaim one to the other:
“How dreadful, my dear! What vulgar people! We really cannot read any more of this horrid book. Fancy fraternising with those low-born savages the Rusniaks and Slovaks! So dirty and common, you know, and all that sort of thing!”
There being nothing to be met with here but black bread, honey, and the milk of human kindness, we determined upon halting a little distance from the village, and enjoying our meal al-fresco of such things as we happen to have with us.
Starting on our way, and reaching in half an hour’s time a shady nook close to a clear mountain stream, a fire is soon lighted, and we watch the boiling of our kettle and the stewing in the little cazarola of some unknown compound, which turns out to be mushrooms that András had gathered on the way, or rather a species of edible fungus, that one meets with so often in Italy, called spongignola, on account of its resemblance to a sponge. Nothing can be more delicious, for it far exceeds in flavour the ordinary mushroom. A roasted chicken formed part of our menu, but, alas! the salt had been forgotten, and the bread our larder afforded, though not black, was acid and flavoured with caraways. Oh! how I dislike these Hungarian combinations! but mountain air gives zest to our appetites, and there are no meals so pleasant as those we partake of in our carriage or bivouacking by the roadside.
At five o’clock in the evening we reach Poprád, at which place, being bound for the snowy heights of the Tátra, we leave all superfluous luggage behind, and bid for a while a sorrowing farewell not only to our guide, but to our lumbering old carriage likewise which has carried us in safety—though with many a lurch—over hundreds of miles of plains, and through many a verdant valley and rocky gorge.
There is a railway-station here, Poprád being situated on the Kaschau and Oderberger line.
We were standing in the waiting-room whilst András was arranging for a carriage of some sort to take us on; when we heard a voice behind us saying in German:
“Are the Herrschaft on their way to Schmecks?”
Turning round, we saw behind us a gentlemanly man of about forty years of age. It was Dr. Nicolaus von Sontagh, so well known to all who visit this neighbourhood, and in whose villa—though a stranger to us then—we afterwards spent so many happy days.