Tátra-Fűred, lying as it does both between and immediately under two of the loftiest summits of the whole chain, namely the Lomnitz and the Gerlsdorf, the most delightful mountain excursions can be made from it in all directions. But besides these—which must often be left to the more ambitious climber—are others within an easy distance, one of the latter being to the Räubersteine (Robber-stones), about an hour’s pleasant walk through the lovely pine forest.
These stones consist of three colossal blocks of granite, whose existence can only be accounted for on the theory that they must have been brought from the somewhat distant heights by some glacial movement. Twenty paces farther on to the right is a smaller block, at which point a magnificent panorama of the plains of Poprád, situated 3000 feet below, bursts upon the view, with a gracious wide-spreading landscape. How sweetly the little towns and villages dot the plains, the former so quaint and ugly near, but which from a distance look like toy-towns made of ivory—and sometimes even of silver, as a ray of sunshine gleaming upon the whitewashed houses and steeples causes them to glisten like veritable palaces of Aladdin. Surely never did distance lend such enchantment to the view!
The plains surrounding the Tátra belong to what is called the Zips, a district covering an area of two hundred English square miles, and inhabited almost exclusively by the descendants of the German colonists who migrated hither in the twelfth century from their home in Lower Saxony; a fact which explains the seeming anomaly of the German language being spoken in this region of Northern Hungary, otherwise almost exclusively peopled by Slávs.
Over these smiling plains the eye wanders until arrested by the bold outline of the Königsberg, the Baba, the Borzova, and the Teufelshochzeit (Devil’s marriage). From the former mountain the whole of the Tátra chain can be seen, and thither, on first arriving at these Northern Carpathians, the tourist often repairs—since it is an excursion that can easily be accomplished from Poprád in one day—in order that he may be able to form a correct idea of the characteristics and extent of the whole of the Tátra range, before penetrating into its interior.
The immediate neighbourhood of Tátra-Fűred is in fact replete with beauty of every kind, and we never tired of strolling about its narrow winding paths, breathing the fragrant odour of the pine woods, and listening to the waterfalls, which, crossed by rustic bridges, come tumbling over moss-covered boulders quite close to the chalets themselves.
Our favourite haunt, however, was the “Pavilion,” half a mile distant; a pretty kiosk, situated close under the Gerlsdorfer-Spitze, from which it is separated only by a belt of pines. To me no scene was ever more impressive than that afforded by the plains from this spot. Unlike that portion of them which is viewed from the Räubersteine, not a sign of habitation is visible, nothing but the plains themselves and the long deep belts of pines—undistinguishable from this distance except in colour—which create dark and sombre lines of greenish black across the landscape. Scarcely a bird or insect disturbs the solitude of this spot, and one feels completely separated from the world, and immersed in the lonely heart of Nature. The whole vicinity of Tátra-Fűred forms in truth one of the most romantic and sweetest places I ever saw, and one in which I would fain make my home for many months to come, so entirely do its surroundings content my taste.
A fine day imbues us with a spirit of renewed courage for a climb, and we start for the Félka Lake, which being situated at a lower elevation than the Fünf-Seen, and consequently having less snow lying in the hollows on the way, we have every prospect of reaching.
Just as we were standing on the balcony preparatory to our journey, a fine deer was brought in, together with a small animal with beautiful long reddish-grey hair, the size of a badger. The creature had evidently been just killed by some other animal that had doubtless designed it for its dinner, for there were no signs of shot-marks on its body, and it was still warm as it hung over the shoulder of the man who had found it in the woods hard by.
Our way leads us by a steep and stony path through a forest consisting almost wholly of the red pine (Pinus abies), so called from the colour of its bark. These lordly trees are draped with two or three kinds of lichen, dark green, greyish-green, and white, which, hanging like tresses from each branch and stem, have, when stirred by the wind, a most singular effect, resembling witches’ hair.
Almost all ferns common to England grow in the Tátra; the “beech” and “oak” ferns growing abundantly in shady nooks in the Kolbach valley, together with the “prickly” and the “thorny” ferns (Aspidium aculeatum and Aspidium spinulosum). Besides which the beautiful Cystopteris fragilis is found growing on the rocks, and the dark-stemmed Asplenium trichomanes.
The forest solitudes are literally full of game; and occasionally, as our ponies pick their way over the stony path, an enormous bird with a green and bronze breast rises with a “whirr” from the thick covert which encloses us, and, stirring the air, startles our ponies with the fluttering of its great black wings. It is the Auerhahn, a most difficult bird to bag, only experienced “shots” being fortunate enough to bring them down, for they see at long distances, and have very sharp ears. There is, moreover, only one moment when the sportsman can entertain the slightest hope of aiming with effect, viz. when they sing. At this juncture, opening wide their great fans and throwing their heads far back, they can neither see nor hear. It is an affair of an instant, and the sportsman, already on the qui vive, must immediately fire, or he will do so in vain.
The Tátra is said to be the only region in Europe where the Auerhahn (Tetras Gallus) is found. It is a much larger bird than the peacock, and has immense claws with barbed edges as sharp as needles. We often tasted it, in one form or other, whilst staying at Villa Sontagh; the flesh, though rather coarse and dark, being not altogether unlike goose. These forests also abound with the Birkhahn, the Haselhahn, the Rebhahn, and the Kaiser-Vogel, or “Emperor bird,” so called from the deliciousness and delicacy of its flesh, which resembles that of the turkey. In higher regions still the “Chamois Eagle” and the “King Eagle” are likewise met with, forming in all a goodly selection for enthusiastic sportsmen.
As we pursue our way the mountain steeps are covered with flowers, conspicuous amongst which is the large Alpine anemone, whose size is much greater than that of the little pet of our own woods, its rigid foliage and tall inflexible stem covered with a coat of white down, with which kind mother Nature has furnished it to enable it to withstand the severer climate of this region.
Our path has hitherto been that by which the Schlangendorfer-Spitze is approached, but we now strike off into one called the Kreuzhübel, which leads by a direct route to the Félka lake, and then pass along the ridge of a high tableland, whence we look down upon the peaceful plains of Poprád, lying at the foot of the southern slopes of the Tátra; whilst to the north the wild rushing Faelker torrent comes tumbling towards us.
These heights are perfectly full of chamois. In the moist sand which is formed by the overflow of the torrent during heavy rains, as well as in the peaty soil on either side, we see their footprints everywhere as they flee before us. Not unfrequently we can trace them right into a clump of krummholz, or a group of granite blocks, where, entrenched as in a natural fortress, we feel quite sure they are hiding with beating hearts. We also pass, close to our pathway, several marmot-holes. This animal, which in the plains is scarcely larger than a squirrel, is here the size of a hare. During the winter months they sleep, and are then easily captured by the Jäger, who, wearing curiously-constructed snow-shoes, climb these dangerous steeps for the purpose.
At length getting, even at this lower elevation, into deep snow, we leave our ponies behind; for, as the poor animals sink into unseen holes at almost every step, it is neither agreeable nor safe to ride them any farther, and by scrambling up a steep bank inaccessible to any quadrupeds but chamois, we hope we may be able to avoid the snow lying in the hollows.
(I have hitherto forgotten to say that having forsworn “Minsh” and his idiosyncrasies for ever, I have for the time become the happy possessor of a sure-footed animal that carries me capitally, and has neither will of his own, nor any peculiarity whatsoever.)
After struggling through mountain streams, clambering over granite boulders, and making our way through fields of snow in spite of all efforts to the contrary, we reach the Zufluchtshütte, or “hut of refuge,” recently built, the one previously standing on the borders of the lake having been destroyed by an avalanche a few years ago. The scene is both lovely and desolate, the perpendicular mountains, huge masses of fallen rock, a lovely little cascade, and the placid lake reflecting the heavenly blue, presenting a picture of alternate savage grandeur and gentle beauty.
This exquisite little lake, or, more correctly speaking, Alpine tarn, lies at a little less than 6000 feet above the level of the sea. The colour of its water is brightest emerald, except near its shores, where it fades into the more delicate tint of beryl. Not a ripple disturbs its glassy surface—a death-like stillness prevails: and as we stand and gaze upon it, a spell seems hanging over it and us; its intense loneliness imparting to it quite an eery look, whilst its silence seems to hold us captive.
Adding to the general desolation, close by stand the ruins of a stone hut that was shattered by an avalanche; but just within its ruined walls, in strange contrast to its surroundings, we observe blooming a lovely little yellow flower, sending forth its fragrance even here, and looking in its brightness like a wee scrap of sunshine dropped from the sky.
Near this lake is the beautiful Blumengarten, which, rich in vegetation, contains many rare flowers peculiar to the Tátra. It is supposed to be situated on the bed of what was also formerly a lake, evidence of whose existence is seen in the Wassertümpel (pools), as they are called, of to-day.
This sweet little pleasaunce is watered by a brook which, meandering through it, falls over a precipitous wall of granite 330 feet in height, and, forming a lovely cascade, empties itself into the lake.
By this route the Lange-See may be reached, likewise situated at about 6000 feet; a lake supposed to have formerly been much larger than it is at present, its size having been lessened by the immense number of stones and boulders which have fallen from the Gerlsdorfer-Spitze and blocked up its bed. Beyond the Lange-See, the Polnischer Kamm—Lengyelnyereg, as it is called in the harsh language of the Poles—is likewise approached. It is however a difficult climb, there being no pathway, and enormous blocks of granite, sixteen and twenty feet in height, have first to be conquered; but the patience and perseverance of the enthusiastic mountaineer will be fully recompensed by the superb view he will have of the various peaks of the Northern or Polish Tátra, as well as those of the South, together with the Zipser plains stretching away beyond.
Lingering in the vicinity of the Félka-See, we search for garnets; one of the attractions of this lake being the “Granatenwand,” a purplish grey rock rising abruptly from it. The shore beneath this mountain is strewn with fragments in which the crimson stones lie almost as closely imbedded as currants in a plum-pudding, varying in size from a pea to half an inch in diameter.
Immediately above the lake, forming in fact one of its gigantic walls, is the Gerlsdorfer-Spitze, its rugged outline cutting into an almost purple sky. Every Alpine traveller knows how in regions like these the sky as he ascends appears to come down to meet him, descending lower and lower as he climbs, till it appears to span him with a palpable and opaque arch, and also how intense and utterly indescribable is its blue. We had scarcely expected to observe this phenomenon at an altitude of little more than 6000 feet, but it is notwithstanding very marked to-day; and as we cast our eyes upwards towards the empyrean, it seems almost to touch us; whilst all around in the small Alpen, as the green patches are here called, the blue forget-me-not is paled almost to cold grey, in contrast with the dome above.
On the western side, and 150 feet above the level of the valley, there exist evidences of glacial action in the bed of an ancient moraine a mile in length, containing pointed and jagged blocks of granite, which could not have fallen from the precipitous heights which rise on either side (these being formed of dolomite), and must therefore have been brought hither from a considerable distance by the slow but steady course of the glacier.
As we stand looking at this mighty stone-stream, now inert, which, once imbued with motion, travelled silently and imperceptibly day by day, carrying on its back the Schutthaufen, or accumulated rock débris of ages, the whistling of the marmot—its little pipe echoed in many a rocky precipice—is the only sound that greets our ears.
In descending we take a slightly different route, and get into a field of snow, frozen so hard that it is as slippery as glass. This frozen sheet of white covers a broad valley hemmed in on all sides by rugged pyramids and pinnacles of purple rock, and proves to be that which we had so often gazed at from below, where it appears but a small and slender line of white—a frozen artery zigzagging down the mountain side; whilst that huge cone in its centre, whose form we also recognise, and which looked from a distance but a mere stone, now turns out to be a pinnacle of rock several hundred feet in height!
Presently we descend another valley, and our feet sink deep in yielding snow, which, though less dangerous than the previous ice, is far more disagreeable. Our guide this time is none other than the Doctor himself, who, ever ready for a mountaineering expedition, had accompanied us hither also—a circumstance that greatly added to our pleasure—for with his knowledge of the botany and geology of the district he proved a most interesting companion.
Whilst descending this gorge, we observed close to us a track made by a number of chamois. They could only just have passed, for the powdery snow they had scattered still lay there, and the sand from their hoofs was still moist and fresh. Seeing footprints to our right, we fancy they must be those made by ourselves on our upward way, but on following them they lead us into serious difficulty, the snow masking under its deceitful mantle such crevasses and holes that we have to retrace our steps. Before doing so, however, a slight examination of the footprints convinces us that they are not our own, and at this instant a shot fired higher up the gorge betrays the presence of poachers, disquieting our host not a little, to whom the game of this part of the mountain exclusively belongs. Having been misled some distance by the intruders’ footsteps, it was a considerable time before we were able to regain our old track.
Close to our pathway, which was formed by the dry bed of a mountain stream, we observed many holes fashioned in the sand at a safe distance from high-water mark. They were nests, and, looking down into one of them, I saw a number of brown eggs. I was about to thrust my hand in to take one out “to look at,” when I was checked by the kind-hearted Doctor, who said gently:
“Ne les touchez pas, de peur de troubler la mère. Laissez-les, je vous en prie.”
Before reaching the spot at which we had left our steeds, a thin streak of vapour that had been lying across the valley, and which we had been anxiously watching for some time past, began to ascend, and now wrapped all nature, far and near, within its gloomy curtain. In the distance, however, we hear the loud “cooey” of the muleteers, and, following the sound, see them looming through the mist. This soon turns into a drenching rain, and we arrive at our peaceful and hospitable châlet somewhat in the condition of drowned rats, but are consoled by the sight of large fires, made in anticipation of our returning in a moist condition; for we learnt afterwards that it had been raining almost ever since we started, although we, up in the heights, had fortunately escaped it.
Dinner is succeeded by a pleasant evening spent in the company of Dr. Sontagh and his pretty and amiable wife, and, sitting over the cheerful pinewood fire, we listen to the daring mountain exploits of the former. All round the room the walls are hung with the accoutrements of the chase—guns, pistols, knives, large flat snow-shoes, a net, chamois-rope, Jägerhorn, etc.—together with its trophies, the heads of deer and chamois, and those of large birds; and as we hear the wood crackle and watch its merry blaze dance upwards, we feel for the moment that we must be in the mountain home of some ancient knight.
Taking out the flowers which we have been collecting, we arrange and press them between sheets of blotting-paper; for Carpathian wild flowers will be a delightful novelty to our friends at home.
There are various species of flowers which are indigenous to the Tátra only, amongst which are the Saxifraga hieracifolia, Dianthus nitidus (both of which grow on limestone), Avena Carpatica, Gentiana frigida, Ranunculus pygmæus, and the Campanula Carpatica; whilst the beautiful Edelweiss, which has been stated, most unaccountably, not to exist at all in the Carpathians, grows to an enormous size in many districts of these mountains,—a fact borne out by the splendid specimens we have of it in our collection of Tátra flowers.
The morrow brings a lovely day. Birds carol in the pine-woods, which, saturated with moisture from the recent rains, give forth a fragrant odour as the sun shines hot upon them. The forget-me-not opens its sweet blue eyes wide to catch the light of heaven. The fragile Polygala erects its slender spikes, and the delicate Dentaria glandulosa, that yesterday almost fainted under its weight of moisture, now holds aloft its fairy-bells. The hoary lichen, which hung dishevelled like matted hair, dries its fringes in the sun, which filtering through the branches sparkles in the drops still lingering in the cups of the anemone.
As we canter through the forest to the Cszorba-See, cataracts and mountain streamlets, swelled by the rain, come dancing, leaping, hurrying down each rocky gorge and shadowy ravine, till at length the broad and placid lake—which Nature has hidden deep in mountain fastnesses from the gaze of all but those enthusiastic lovers who diligently seek it out—bursts suddenly upon the view.
Lying embosomed in its rocky cradle, the Cszorba-See is one of the most beautiful lakes of the whole range. Above it rises a glorious amphitheatre of mountain peaks. On the eastern extremity the Gerlsdorfer, and on the western the Spitze of the Krivan, rear their mighty crests, whilst in the centre are the giant blocks of the Bastei and Szolyiszkó, the whole forming a circle of twelve miles in extent.
The lake itself, which lies at an elevation of 4355 feet above the level of the sea, is the largest in the Southern Tátra; and as we stand on one of the lofty and serried precipices of granite with which it is environed, we think no scene was ever so enchanting. The crystal bosom of the water mirroring the sky; the bright green tint of the centre of the lake; the ethereal blue of its surface where it reposes over the deeper hollows, and the dark pines on its margin, combine together to form a gem of mountain, wood, and water.
Though this lake possesses a depth of between sixty and seventy feet, and is therefore one of the deepest in the whole Tátra, it appears to feed itself, there being no inlet visible to the eye. It is surrounded by granite boulders, and partly floored with them too, while the water is so exquisitely clear that even the pebbles lying at the bottom among the granite seem close to the surface, and we feel we have only to plunge the hand in to pick them from their watery bed. As we stood on its margin we saw numerous triton (Triton cristatus) darting in and out amongst the stones, small fish about three or four inches long, covered with bright red spots; whilst feeding on the green sedges were several gold beetles (Philoperta horticola) in their glistening coats of mail. No whistling marmots make their nests in the rocks round the Cszorba-See; but the visitor, as he sits silently on its shores or climbs the precipices which wall it in on every side, will not remain long without seeing a kingly eagle cleave the skies, or, crossing the region of the lake, reflect its majestic image on its glassy bosom.
During a storm this lake is said to be covered with large waves, which dash over the rocks, and the scene must then, indeed, be one of wild grandeur. Its outlet lies towards the south, where, almost imperceptibly to the eye, it empties itself over moor and fen, even in the driest months of the year, always flowing, and proving therefore that, though unseen, it must have a continual inflow. Strange to say, the water from some cause or other is bitter, possibly from the pinewood, a great deal of which has fallen into the lake, and which lies at the bottom.
Hungarian savants declare that this lake is the offspring of an ancient glacier, the upper end of which formerly extended to the ridge of the mountain lying between the twin rocks Bastei and Szolyiszkó, and which filled the valley between them, the base of the glacier resting on the space where the lake now fills, and which formed its reservoir; whilst the huge granite wall which is seen to enclose it on one side was the moraine which the glacier dragged with it in its progress down the mountain side. It is further believed that interesting remains exist in this lake similar to those discovered a few years ago in that of the Neusiedler in the west of Hungary. On this account it has been proposed by the Carpathian Society to draw off its waters, and the proposition may doubtless some day be carried out, when it is conjectured that relics of the Stone or Bronze Age will be brought to light.
Our last evening at Villa Sontagh has arrived. Going out to bid farewell to the mountains which have at intervals behaved so badly to us, we find the Lomnitzer-Spitze rearing its head proudly above the dark pine-tops and bathed in a rich mingling of bronze and amber, its graceful outlines pencilled on a clear and mellow sky.
At our feet lie the broad plains, flooded in the softened splendour of the evening light. The villages with their white spires, lying far apart amidst the expanse of ripening corn, which an hour ago were glistening like burnished gold, are now suffused with a faint and delicate flush of rose, for the sun is sinking in the crimson west.
Very softly, almost imperceptibly, the stately shadow of the mountains, marching with silent and stealthy steps begins to steal along the boundless plains, till the sun, lingering for an instant upon the highest peak as though it mourned to leave it, sinks at last to rest. A sombre shade passes over the landscape, like a sudden sadness over the human face—and thus our last day comes to an end.
“You have been rather too early in the season to meet with fine weather,” remarked the Doctor, apologetically, as we sat round the fire for the last time, and the conversation had turned upon that never-failing resource of shipwrecked talkers, puzzled for a theme—the weather. We had alluded rather ungraciously, I fear, to the frequent rain and mist during our sojourn in these heights.
“If you had come a fortnight later, or a month earlier,” he continued, “you would have been more fortunate, and, besides, this has been an exceptional year.”
Now, I never remember having visited a new country, or returned to an old one, nor indeed gone anywhere whatever, but I have been told that the state of the weather is “exceptional.” Am I then the cause of these meteorological disturbances—these unseasonable and unexpected risings and fallings of the barometer—these abnormal rains, untimely frosts, and bitter cutting winds—these cut-throat fogs, and murky, sunless skies? As the appalling possibility occurs to me, I feel inclined to retire within my castle like Giant Despair, and leave the elements in peace and quiet for ever!
Our visit to the Tátra had in fact been carefully timed, and we had come early by intention. About three weeks hence, Hungarians and Austrians will be fleeing to these Alpine regions from the scorching heat of the Alfőld; gipsy bands and the sounds of revelry will awake these majestic solitudes; the fashionable world will bring hither their toilets and their etiquette, all very well in their place, but so out of time and tune, so hideous, so forbidding, and so altogether contrary to the poetry of these picturesque surroundings, that in their presence our whole being would have been set on edge. Besides which, the lonely beauty of the Alps loses its true spirit when gazed at in a crowd. How often have we crossed the great Swiss passes in sledges—the St. Gothard, Splügen, and the Simplon—ere they are open to the ordinary traveller, that we might enjoy Switzerland before the great rush of visitors begins! Never is it so grand as in the latter end of May or the beginning of June, when the snow is still lying in immense masses far down the mountain sides, and icicles still hang from each projecting rock and hoary pine. The scene may be desolate, but it is wild, beautiful, intensely Alpine, and, if I may so express it, like itself; and those who can see beauty in Nature, not only in her calm and placid moods, but in her savage and austere ones also, will gain far more than they imagine, by venturing to visit these sublime fastnesses before the season for the ordinary tourist sets in. They will then see the glorious Tátra as they are for eight or nine months in the year, and not during the two or three when they are all smiles and on good behaviour for company. And what eye does not perceive that sunshine is sometimes out of harmony with the spirit of mountain scenery? Distant mountains may look best in sunlight, but near ones are never so majestic as on a grey day, or when clouds passing over the face of the sun throw them into alternate glow and gloom.