Chapter XLVII: The “calvary.”

Returning to the hotel we hire a carriage to take us to the foot of a mountain forming one of the most conspicuous objects in the neighbourhood of this interesting town, and upon which is a “calvary,” well worthy a visit. Climbing the rugged street with some difficulty, we pass under the old tower, where a blind man sits, telling his beads “for the love of God;” but with a mental eye open to the possibility of stray kreuzers.

At the base of the steepest part of the mountain is an avenue of trees leading to the first of the line of small chapels which contain representations of the “stations of the Cross.” At this point, one of the horses began kicking so violently, and had evidently made up its mind so firmly not to proceed another inch, that we were obliged to alight. Possibly the thought of the steep ascent caused it to arrive at this decision, or perhaps it was a stern Protestant and objected to “Calvaries” on principle.

A hot and fatiguing pilgrimage up a narrow path, takes us past the fourteen stations, all of which describe most touchingly the scenes in our Saviour’s passion. The figures, which are either plaster or carved in wood, standing out completely in relief, being, in no one instance, grotesque in either form or colour, but most skilfully and artistically devised.

The first “station” represents the Garden of Gethsemane, where the Saviour is kneeling in agony, whilst the Disciples sleep. In the chapel where He is being crowned with thorns, the sight, as we look through the grating, is quite startling, the figures and their grouping are so painfully natural. In the centre sits the meek and patient sufferer, surrounded by Roman soldiers. A real halter and chain are round His neck, and a Jewish beggar dressed in brown rags, squatting in the corner and pulling the cord with which the Holy hands are tied, is so life-like in his rags, and in the patches of his coarse gabardine, and so villainous in the expression of his wrinkled, dirty countenance, and the satanic smile of derision with which he regards the pale Saviour, from whom drops of blood are falling, that it is difficult to realise He is not an actual living person.

Not far from the summit of the mountain is the “Nailing to the Cross,” in the representation of which incident not a detail is wanting. One man is hammering a nail into the right hand, and another is boring a hole through the left with a gimlet; whilst the low brows and square chins of those who are doing the cruel deed, make us wonder from what class the artists can possibly have taken their models.

Then comes the large chapel on the extreme summit, containing the “Crucifixion.” The three crosses stand on a large block of real rock, beneath which and on a level with the ground is a small grating, behind which souls are represented grilling in the flames of purgatory, the only really grotesque thing about the whole.

Walking round to the other side of the chapel, and entering by another door, we find the “Entombment,” and then another tableau of the pale and lifeless form lying in the sepulchre with the angels watching beside Him, and the women in the distance bringing spices.

Before several of the “stations” were persons kneeling, tears falling down the cheeks of some, and there is no doubt that the vivid representation by these life-size lay-figures of these touching incidents, bring them before the minds of the ignorant in a manner we cold Protestants can hardly understand, and I must confess that I could myself witness few of these scenes so graphically portrayed without deep emotion.

Two hours have passed away ere we descend the zigzag path, and traversing the avenue reach our carriage, for we tarried long upon the sacred heights to see the view, which is wonderful, of the fine old town, nestling in its amphitheatre of mountains, and the little houses of the miners dotting the green slopes, and nestling amongst trees. The horse again kicked on our way back, from which I infer that the first little demonstration was an exhibition of temper rather than one of sentiment.

Passing by the kitchen of the hotel which is near the entrance, we observe, lying on the table amongst sundry joints of meat, vegetables, and other comestibles, what appears to be a cod divested of its tail and trussed for boiling, but which now proves on closer inspection to be the cook’s chrysalis of a baby that she had placed there for safety. The little creature was as stiff as a board and could not have moved so much as a finger or a toe to save its life. It looked quite happy however in its small mummy-wrappers and smiled sweetly as I spoke to it, seeming as though in its little heart it had a mind to “crow” if it could only have expanded.

“Why don’t you hang it up to a door-nail, or to the wall there?” inquires F. “It is dangerous here, you might pop it into a pot by mistake.”

At which the mother only laughed and looked down upon her infant so lovingly that I half expected to see a halo of glory around her head, the look of love was so ineffable.

It was a bright starlight night, and, a dinner partaken of, we wandered out to see how the old place looked by lamp-light. Here and there a feeble light glimmering through some window threw its reflection across the uneven street, and made the quaint old archways stand out weird and grim. High above us the lofty and precipitous mountains frowned down upon the townlike prison walls, and almost shut out the sky. Strolling up and down the narrow streets, we pass miners on their homeward way; whilst at the fountain, women stand gossiping as they fill their pitchers even at this late hour of night. Now and then we come to a tavern where miners are singing their celebrated songs in hoarse rough voices, the theme of which is invariably the dangers to which they are exposed. The airs were sad, and as we listened there seemed something very pathetic in the thought that the perils to which the lives of these poor fellows are exposed, should even form the subject of their thoughts during their hours of recreation.

The lights in the many-storied old houses now begin to die out one by one, and presently a bell, the tone of which is the deepest and most sonorous I ever heard, begins to toll slowly.

“It cannot be the hour it is striking,” exclaimed F., as in slow and measured beat it reached the eleventh stroke. He took out his watch and held it up to the light thrown from a window of a little wine-shop, where three men sitting on a bench were drinking.

“It is the ‘_Todtenglocke_’ (death knell),” said some one in German that moment passing by, as it continued to toll out the tidings that another soul was departing, and summoned the inhabitants to pray for its repose. And the slow and solemn “boom” went rolling and echoing up the gorge, as one swelling buttress after another caught the wave of sound and sent it on, and up, and up, until it seemed to die away amidst the stars.

The three men, impelled possibly by its solemn warning, left the shop, and went staggering homewards; and we ourselves felt it was high time to “turn in,” if we were to get any rest at all, as we had to be up again at four o’clock on the morrow to meet the train at Altsohl, to which place we purposed driving.

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What a ghastly-looking meal is breakfast by candle-light! The large _salle-à-manger_, lighted at one end only; the long stretch of gloom beyond; the dark doorways which appear to lead to mysterious and unknown caverns; the ghostly old wooden presses standing against the wall; the last night’s crumbs lying still unswept upon the floor; and the marks of wine upon the tablecloth--how wretched it all is!

The coffee is gritty and cold, the butter is flabby, and the rolls have a peculiar flavour of last night about them. Getting up in the small hours is, however, as nothing compared with the discomfort and unsavouriness of the breakfast with which one feels compelled to fortify oneself before starting on the journey. Above all, how cadaverous in the dim light look the guests who sit beside one, and who are also condemned to make an equally early start! What a gloomy and dishevelled band we appear, as we sit in moody silence, each possessed of a vague and undefined sensation of melancholy and ill-usage, as though something doleful were about to happen to us, the precise nature of which we cannot define!

Emerging from the dark room, we find it is daylight outside, but the Schemnitz world is still asleep, as we walk down the silent street to join our carriage. Above the summits of the mountains a long vermilion streak proclaims that the sun has risen, though yet invisible to us, and there is a solemn feeling in the cold, still air as though the spirit of the “passing bell” had not yet died away. All nature seems to join in telling its sad meaning. The morning star recounts it as it disappears within the veil. The crescent moon foreshadows it, as it sinks beneath the hills. The great silence tells it. Yes! the very echo of our footsteps preaches the sad, unwelcome doctrine, that “all is passing away.”

We feel much more cheery, however, by the time we reach the bottom of the hill, and see our carriage--to which _two_ horses only are harnessed this time--and András’s nimble little figure dodging from one side to the other, as he arranges the cushions for us, and makes all “taut” for starting, and we are quite jolly again when once more jolting along the road to the music of the horses’ bells.

Clattering under the old gateway, we soon reach the open country, and see the train ascending the hill on the opposite side of the narrow valley. How the engine puffs and snorts, and what difficulty it seems to have in dragging itself up the steep incline! It scarcely appears to move at all, as, cantering down the hill, we quickly leave it far behind. On the way our progress is momentarily arrested by a little procession, which, leaving the main road, is wending its way upwards by a mountain path. It is the “Kost” being carried to a dying person. Peasant women follow, with little children clinging to their skirts, some holding lighted tapers, and all walking with heads bent low. How picturesque, but how melancholy at the same time, are all Roman Catholic countries!

At Altsohl we find all the women in full costume, the day being evidently a festival of some sort. There is a great display of ravishing little top-boots in scarlet and yellow leather, and brilliant _peltz rökel_--short sheepskin jackets, worked not only in coloured silks, but in gold and silver thread. The men, too, are in their Sunday-best, with feathers and flowers in their hats, and smoking their holiday pipes.

At Altsohl station another painful scene awaits us. More emigrants are starting for “Amurica,” that country whose streets are paved with gold. As usual, there are not enough carriages to convey them, and the agony of the men, women, and children who come to see the last of them is prolonged. At length the bell rings. Friends embrace each other passionately, and weep like children. The emigrants take their places, and the train moves slowly from the platform. The last look is given through the carriage windows. A thrilling cry of pain goes up from those left behind--it haunted us for many a long day after--and we whirl away, the very wheels as they rotate, seeming to echo the words of the Hungarian whom we met at Schemnitz: “They die by a fence--they die by a fence!”