Chapter XL: The Greek Hermitage of Bucsecs

In consequence of its proximity to Turkey, Kronstadt wears an almost Eastern look, while, lying as it does between mountains that separate Transylvania from Wallachia, its position is exceedingly picturesque, its walls and towers and bristling spires standing out against a background of green. It is a bustling town, full of life and animation, a considerable trade being carried on between it and Moldavia and Wallachia in articles manufactured in the district, from which cause Kronstadt is frequently called the “Transylvanian Manchester.”

Its population, which consists of about 50,000 souls, is, like that of many other parts of Hungary, “mixed,” and the stranger, as he walks the streets, is jostled, not only by the canny “Saxon” and wily Székler, the cunning Jew, and the polished Greek, but by the demure and smooth-faced Armenian, likewise the “Quaker of the East.”

If everything in Hermannstadt reminds one of the “life and times” of Albert Dürer, how much more does Kronstadt, in spite of its polyglot population and Eastern habits. What curious old passages, staircases, and galleries are there, and strong buttresses, gateways, and towers which seem to be enclosing prison walls!

In the old quarter no two houses are alike. There are high ones against which small “leans-to” are clinging like barnacles against a ship’s side, whilst others seem to have thrown out bulbs and bulbous protuberances like miniature reproductions of themselves, and there is a hopeless and bewildering medley of masonry everywhere.

In this neighbourhood, as in Hermannstadt, the churches are surrounded by high battlemented walls and other means of defence against the wild Moslem hordes, which, pouring in through the passes of the south-east Carpathians, once swept over the smiling plains of Kronstadt. In the quaint little suburban villages we are reminded of those of the Sieben Gebirge on the Rhine, their heavy stillness being full of the poetry of the middle ages.

In one of these villages it was also our fate to spend Sunday. As the great bell began to toll for _Gottesdienst_, the people pour out of the massive oak doorways of the houses as from old picture-frames, the women in their high, drum-shaped, black velvet hats, and the men in quaint leathern sleeveless jerkins and small clothes precisely like those worn in England in the 17th century.

On many of the houses in these villages, painted in large German characters above the doors or windows, and sometimes stretching across the whole length of the house, are appropriate verses of Scripture, such as the following: “The Lord bless thy going out and thy coming in.” “Except the Lord build the house, they labour in vain who build it;” whilst on a barn where corn was housed, we read the words, “The earth is the Lord’s, and the fulness thereof,” and on a house at the entrance to the village were the words, “Except the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain,”--all testifying to the devout minds of the inhabitants. But let us follow them into the old church, and taking our seats on the benches that are arranged, one side for the men, the other for women, await the commencement of the Lutheran service. The sermon, happily for us, on this occasion is in “High German.” The preacher, a funny little man of unusual volubility of speech for one of the Teuton race, takes for his subject the “Peace of Heaven.” No sooner had the hymn ceased and the sermon begun, than, with one accord, the old men and women deliberately folded their arms and went off into a comfortable doze!

Within the pulpit, as in many old Roman Catholic churches, were several steps, and the preacher, beginning his sermon on the lowest, mounts one by one as he warms to his subject. In olden times it would seem to have been the custom for these “Saxon” grandsires and grandams to fall victims to slumber, for in the ancient archives of their church are rules framed when they first settled in the land, one of which imposes a penalty of eight kreuzers--a large sum in those days--on any one who should fall asleep during Divine service--a rule that would, however, seem to be relaxed in these degenerate days.

Presently, whilst the other sleepers maintained rigid silence, an old goody clad in a black cloth cloak of mediæval pattern, and sitting on a bench immediately before me, began to snore, an occasion which was “improved” by a younger woman, who, by a series of strong-minded and well-directed pokes with her elbow, endeavoured to keep the offender awake. These demonstrations, however, had no effect, beyond that of arousing her for the moment. Raising her heavy eyelids and fixing them upon the region of the pulpit, her head soon drooped upon her chest again.

The preacher, as he advanced in his discourse, grew more eloquent. He stood on the topmost step, and leaning over the side looked down upon the sleepers. “The peace of Heaven? Ah, yes! But not for you who slander and defraud your neighbour”--turning his head in the direction of the high-backed canopied seats, where sat the lay dignitaries of the church;--“not for you who spend your time in idle talk, in dancing and at _Fests_,” regarding this time the young girls seated demurely in the chancel with their floating ribbons and drum-shaped hats;--“not for you-a-a-ah! not for you, and you, and you, and you,”--pointing each time to an individual still in a state of somnolency, “who waste the golden moments in this sacred place by yielding to slumber.”

This homethrust was evidently more than the strong-minded female could endure; for, giving her neighbour an indignant protest with her elbow, she exclaimed in no gentle tone--

“_Erwachet!_ (Awake!) The Herr Pfarrer is talking to you.”

Thus aroused, the sleepers--accustomed only to the sonorous ejaculations of the preacher--suddenly awake, and there is a general stir throughout the little congregation, during which the sermon happily draws to a close.

The following morning, bidding adieu to Kronstadt, we started for the Castle of Terzburg and the Greek Hermitage of Bucsecs, situated in the most south-eastern portion of Transylvania. We are now so near the Fogaras Mountains that they appear within a stone’s throw, their noble buttresses and steep sides scoured by a thousand watercourses, showing rugged in the sunlit portions, and blue, deep, and mysterious in the shadows.

Towards noon, passing through a forest, a family of gipsies pounce out upon us unexpectedly, and follow our carriage, turning somersaults, hopping on one leg, and performing other gymnastic exercises, with the view to attract our attention whilst keeping pace with us, one and all looking so inhuman with their dark skin and matted hair that they might have been demons of the woods. As we near a village, others come pouring out of a nest of huts on its outskirts, who, joining the first company, hold out their little hands for kreuzers, and clutch them when bestowed with a greed as if each had been an infant miser and every coin had been of sterling gold.

The whole of the plains here are cultivated with hemp, flax, poppies, buckwheat, and tobacco, and seem a beauteous garden; the deep crimson and purple of the poppies, tender blue of the flax, delicate pink of the buckwheat, and yellow flower of the colza forming a wonderful harmony of colour in the brilliant atmosphere; whilst here and there in the uncultivated portions a herd of black buffaloes idly browsing give quite an Eastern appearance to the scene.

Here, as in the Tátra, Slavonia, and other parts of Hungary, many of the forests have been either cut or burnt down, but nowhere could we detect signs of replanting, and the romantic name of this beautiful country--Transylvania--will soon cease to be appropriate unless some counteracting influences are brought to bear against such reckless spoliation.

The castles in Hungary are very interesting, and, like those of the Robber Knights of old, are almost invariably perched on the summit of some inaccessible mountain or high pinnacle of rock, where the dwellers could defy all foes. The village of Terzburg, situated on the extreme confines of Transylvania, is of the most barbarous description, inhabited solely by herdsmen and their families, who graze their cattle on the mountains. The castle or fortress, which, with its many turrets and towers, is a mixture of the Byzantine and Gothic architecture, stands on the topmost ridge of an isolated rock commanding the pass into Wallachia, and was originally garrisoned by a military religious Order of Teutonic Knights. It is approached by a steep pathway, the interior of the castle being entered by a small postern under the tower now reached by a wooden staircase, but in ancient time by a movable ladder.

Anything more wild and romantic than the position of the castle cannot be conceived, its accessories reminding the spectator of the nursery tales of his childhood--of Bluebeard and Giant Despair. Inside there are grim passages, trap-doors, and yawning depths, all bearing silent witness to the troublous times when these borders were invaded by the Tartar and the Turk.

In order to make the excursion to and from the Greek Hermitage in one day, it was necessary we should sleep at Terzburg this and the following night; but to bivouac in the “open” with so barbarous and formidable a folk as the Terzburger herdsmen was a thing we had by no means bargained for in our travels; András, however, apostrophising his favourite deity--assured us, “_der Teufel!_” that they were not a bad “_Herrschaft_”, if we only knew how to take them; and at once made friends with them by enlisting their services in procuring wood for our camp-fire, after which, having learnt many useful lessons from the gipsies, we soon erected the orthodox tripod, and cooked our evening meal whilst the setting sun was blazing on the castle walls.

Although the day had been extremely hot and sultry the evening air was chill, and crouching round our cheery camp-fire we watch the night creeping silently over the hills and upon the castle walls till they stand out black against the sky. Then, wrapping ourselves in our _bundas_, we follow with our gaze the stars on their silent track through space, and note how some burn red to the very verge of the horizon, while others rise above it but to set again, like those dear ones who come on earth to bless us for awhile, and then leave us with nought but their shining pathway to tell us whither they are gone. Suddenly out of the deep blue zenith shines forth one of those strange visitants of our firmament, a shooting-star. With inconceivable velocity the fiery traveller took its course from east to west and then vanished into space.

Night had far advanced ere we laid our weary limbs to rest within the shelter of the carriage, which, like our own old friend, was constructed to permit of our lying in it at full length. How strange it was to be listening to the soft and gentle noises outside, the mysterious rustlings of insects in the grass, and the muffled sound of voices proceeding from the huts, in which lights are flickering here and there, but we slept soundly and did not awake till a loud _Alpenhorn_ blown by some muscular herdsman aroused the echoes of the dawn.

András was already up, and had not only made a fire but was preparing breakfast for us on the dewy green-sward, his figure, weird and mysterious in the dim light, looking like some _Erd-Männchen_ as it moved about. From out the veil above the stars were shining feebly, and blinking like the weary eyes of persons who have been keeping vigil all the night. The air which fans our cheeks comes fresh and moist from its bath of dew, and there is everywhere around a succession of small, tremulous, and intermittent sounds like those of living creatures roused from a state of inaction into new life.

The sun was rising, and, like a row of mighty altar-fires, glowed the snowy pinnacles of the Transylvanian Alps, as, mounting our mules, we started on our journey, one of the Terzburg herdsmen accompanying us in the capacity of guide.

Like the Northern Carpathians, those of the south also are characterised by dense forests and narrow gorges. Our path, formed by the dry bed of a watercourse, was stony and difficult, but we soon entered a forest of pines, through whose tall straight stems the snowy peaks could here and there be seen glistening like silver. At length, making our way along the rocky sides of a mountain--our path often scarcely more than two feet wide--we looked down upon a dark and narrow valley filled with black pines, from which wreaths of vapour were ascending as from a huge cauldron.

Reaching the Wallachian frontier-post on the edge of the mountain, we have a splendid panorama, and look down not only upon Burzen-land--as the country round Kronstadt is called, on account of the river Burzen which flows through it--but likewise on a portion of Szeklerland with its sombre pine-clad mountains.

In an hour’s time, and after a most fatiguing ride, far exceeding in difficulty any of our equestrian experiences in the Snowy Tátra, we find ourselves at the bottom of a valley terminating in a narrow gorge, the rocks of which assume all the appearance of cliffs. On the highest pinnacle of one of the rocks stands a wooden cross, whilst another erected a little above the pathway indicates the approach to the cave. Entering the gate of a small enclosure surrounded by a paling of pine-logs, we ascended the narrow zigzag path, and soon caught sight of one of the hermits in his long loose toga and high cap, who, having heard our voices, had wandered out to see who could be coming to profane these sacred solitudes.

Greeting us in Wallachian, he conducted us to a small door in a wall built to enclose the entrance to the cave, passing which we found ourselves standing in the gloomy recesses where, screened from the light of day, these poor hermits spend their lives.

The cave, which is between sixty and seventy feet high and three hundred long, contains a small Greek church and two rows of buildings divided into cells, eight being the full number of the little band when all are there. At the time of our visit two were “itinerising” in the neighbouring districts in quest of food--for these brethren of the Holy Cross live entirely on charity.

Though the cavern is large, the atmosphere, from the absence of ventilation, was exceedingly damp, the walls in many were dripping, and we were soon glad to return to the open air.

How suitable is the spot chosen by these hermits for their seclusion! Shut in on all sides by lofty cliffs and pine-clad mountains which almost shut out the sky, they are indeed separated from the outer world; whilst the complete stillness and gloom of their surroundings naturally favour contemplation. No sound is heard save the murmur of a waterfall plashing from rock to rock as it comes foaming and tumbling down a narrow gorge, and now and then the scream of an eagle as circling over head it settles on some lofty crag.

After wandering about in the vicinity of the cavern for half an hour, sounds reach us, the meaning of which we had previously been taught, and, hastily returning to the little community, we find one of the hermits striking a wooden hammer against a board to announce to the brethren the hour of worship. Occasionally, facing the east, he prostrated himself to the earth, and then, walking round and round the church, continued his hammering, while repeating some prayer in an undertone as though he had been uttering an incantation or weaving a mystic spell.

Entering the dark little edifice, which contained anything but the odour of sanctity, we stood awaiting the commencement of the service. There were the usual genuflexions and painful bowings to the earth that are invariably seen in Greek churches, but the chanting of those holy men was the most barbarous thing I ever heard or could have imagined possible even in my wildest dreams. Two were exceedingly decrepit, with long white hair and flowing beards. These hermits belong to the Order of St. Basil and follow the rules of that fraternity, and it was very painful to witness the evident difficulty with which they accommodated their enfeebled and stiffened limbs to the various postures imposed by the Greek rite.

After leaving the church we were conducted to one of the cells in which a small oil-lamp was burning, but so feebly that it did little else than render its immediate surroundings dimly visible--a small brown and well-worn crucifix standing on a bracket against the wall, a few dark-coloured pictures of saints, the narrow pallet at the side, and a gourd and leathern bottle hanging from a nail being all the furniture it possessed.

In the centre of the cavern a fire was burning on the ground, over which was an iron pot, suspended from a tripod, containing a kind of porridge made of Indian corn; whilst in a little three-legged earthen pot, here called a _labos_, which stood on the red-hot ashes, some edible fungus was being cooked.

The hermits were very hospitable, and produced from their larder wild cherries, strawberries, and a kind of sloe, pressing us to partake with them their homely fare. We had brought provisions with us, however, and amongst other things a roasted chicken, which we offered them in return, and which was not only gratefully received but eagerly devoured in our presence. It is seldom these poor monks get anything better to eat than _mamaliga_, black-bread--which they make themselves--together with the roots, fruit, and wild honey which in summer they manage to find on the surrounding hills; their drink the milk of goats. Occasionally the Wallachian shepherds bring them fresh food, but only during a few months in summer, as, during two-thirds of the year, these exiles from humanity are cut off from all communication with their fellows, the passes being blocked by snow. There was something very sad not only in the thought of the complete isolation of these poor men and their self-imposed exile, but in the uselessness of their lives and the mistaken zeal which prompts them to renounce the world and their share in its cares and toils for the love of Him who “_went about_ doing good.”

A _douceur_ of five gulden being put into the unwashed palm of a grey-headed old hermit, and our animals sufficiently rested, we take our leave of the brethren, and, ascending the valley, are glad to feel once more the warmth of the blessed sun, which seldom or never visits the lonely hermits’ caves.

Though the days were long, the sun had set upon the castle walls, and the last golden gleam had faded in the west, ere we again neared the village of Terzburg, the distant smoke of fires where the ruthless Wallachs were burning down the forest trees showing against the purple ridges of the hills like that from burning craters.

The herdsmen, who by this time had begun to take quite a proprietary interest in us all, turned out _en masse_ to welcome our return. A large fire was blazing near our carriage, and during our absence they had made for us a _Laubhütte_, or hut of boughs, in the construction of which these hill Wallachs, who are essentially a nomad people, are great adepts; whilst some fish caught in a neighbouring stream, eggs, buffalo cream, and delicious honey were also provided for our repast by these hospitable but uncanny-looking herdsmen.

In these Transylvanian streams and rivers fish abounds, not only salmon-trout of enormous size, but grayling also, and the angler would here find ample food for his rod.

As night wears on clouds dim the empyrean, and in addition to their fires some of the herdsmen--possibly in our honour--light torches made of resinous pine-wood, which add not a little to the wildness of the scene, as, with curious lamb’s wool caps and knives stuck in their belts, they flit to and fro, now standing out black against the fires, and now disappearing again into the mysterious outer circle of darkness like demons of unrest rather than peaceful shepherds guarding their flocks.

A soft bed of leaves with which the Wallachs had lined our hut rendered it a very dry and comfortable abode for the night. Throwing one glance around us through the impromptu doorway of freshly-cut branches, we see that our neighbours, the herdsmen, have already delivered themselves up to the slumber-god. All have retired within their dwelling, and the fires themselves, sending up a blaze now and then by way of expiring effort, are fast dying out. Our wild _entourage_, however, is anything but provocative of sleep, and the great silence, broken only now and again by the harsh scream of a night-bird, becomes eloquent, as the “voices of the night,” now that human speech is hushed, come whispering on the air like dim echoes from the far-off unknown land. At midnight the wind rises high and threatens the stability of our little habitation; whilst a ladder placed against one of the herdsmen’s huts falls with a loud clatter and awakens all the sleepers.

The morning broke amidst heavy clouds and threatening rain, but at seven o’clock, our camp-breakfast partaken of and our coachman punctual for once, we are once more bowling along towards Western Transylvania.