Baden is a little paradise. It seems like a garden with the freshness of
May on every flower and leaf. The long lines of chestnut-trees are rich
with bright, pink blossoms,--solid pink, not pink-and-white like ours at
home. You walk beneath them through shady avenues, where the young grass
is like velvet, and every imaginable shade of refreshing green lies
before your eyes. There is the tender May-leaf green of the shrubs,
another of the soft lawns, that of the different trees, of the more
distant hill-slopes, and, beyond all, the deepest intensified green of
the Black Forest rising nobly everywhere around. A hideous little
bright-green cottage, prominent on one of the hills, irritates us
considerably, not harmonizing with its deep background of pines, and we
long at first to ruthlessly erase it from the picture; but finally
remembering the ugly little thing is actually somebody's home, our
better nature triumphs, and we feel we can allow it to remain, and can
only hope the dwellers within think it prettier than we do.
There are already many visitors here, though it is as yet too early and
cool for the great throng of strangers to be expected, and the vast
numbers of people come no more who used to frequent the place before the
gaming was abolished by the emperor a few years ago, through Bismarck's
especial exertions, it is said; from which it is to be inferred that
Baden's pure loveliness is less attractive to the world at large than
the fascination of the gaming-tables. We hear everywhere around regrets
for the lost charm, for the gayety, excitement, brilliancy; and it is
impossible to avoid wishing, not certainly that play were not abolished,
but at least that we could have come when it was at its height to see
for ourselves the strange phases of humanity that were here exhibited,
and just how naughty it all was. Now the waiters shake their heads
mournfully, as if a glory and a grace were departed, and say, "No, it
isn't what it used to be,--nothing like it!" and there seems to be a
"banquet-hall-deserted" atmosphere pervading the rooms in the
Conversation House. To be sure there is music there evenings, and a
fashionable assembly walking about; and there is music, too, in the
kiosk, and a goodly number of gay people chatting, eating, and drinking
at the little tables in the open air; and people gather in the early
mornings to drink the waters, as they always have done, but, after all,
the tribute of a memory and a regret seems to be universally paid to the
vanquished god of play, who is helping poor mortals cheat somewhere
else.
The Empress of Germany is here, and, after long-continued effort, we
have seen her. How madly we have striven to accomplish this feat; how we
have questioned servants and shopkeepers; how we have haunted the
Lichtenthal Allee, that long, lovely, shady walk where her Majesty is
said to promenade regularly every day; how often we have had our
garments, but not our ardor, dampened for her sake; how she would never
come; and how finally, in desperation, we seated ourselves at a table
under a tree near her hotel, devoured eagerly with our eyes all its
windows, saw imperial dogs and imperial handmaidens in the garden, and
couriers galloping away with despatches, saw the coachmen and footmen
and retainers, but for a long time no empress,--all this shall never be
revealed, because self-respect imposes strict silence in regard to such
conduct.
We must have looked somewhat like a picture in an old Harper's Magazine
where two hungry newsboys stand by the area railing as dinner is served,
and when the different dishes are carried past the windows one regales
himself with the savory scents, while the other says something to this
effect: "I don't mind the meats, but just tell me when the pudding comes
and I'll take a sniff."
"Augusta, please, dear Augusta, come out!" entreated we; but she came
not. When a carriage rolled round to the door, we were in ecstasies of
expectation, convinced she was going out to drive, but instead came a
gentleman, servants, and travelling-bags.
"Why, it's Weimar,--_our_ Weimar!" said we with pride and ownership,
because you see the Prince of Weimar lives in Stuttgart, and so do we.
And as he drives off, out on the balcony among the plants comes her
imperial Majesty and waves her handkerchief to her brother in farewell.
She wore a black dress, a white head-dress or breakfast-cap, looked like
her photographs, and must once have been beautiful. She is an intensely
proud woman, it is said, and a rigid upholder of etiquette, and tales
are told of slight differences between her and the crown princess on
this account.
Baden is one of the enticing places of the earth,--is so lovely that
whenever, however, wherever you may look, you always spy some fresh
beauty, and the Black Forest legends are hanging all about it, investing
it with an endless charm. You can see in the frescoed panels on the
front of the new _Trinkhalle_ a picture illustrating some old story of a
place near by, and then for your next day's amusement can go to the
identical spot where the ghost or demon or goblin used to be.
To Yburg, whose young knight met the beautiful, unearthly maiden by the
old heathen temple in the full moonshine, as he was returning from the
castle of his lady-love to his own, and who transferred his
affections--as adroitly as our young knights do the same thing
nowadays--from her to the misty figure, and met the latter, night after
night, was watched by his faithful servant, and was found dead on the
ground one bright morning.
Or to Lauf, where the ghost-wedding was, or almost was, but not quite,
because the knight who was to be married to the very attractive ghost of
a young woman grew so frightened when he saw all the glassy eyes of the
ghostly witnesses staring at him that he couldn't say yes when the
sepulchral voice of the ghost of a bishop asked him if he would have
this woman to his wedded wife; and all the ghosts were deeply offended
and made a great uproar, and the knight fell down as if dead, and he too
was found lying on the ground in the morning; but him, I believe, they
were able to revive.
And you can go to the Convent of Lichtenthal, from which the nuns, upon
the approach of the enemy, in 1689 fled in terror, leaving their keys in
the keeping of the Virgin Mary, who came down from her picture and stood
in the doorway, so that the French soldiers shrank back aghast, and all
was left unharmed.
We went there, and saw a number of Marys in blue and red gowns, but
could not quite tell which was the one who came down from her frame to
guard the convent.
In the chapel eight or ten children mumbled their prayers in unison,
while we stood far behind, examining the old stained-glass windows, with
the peculiar blue tint in them that cannot now be reproduced, and the
queer old stone knights in effigy; and I don't imagine the Lord heard
the children any the less because they were very absurd, and bobbed
about in every direction, and constantly turned one laughing face
quickly round to look at us, then back again, then another and another,
while all the time the praying went mechanically on. There was a little
girl, nine years old perhaps, who came to meet us by the old well here,
and stood smiling at us with great, brown, expressive eyes. Her face was
so brilliant and sweet we were charmed with her; but when we spoke she
upturned that rare little face of hers and answered not a word. I took
her hand in mine, but before she gave it she kissed it, and to each of
the party, who afterwards took her hand, she gave the same graceful
greeting. Not an airy kiss thrown at one, after the fashion of children
in general, but a quiet little one deposited upon her hand before it was
honored by the touch of the stranger. The pretty action, together with
the exquisite face, calm and clear as a cherub, and ideally childlike,
made a deep impression on us; and in some way, what we afterwards
learned--that she was completely deaf and dumb--did not occur to us. We
thought that she would not speak, not that she could not.
On a height overlooking the town stands a memorial chapel, built in
antique style, of alternate strata of red and white sandstone, by which
a very lively effect is produced. It has a gilded dome and a portico
supported by four Ionic pillars. In the interior are frescos of the
twelve apostles; and upon the high gold partition or screen, which
separates the choir from the body of the chapel, are painted scenes from
the New Testament. The floor is of marble in two colors.
We visited it fortunately during service, and saw for the first time the
Greek ritual. The singing was fine, the boys' voices sweet and clear,
but many of the forms unintelligible to a stranger. For instance, we
could only imagine what was meant when one priest in scarlet and gold
would go behind a golden door and lock it, and another one would stand
before it intoning the strangest words in the strangest sing-song, until
at last they would open the door and let him in. The service in the
Greek churches is either in the Greek or old Sclavonic language. Here we
inferred that we were listening to the old Sclavonic, as the chapel
belongs to a Roumanian prince; but only this can we say
positively,--that two words (_Alleluia_ and _Amen_) were absolutely all
that we understood.
The robes were rich; incense was burned; there were a few worshippers,
all standing, the Greek Church allowing no seats; but in some places
crutches are used to lean upon when the service is long, as on great
festal days. There are no sermons except on special occasions, the
ordinary ritual consisting of chants between the deacons and chorister
boys, readings from certain portions of the Scripture, prayers, legends,
the creed, etc. They all turn towards the east during prayer, and
instrumental music is forbidden.
In this little chapel the morning service which we witnessed was brief,
and, of its kind, simple. We noticed particularly among the worshippers
one old gentleman who seemed to be very devout. He crossed himself
frequently,--by the way, not as Roman Catholics do,--and at certain
times knelt, and even actually prostrated himself, upon the marble
pavement. He was a fine old man, and looked like a Russian. He was
earnest and attentive, but he made us all exceedingly nervous, for his
boots were stiff and his limbs far from supple, and when he went down we
feared he never would be able to come up again without assistance; and
we were incessantly and painfully on the alert, prepared to help him
recover his equilibrium should he entirely lose it, which often seemed
more than probable. This was a Roumanian prince, Stourdza,--who lives
winters in Paris and summers in Baden,--and who erected the chapel in
memory of his son, who died at seventeen in Paris from excessive study.
A statue of the boy, bearing the name of the sculptor, Rinaldo Rinaldi,
Roma, 1866,--life-size, on a high pedestal,--is on one side of the
interior. He sits by a table covered with books,--Bossuet, Greek, and
Latin,--while an angel standing beside him rests one hand on his
shoulder, and with the other beckons him away from his work. His Virgil
lies open to the lines,--
"Si qua fata aspera rumpas
Tu Marcellus eris."
If the boy was in reality so beautiful as the marble and as the portrait
of him which hangs at the left of the entrance, he must have looked as
lofty and tender and pure as an archangel.
Opposite him are the statues of the father and mother, who are yet
living, and between them a symbolical figure,--Faith, I presume. A
curtain conceals this group, beneath which the parents will one day lie.
Paintings of them also hang by the entrance, with a portrait of the boy
and one of the sister, "_Chere consolation de ses parents_," as she is
called. The faces are all fine, but that of the young student the
noblest, and the statue of the lovely boy called away from his books
seemed a happy way of telling his brief story. In the vaults below where
he lies are always fresh flowers, and a light continually burning.
It is impossible to enumerate all the sights in and about Baden. If it
is any satisfaction to you, you can look at the villas of the great as
much as you please; but to know that Queen Victoria lived here, and
Clara Schumann there, and yonder is the Turgenieff Villa, with extensive
grounds, does not seem productive of any especial enjoyment. It is much
more exhilarating to leave the haunts of men and walk off briskly
through the woods to some golden milestone of the past,--the old Jaeger
Haus, for instance, whose windows look upon a wide, rich prospect, and
where the holy Hubartus, the patron of the chase, is painted on the
ceiling, with the stag bearing the crucifix upon his antlers; and within
whose octagonal walls there must have been much revelry by night in the
good old times.
To the old castle where the Markgrafen of Hohenbaden--the border
lords--used to live we went one day, and anything funnier than that
particular combination of the romantic and ridiculous never was known.
Riding "in the boyhood of the year" through lovely woods, by mosses
mixed with violet, hearing the song of birds, breathing the purest,
balmiest air, who could help wondering if Launcelot and Guinevere
themselves found lovelier forest deeps; and who could help feeling very
sentimental indeed, and quoting all available poetry, and imagining long
trains of stately knights riding over the same path, and so on _ad
infinitum_! While indulging these romantic fancies we discovered that
our donkey also was often lost in similar reveries, from which he was
recalled by the donkey-boy, who by a sudden blow would cause him to
madly plunge, then to stop short and exhibit all the peculiarly pleasing
donkey tricks which we had read about, but never before experienced. And
to ride a very small and wicked donkey and to read about it are two
altogether different things, let me assure you.
Three donkeys galloping like mad up a mountain, three persons bouncing,
jolting, shrieking with laughter, a jolly boy running behind with a long
stick,--such was the experience that effectually dispelled our fine
fancies.
The view at the castle is far extended and beautiful; you see something
of the Rhine in the distance, the little Oosbach, and the peaceful
valley between. Baden scenery, from whatever point you look at it, has
the same friendly, serene aspect,--little villages dotted here and there
on the soft hill-slopes, and in the background the bold, beautiful line
of the pine-covered mountains. The castle must have been once a fine,
grand place. Those clever old feudal fellows knew well where to build
their nests, and like eagles chose bold, wild heights for their rocky
eyries. "Heir liegen sie die stolzen Fuerstentruemer," quoted a German,
wandering about the ruins.
Up to the Yburg Castle we went also; and the "up" should be italicized,
for the mountain seemed as high and steep as the Hill of Science, and we
felt that the summit of one was as unattainable as that of the other.
But the woods were beautiful, and their whisperings and murmurings and
words were not in a strange language, for the tall dark pines sang the
selfsame song that they sing in the dear old New England woods, the
wildflowers and birds were a constant delight, the air fresh and cool,
and at last we reached the top, and found another castle and another
view.
Here there was little castle and much view. Really a magnificent
prospect, but so fierce and chilling a wind that we could with
difficulty remain long enough on the old turrets to fix the landscape in
our memory, and we were glad to seek shelter in the little house, where
a man and his wife live all the year round; and frightfully cold and
lonely must it be there in winter, when even in May our teeth were
chattering gayly.
The visitors' book there was rather amusing.