that has given me more delight than any I ever saw. I had often heard
the first style of Raphael preferred to his third, and thought it a
superstition; but I am a convert—entirely a convert. Apart, locked up in
a room with some of the gold-grounded deformed productions of the
Byzantine artists, stands, except one, the largest painting of Raphael’s
in the world; the subject is the adoration of the Magi. It is in his
first style—it is half destroyed—the outline of some of the figures only
remains; no sacrilegious hand has ever touched to restore it, and in its
ruin it is divine. The Baby Jesus is lying on the ground, and Mary, with
an angel at each hand, kneels before the lowly couch of her child; on
the other side are the kings bearing their gifts; and far in the
background are the shepherds visited by angels, announcing peace and
good-will to man. I never saw such perfect grace and ideal beauty as in
the kneeling figures of the Virgin and her attendant angels. Composed
majesty and deep humility are combined in the attitudes. The
countenances show their souls abstracted from all earthly thought, and
absorbed by pure and humble adoration. Adoration from the adorable: this
is what only an artist of the highest class can portray. You perceive
that the painter imagined perfect beings, who deserve a portion of the
worship which they pay unreservedly to the Creator, and such are saints
and angels in the mind of a Catholic. You who so much admire the
unfinished ideas of Leonardo da Vinci, would delight in this relic of a
greater man: will you receive any from this attempt to convey what I
felt? I read somewhere the other day, that speech is one mode of
communicating our thoughts—painting another—music another—neither can,
with any success, go beyond its own department to that of the
other—thus, words can never show forth the beauty of which painting
presents the living image to the eyes.
It may be a defect, that I take more pleasure in graceful lines, and
attitudes, and expression, than in colouring. Sir Thomas Lawrence told
me that it was one, and that an uncultivated eye was, therefore, often
better pleased by statuary than painting; and he said this, because I
looked with more delight on some inimitable bronze-statues standing on
his mantel-piece, preferring them to a richly-coloured painting on which
he was accustomed to rest his eye while at work; so to familiarise it to
the fullest and most glowing hues—I am not sure that he is right.
Let us take, for instance, two pictures by the prince of painters—the
Adoration of the Magi among his first;—The Transfiguration his last
work. In artistic power, this picture is said to surpass every other in
the world. The genius of its author is shown in its admirable
composition, in the spirit of the attitudes, in the life that animates
each figure, without alluding to technical merits, which, of course, are
felt even by those who cannot define, nor even point them out. Yet, this
picture does not afford me great pleasure—no face is inspired by holy
and absorbing passion; and the woman, the most prominent figure, is a
portrait of the Fornarina, whose hard countenance is peculiarly odious.
Turn from this to the half-effaced picture at Berlin—the radiant beauty
here expressed, strikes a chord in my soul—all harmony, all love. It is
not the art of the painter I admire; it is his pure, exalted soul, which
he incarnated in these lovely forms. I remember Wordsworth’s theory,
that we enter this world bringing with us “airs from heaven,” memories
of a divine abode and angelic fellowship which we have just left, that
flake by flake fall from our souls as they degenerate and are enfeebled
by earthly passions. Raphael seems to confirm this theory; for, in his
early pictures, there is a celestial something absent from his latter, a
beauty not found on earth—inspiring as we look, a deep joy, only felt in
such brief moments when some act of self-sacrifice exalts the soul, when
love softens the heart, or nature draws us out of ourselves, and our
spirits are rapt in ecstacy, and enabled to understand and mingle with
the universal love.
The gallery is open from ten till three. Unfortunately, the fatigue of
the journey made me very ill able to endure much toil; and you know,—who
knows not?—that visiting galleries produces extreme weariness. I went
back to the hotel several times to repose, and then returned to the
gallery. I desired to learn by heart—to imbibe—to make all I saw a part
of myself, so that never more I may forget it. In some sort I shall
succeed. Some of the forms of beauty on which I gazed, must last in my
memory as long as it endures; but this will be at the expense of others,
which even now are fading and about to disappear from my mind. I feel,
though usually I prefer statuary to painting, and there are some
statues—and particularly an ancient bronze of a boy praying, that I have
regarded with delight; still my mind was full before, the rest can but
overflow. The gallery of Berlin will, I fear, become a vague, though
glorious dream, for the most part, leaving distinct only a few images
that can never be effaced.
JULY 29TH.
Yesterday evening we went to the opera—the house is small, but pretty.
The piece was Massaniello, at which I grieved. I want German music in
Germany. There was no remarkable singer. There was no ballet; and all
was over, according to the good German custom, by ten o’clock.
To-day, we have been doing our duty in sightseeing; though I
grudged every minute spent away from the gallery. There are some
good pictures, however, in the palace, especially the portraits of
our Charles I. and his Queen, by Van Dyck. The apartments are very
handsome. They have an ungainly custom here, as in Holland, of
providing the visiter with list-shoes, to preserve their shining
_parquets_. I rebelled against putting on slippers other people
had worn, and forced the _Custode_, grumblingly, to acknowledge
that my shoes could not hurt the floor. The rooms of the palace
are chiefly associated with the name of Napoleon, and are
decorated by vases of Sèvre china and by portraits of himself and
Josephine, presents from the conqueror to the conquered, which
were impertinent enough at the time; but the spirit is changed
now, and they remain as trophies of Prussian victories. I looked
with great interest on the various portraits of the celebrated
Queen of Prussia. In all, she is inexpressibly beautiful. Her face
is thoroughly individual;—animation—independence—a truly feminine,
yet, (for want of a better word I must say,) a wild loveliness
gives it a peculiar charm. There is a portrait of her at twelve
years of age—dignity, true nobility, artless innocence, and
evident strength of character, adorn a countenance in the first
bloom of untainted girlhood.
We visited the Museum. I did not much care for what I saw. There are
many relics of Frederic the Great, and a wax figure, dressed up in his
old clothes, is placed on a faded throne beneath a shabby canopy—all
such as he used in life. There is nothing to excite respect in this sort
of spectacle. It is the misfortune of those who live to be old that they
are always handed down to posterity as decrepid and feeble. If I were a
queen, I would never suffer myself to be painted after thirty; or, if
well preserved, five-and-thirty at the latest. Queens and beauties—kings
and heroes—all must pay our nature’s sad tribute, and lose even
individuality and charm, as the moss of age creeps over the frame,
which, becoming weak and shattered, loses proportion and grace; but it
is foolish to leave behind these emblems of decay. Frederic the Great,
as he first met Voltaire at the castle of Meuse, near Cleves, or as he
wrote his dispatch on a drum after one of his first battles, would
indeed be the Frederic, whose deeds, if evil, at least were instinct
with power and life. This doll, dressed up to represent a decrepid,
feeble old man, is the most dreary sarcasm that can be imagined.
The prospect from the palace windows is really grand: the Platz in
front—the Museum—the Fountain—the whole range of buildings—form a
_coup-d’œil_ that transcends that of the Place de la Concorde, at Paris.
I desired to visit some of the manufactures of Berlin steel, and
expected to see beautiful specimens. It is a curious fact, how difficult
it is to find out where you ought to go, and how to see any sight,
unless it be a regular lion, or you have an exact address. We took a
drosky, and drove to a shop; it was closed: to another; there was no
such thing. We returned to our hotel, and learnt that we had been
spending many useless groschen by not taking the drosky by the hour
instead of the course. Having reformed this oversight, we set off again
in search of the manufactory. You know the history of the building of
Berlin. Frederic the Great, desirous that his capital should rival that
of other kingdoms, inclosed a large space within its walls, and ordered
the vacancy to be filled up with houses. This occasions a great
difference between Berlin and most foreign cities. In the latter, the
aim is to save land, and to encroach on heaven. Here, the builders
endeavoured to cover as much space as possible, and many of the finest
houses are only two stories high. Wide and grass-grown, the streets, all
straight and at right angles, stretch far away, with scarce a solitary
passenger or drosky here and there, making the solitude even more felt.
There is another peculiarity in this wide-spread city. It is built on
the flattest plain in the world. The Spree stagnates beneath its
bridges, and the drains, just covered by planks, stagnate in the
streets, and are by no means agreeable during the present heat and
drought.
At length, after driving about from one place to another, asking our way
as well as we could, resolved not to give in, but much puzzled, we
reached the Eisengiesserei, or iron-foundry, just outside the
Oranienburg gate. We alighted from the drosky and walked into a large
court-yard, and into the sort of immense shed in which is the foundry.
We asked every one we met where the works in steel were sold; no one
could tell us. We wandered about a long time. The men were at work
making moulds in sand. At length a vast cauldron of molten metal was
brought from the furnace, and poured into a mould. There is something
singular in boiling metal, the sight of which gives a new idea to the
mind, a new sensation to the soul. Boiling water, or other liquid,
presents only an inanimate element, changed to the touch, not to the
eye; but molten metal, red and fiery, takes a new appearance, and seems
to have life,—the heat appears to give it voluntary action, and the
sense of its power of injury adds to the emotion with which it is
regarded; as well as the fact that it takes and preserves the form into
which it flows. In this every-day world a new sensation is a new
delight. I have read somewhere of a French lady, who went to Rome to
kiss the Pope’s toe, because it made her heart beat quicker so to do.
Certainly, seeing the diminutive Cyclops pour the glowing living liquid
from their cauldron, viewing it run fiercely into the various portions
of the mould, and then grow tranquil and dark as its task was fulfilled,
imparted, I know not why or how, a thrill to the frame.
After this we were taken to an outhouse, in which there were articles
for sale—no bracelets, nor chains, nor necklaces; chiefly small
statuettes of Napoleon and Frederic the Great.
I would willingly remain here some days longer; and, above all, I should
like to visit Potzdam and the Peacock Island. It is impossible; and we
shall proceed to-morrow by railroad to Dresden.
LETTER VII.
Arrival at Dresden.—Rabenau.—Gallery of Dresden.—Madonna di San
Sisto.—Pictures of Correggio.
JULY 30TH.
A direct railroad from Berlin to Dresden is talked of: as it is, we were
obliged to go round by Leipsig. On this account those travellers who
have carriages prefer posting; the conveyance of a carriage by a
railroad being always expensive. In no part of the world, however, is
the speed of steam more acceptable; a drearier prospect of level desert
cannot be imagined. I felt this the less, for being very much fatigued,
and not well, I slept nearly all the way. We arrived at about two at
Leipsig, dined at the Hôtel de Saxe, and embarked on the Dresden
railroad. The carriages are small and uncomfortable. As we drew near
Dresden, the country assumed a different aspect; hills appeared, and we
beheld again some of the charms of earth. The station is in the New
Town, and a drosky took us to the Hôtel de Pologne, which Murray
mentions as the best; but in this he is mistaken. It is an hotel a good
deal frequented by Englishmen, travelling tutors, and their pupils; but
the hotels to which all families go are in the Neu Markt. There are
several on a scale as extensive and complete as the Hôtel de Saxe, at
Leipsig.
We expected to find a friend here conversant with the town to give us
information and advice. We learn that he, as well as everybody else, is
away; but instead of going to some fashionable baths, he is rusticating
at Rabenau, a village some seven miles off. We at once resolved to visit
him there; and hiring one of the hack carriages, we the next morning set
out on this expedition.
AUGUST 1ST.
At first we followed the course of the Elbe, beneath picturesque cliffs,
and then turning off we got among some cross-roads of the most
impracticable description, up a steep slope; when we reached the top we
found a chasm, in the depth of which the village we sought is situated.
The road was far too precipitous for the carriage to descend, so we
walked down. The country has a singular aspect. In other mountainous
lands, we live in the valleys, and look up to the hills as they lift
themselves towards the sky. Here, however, we descend from the plain
into the ravine. These words require further explanation. I have
mentioned that we ascended a hill: this was composed of arable land, the
fields, unbroken by tree or rock, spread round in smooth upland; but in
the midst we found the chasm, the fissure, the rent I mentioned, and we
descended, as it were, down into the bosom of the earth—and deeper,
deeper, till the wooded hills close round and almost shut out the sky,
and a brawling stream, which turns a mill, frets its way between rocks
clothed by trees, that nearly meet on either side. Nothing can be more
peaceful, more secluded, more shut in; and if not wildly sublime, yet
rock and wood and torrent combined to render it picturesque; a rustic
bridge crossed the stream, and there, abutting against the hill side,
stood the mill, and before the mill a large pleasant room for the
reception of guests, for many come, especially on feast days, to dine
here. Here our friend had betaken him to compose his opera. Beside the
dashing waterfalls, beneath the music-giving pines; and in grassy nooks
shaded by mossy rocks and tree-grown precipices, he found a spot whose
breath was melody, whose aspect imparted peace. Earth had opened, and
this little ravine was a very nest adorned by nature’s hand with her
choicest gifts. When we arrived he was absent; he had gone with his
note-book to study among the pines. You know and admire his
compositions. Thanks to them, Shelley’s Poems have found an echo of
sweet sounds worthy of them. The fanciful wildness, the tender
melancholy, the holy calm of the poet, have met a similar inspiration on
the part of the musician. They have as much melody as the Italian, as
much science as the German school—they appertain most, indeed, to the
last; but the airs themselves are original. The song of “Arethusa,” and
that entitled “Spirit of Night,” are perhaps the best. The one, light
and fanciful; the other, solemn and impassioned; both, beautiful. The
rest are second only to these.[9]
We wandered about rather disconsolate and hungry till our friend
appeared, who joyously welcomed us; and dinner was ordered, and ready in
a trice. The fare was not very choice, nor delicately served; but very
characteristic of what one has read of middle life in Germany. To this
secluded bower families came—or students—or a fond pair stole hither
from the crowd, to drink beer and smoke on the rustic seats beneath the
trees. It was easy, however, to escape from these groups deeper into the
ravine, or into other fissures of earth of a similar nature, which
branched off; or, clambering up the cliffs, to find freer air on the
hill-top. The daughter of the miller, not particularly pretty, but
willing and good-humoured, waited on us. Snow-white table-cloths, and
sparkling, inviting dinner apparatus, unfortunately, were not among the
comforts; but the meats were eatable—the trout more than that; the whole
not good enough to invite lingering over the meal; and again we
sauntered beside the torrent, and reposed under the trees, and talked
over our plans and a thousand other subjects, with the zest of people
who found a new and willing listener after long seclusion.
Our eager love of Italy has struck a spark and lighted a similar flame
in the breast of our friend. He intended repairing to Vienna in the
winter. He now proposes taking Venice in his way; so that, if we will
remain a month at Dresden, he will accompany us at least so far on our
southern journey. It is thus arranged; not, perhaps, for the best—for,
if the heats continue, any town must be disagreeable—still we have come
so far into the heart of Germany, that there can be no harm, though it
be not the town season, in lingering a few weeks in one of its most
celebrated cities. We have accordingly taken convenient lodgings in the
Alt Markt; and here we are.
Already, you may be sure, we have visited the Gallery—a labyrinth of
lofty halls, adorned by a very mine of painted canvas, which thoroughly
to explore would indeed be difficult. Some of its chief gems are in one
room. Entering this, we are at once commanded and awed by the “Madonna
di San Sisto,” the Virgin bearing the Infant God in her arms, by
Raphael. As a painting, technically speaking, I believe there are faults
found with it: worst of all, it has been retouched and restored; but no
criticism can check the solemn impression it inspires. The Madonna is
not the lowly wife of Joseph the carpenter: she is the Queen of Heaven;
she advances surrounded by celestial rays, all formed of innumerable
cherubim, from whose countenances beam the glory that surrounds her. The
majesty of her countenance, “severe in youthful beauty,” demands worship
for her as the mother of the Infant Saviour, whom she holds in her arms.
And he, the Godhead (as well as feeble mortals can conceive the
inconceivable, and yet which once it is believed was visible) sits
enthroned on his brow, and looks out from eyes full of lofty command and
conscious power. With one hand, he makes the sign of blessing, as in
Catholic countries this is bestowed. Below are two angels—both lovely;
one inexpressibly so—who are looking up. I have seen copies and
engravings from this picture; I have seen these angels well imitated,
but never the mother and child. In some, the angelic beauty is
sacrificed in the endeavour to portray the majestic glance, which thus
becomes stern; or the dignity fades, that the beauty, which thus becomes
inexpressive, may be preserved. In truth, copies are very inefficient
things; prints are often better; but if you look at the originals, such
weak types fade into insignificance.
There are four large Correggios in this room; all among his earlier
pictures. As paintings, I am told that they rank higher than the
Raphael. They gain by being looked at and studied; the art of painting
has never, nor can ever be carried further than the Chiaro Oscuro of
this admirable artist; and the attitudes of the figures—the expression
of some of the faces—especially of St. Sebastian, in one of them,
thrills the frame. Now, the sense of adoration is cold in men’s breasts,
and painters can neither see in others, nor conceive within their own
breasts, a passion as absorbing as love, while it elevates and purifies
those who feel it till their features shadow forth an angelic nature. A
fifth Correggio is also here—the Magdalen, a small cabinet picture. It
is well known. I am told that Correggio only painted it once; but
Allori, a good painter, but whose conceptions, whose types (to use the
word of the author of “La Poésie Chrétienne”) are not noble, has made
many most admirable copies; it has thus been multiplied; some of the
copies are generally said to be by the hand of Correggio himself; yet,
in the most celebrated of them, I have not seen the mixed expression
which is so wonderful in the face of the original. She is lying on the
earth, in a cavern, supporting her head with her hand, reading the
blessed promises of the Gospel. Her eyes are red with recent and much
weeping; her face expresses earnest hope—or rather scarcely hope yet,
but a yearning which will soon warm into satisfied faith; and she is
eagerly drinking in the sublime consolations that speak peace to her
heart. Her face is not clouded by grief, though you see that she has
grieved with bitterness; nor does it express joy, though you see that
she anticipates happiness. Is not this the triumph of art? You must add
to this inimitable delicacy in shadowing forth expression, an execution
quite unrivalled. The word Chiaro Oscuro, as applied to Correggio’s
paintings, is familiar to every one. This picture teaches more than any
other what it means. With other artists, the flesh in shade, is the
flesh darkened—blackened: here—look at the arms, the throat of the
Magdalen; they are fair as alabaster—or rather, as the fair skin of
woman, and the shadow that obscures them, conceals it in the painting
not more than it would do in reality.
The heat is very great; the hours of the gallery excessively
inconvenient—from nine to one, when it is inexorably closed, that the
attendants may dine at the universal German hour; and they do not open
again. I am convinced that one of the reasons that there is heaviness in
the Germans, is this early hour for their principal, their interminable
meal. Who can be fit for anything, after sitting for two or three hours
at mid-day to a plentiful dinner? After such an act, life must be
extinct in all the nobler functions for some hours; but, as they go to
bed at ten, they do not give scope for the mind to recover itself. To be
sure, they rise at five, and therefore their great men have been able to
achieve so much.
With regard to the gallery, special permission may be obtained, if
sought and paid for, to visit it at other hours. If we were only here
for a day or two, it would be worth while to obtain this; but then an
attendant would accompany us all the time; now we are free to roam at
will. So we shall content ourselves with the public hours.
We are to remain the whole of this month at Dresden; before the end of
it, I hope the heat will diminish. It is so excessive that I mean to
escape for a few days to Rabenau.
LETTER VIII.
Rabenau.—The Gallery.—The Terrace of Brühl.—The Grosse Garten.—The great
Heat.
DRESDEN, AUGUST 12.
Thy mountain torrent and thy narrow vale,
With every pine and fir that grow thereby;
The air that passes thee with gentle wail,
That it may not amidst thy thickets die;
Thine evening’s quiet, and thy morning’s gale,
And thy hot noon-day’s mossy luxury;
Thy crags, whose legend says, “Each rugged rock
An altar is to Him who framed the block.”[10]
In such and other verse has the “valley of beauty, sunny Rabenau,” been
celebrated by one of my friends, who visited it with us, and whose
ardent and poetic imagination was warmed by inspiration in this lonely
spot. I am sorry to say, that, secluded and beautiful as is the narrow
dell, I did not quite share his transports; I obtained no refuge from
the heat, from which I had endeavoured to escape. Truly we enjoyed the
shade of woods and cliffs, and the refreshing murmur of the stream; but
deep down and shut in as is the ravine, we found it close and
breezeless. Besides, to my misfortune, I am more fastidious than a
traveller ought to be. During the day I sought for a cool spot, and even
though I found it not, yet as I loitered among the woods, every object
charmed the eye; and evening came at last, bringing relief and
enjoyment. But at night it was otherwise. The mill is a very rustic cot;
and the Germans are not, as far as I can judge, a cleanly people. At
Kissingen we were obliged to exert ourselves vehemently to get the
floors (which, being of white smooth deal, to use a servant’s phrase,
_show dirt_) washed. Water had never touched the boards of my room at
Rabenau, and in vain I pleaded for a little scouring. Then German beds,
especially in the north of Germany, are uncomfortable. Feather-beds
everywhere are disagreeable; but here they are constructed on the most
odious principle. They are a quarter filled with feathers: so when you
lie down, they inclose you on all sides, as a half-empty bladder does
your finger if you press it. Usually there are mattresses besides, and
one can discard the annoying softness; but at Rabenau there was only a
loose straw palliasse, and one of these disastrous beds, which threw me
into a state of nervous agitation, that turned the night into a period
of pain.
In short, after enduring the annoyance for three nights, P—— and I
quitted it, leaving our poet and musician behind, to indulge, for a few
more days, in the inspirations of the rocky dell. An old woman stowed
carpet-bag, cloaks, and books, into a basket, and putting a weight I
could scarcely lift on her back, walked briskly on before. Like gnomes,
we emerged from the inner recesses of the earth, and ascended to its
outer edge; and again descending the hill side, we reached the high
road, where we hoped to find a carriage sent to meet us. We were
disappointed; but after a perplexing half hour, during which we expected
to have to walk to Dresden, we secured a return britska, and gladly took
our way to our temporary home. Could I have foreseen the heat, I had not
fixed to remain at Dresden so long, but have gone on to wait for our
friend at Töplitz. There is no help now, and I console myself by
recollecting that I am in a city I have long desired to see, and can
store my mind with the memory of a thousand objects, which hereafter I
shall look back on as my choicest treasures.
I ramble in the morning in the Gallery: the heat, indeed, is almost
insupportable; but still I cannot tear myself away. There is a lovely
picture of Rebecca at the well, by Giorgione. There is a fine one, by
Annibal Caracci, of the Angel of Fame. He is springing upwards; wreaths
of laurel hang from his arm; one hand bears a crown, the other holds a
trumpet, and a halo of flame plays round his head. There is something
living and spirit-stirring in this picture, though its colouring is not
pleasing. There are the portraits of his three daughters by Palma
Vecchio: one of them in particular is very beautiful. The women of this
painter resemble those of Titian—the same full feminine form, the same
voluptuous repose, joined to queen-like dignity.
One of the gems of the gallery is the Cristo della Moneta, of Titian,
which Mrs. Jamieson eulogizes with much taste and judgment. It is among
the earliest, and is one of the best of the works of this artist. It is
but a small half-length, containing two figures. The Jew shows a coin to
our Saviour, and asks to whom tribute should be paid. The questioner
looks full of cunning—Jesus, suffering, patient, dignified. As with all
these great painters, the countenance expresses many mingled feelings,
and you read the thoughts of the martyr, revealed by his searching eye
and the sad composure of his mien. “This is a snare. You think to entrap
me. You will not succeed. With a word, I brush away the flimsy web of
evil. But it will not always be thus; the time will come when I shall be
your victim; yet I bear the present insult and future death with
resignation for your sake—for the sake of all mankind. My path is before
me; I tread it patiently and resolutely, though you strew it with
thorns.” All this you read in that face; all gentleness, resignation,
love, and suffering. A connoisseur here objects, that the countenance of
Christ wants dignity; perhaps it does; yet, methinks, it has as much as
the human face, in sorrow, can express. I told you that the gallery
shuts at one. I linger to the last. At a quarter before this hour, the
men come round, and draw down the blinds, leaving the gallery nearly in
darkness. I was in the room containing the Correggios when they did
this. The Notte of that painter is among them: The Shepherds visiting
Jesus in the manger by night, and the only light emanates from the
cradle of the divine child, spreading its halo over the Virgin’s face,
which is bent over the babe, while the shepherds veil their eyes with
their hands from the dazzling effulgence. When, by the drawing down of
the blinds, we were left nearly in darkness, the effect on this picture
was miraculous. The child lay in living beams, which seemed to emanate
from a focus, and spread rays of light around. I could not have believed
that any coloured canvas could have shown such glowing radiance. The
intention of the master becomes more clear, and his wonderful art more
admirable. No doubt the picture was painted for some niche that favoured
the peculiar distribution of light and shadow.
There are some very beautiful specimens of the Dutch school in the
gallery; but I do not, of course, send you a mere catalogue; and in
mentioning those that gave me most pleasure, you know my preference for
Italian pictures.
One day, while wandering about the gallery, I saw a well known face. It
was more than a pleasure; it was indeed a gain to meet the accomplished
Author of “La Poésie Chrétienne” in the very spot where his knowledge
and taste would inform my ignorance and correct my judgment; still more
agreeable it is to learn that he is also bound for Italy. His animated
conversation and refined society will add more than I can express of
interest and pleasure to our rambles.
I drag myself painfully home from the gallery, but find no shade, and
short repose.
We have here only a woman who “does for us,” preparing our breakfast and
attending to our rooms. Our dinner is another affair. Not far from us
there is a Tratoria, kept by a Milanese, well known in Dresden as a good
cook, and where we can obtain food not germanized in its preparation. We
either go and dine there, or have our dinner sent to us; his prices are
exceedingly reasonable. The ceremony of our dinner over, I repose as
well as the sun will let me, which has by this time left one part of our
house and invaded another, making every portion, beyond conception,
sultry. I never found any heat so oppressive. This arises from Dresden
being so inland; and no rain having fallen for six months, the dryness
of the atmosphere renders its high temperature penetrating, subtle,
burning, intolerable.
Evening comes, and though it does not bring with it sufficient coolness
to banish lassitude and even pain, still the heat is diminished, and I
go out to walk or drive. If on foot, we go usually to the Terrace of
Brühl, to which you ascend by a wide flight of steps from the foot of
the bridge. The view here is beautiful. I can imagine circumstances
which would render it sublime. It overlooks the Elbe; and were that
river in “its pride of place”—full—rushing—stormy—it would add movement
and grandeur to the scene. But the waters have ebbed even as the Arno
does, till the bathers almost walk across without any chance of getting
out of their depth; the bed, as a river’s bed always does when the
shrunken stream leaves it exposed, is a deformity to the landscape; and
the extreme dryness of the season has caused the fields on the other
side to resemble those seen by Charles Lamb from his retreat at Dalston.
“Talk of green fields,” he said, “every one has green fields; I have
drab-coloured fields.” I look over the parapet and try to imagine the
river full to the brim; the lower piles of the beautiful bridge bathed
and hidden by tumultuous waves; the domes and spires of the city rising
silent above a turbid, tempestuous, sea-like river: that would be the
scene which is the glory and boast of Dresden; now all is slothful and
stagnant. The same is to be predicated of the company assembled; all the
_beau monde_ of all the towns of Germany is assembled at various baths,
and so I must not wonder that I not only saw no beauty, but nothing
either well-dressed or elegant in the promenades. We have driven to the
Grosse Garten, a large park, filled with fine trees, and were the lawns
laid out in verdant sward, instead of being an incult growth of the
coarsest grass, very uninviting, especially in its present arid state,
the shady walks and glades would be pleasant. I may say the same of all
the other gardens of which this capital boasts. They would be very
delightful, only just now they are deficient in freshness and verdure.
Do not think I say this as a fault-finder, except that they ought to
learn from us what grass when cultivated for ornamental uses ought to
be. I consider the gardens and terraces and pleasure-grounds that adorn
Dresden more beautiful than those of almost any other capital. The fault
is ours, not theirs. The pleasure-grounds of a city ought to be, and in
this case are, adapted to the seasons during which the inhabitants make
use of them. But in the height of summer, Nature only in her free fresh
beauty can afford enjoyment. We have no business to come here now in
search of wood and stream and field, which alone can content our souls,
athirst and wearied by the heat. The fault, as I have said, is ours; not
that of Dresden, which really may be said in some degree to rival
Florence in its pretensions to beauty, and which has of course an
individual character of its own.
P—— goes almost every night to the Opera. The heat is so very great,
that I have only seldom ventured. The house is very pretty; and I had
hoped, as there are some good singers, to hear some of the
_chef-d’œuvres_ of German composers. I am disappointed. At Berlin, we
had _Masaniello_: here we have _La Dame Blanche_—_Die weisse
Frau_—instead of the _Huguenots_, which our musical friend considers the
finest composition of modern times—inferior only to Mozart; superior to
him, inasmuch as orchestral accompaniment is so wonderfully improved and
extended since the day when _Figaro_ and the _Zauberflöte_ were brought
out. I am much disappointed in not hearing this opera. The tenor is a
young, good-looking man, with a very pleasing voice and good style. It
is strange, indeed, how well German _sings_. Look at the language, with
its accumulation of consonants, and it appears worse even than our own
for singing; but in reality it is far better; ours being, from its
peculiar accent, the worst, I believe, in the world; while the German is
smoothed and vocalised and flowing in a manner which, till I heard it
sung by natives, I could not have imagined. This same _sdruccioli_
enunciation does not, however, make it pleasing to the ear when spoken.
Night comes at last. At ten o’clock, all Dresden goes to bed. If you
stay out after, you must pay your porter four groschen. Night comes, but
no cool breeze to calm and refresh. We live in a _troisième_, in the Alt
Markt, and look upon its large square, our windows being turned to the
east. Till a late hour, the people are employed removing the booths in
which they expose their wares during the day, and the clatter they make
prevents repose. Near us is a church tower, with a loud clock; and as I
lie, courting sleep, with my windows of necessity wide open, the sound
of the clock seems to enter my room. We are told, sounds are produced by
vibrations of air, which beginning where the sound is born, spread
themselves further and further; and thus I hear—I feel it. I believe
that I am aware of the moment when the clock strikes; on comes the
sound, louder and louder, till my room is filled as with thunder—and the
wounded sense of hearing would fain fly and escape—but cannot. You can
form no idea what it is to have twelve o’clock thus walk up bodily to
your pillow, in the otherwise deep silence of night.
We have, as yet, seen few of the Hons. I am trying to summon courage and
strength for sightseeing; which will indeed be a task of labour, with
the thermometer above ninety in the shade—in the shade of night,
remember, as well as in that of day.
Adieu.
LETTER IX.
The Green Vaults.—Collection of Porcelain.—Der Freischütz.—The great
Drought.—Preparations for Departure.
DRESDEN, 18TH JULY.
We spent this morning in the Grüne Gewolbe, or Green Vaults, a suite of
apartments containing the treasures of the Kings of Saxony. These
sovereigns were much richer once than they are now; and we are told,
that, in addition to the dazzling piles of jewels and other valuables
here collected, they had amassed large sums of money—all deposited in a
secret strong room under their palace. The money is gone, but treasure
to the amount of several millions remains, and is spread out for view in
eight apartments on the ground floor of the palace, called the Green
Vaults—it is said from the hangings with which these rooms were once
hung. But why vaults? I cannot help thinking the name comes from some
peculiarity appertaining to the former resting-place of the
treasures—underground. These rooms display, indeed, incalculable riches.
The diamonds alone are worth a kingdom. Their immense size and
surpassing lustre must dazzle the eyes when worn. Placed on shelves
behind glass frames, of course their exceeding beauty is not enhanced by
the movement and sparkle which causes diamonds to transcend all other
precious stones. In addition to this almost magical wealth in gems, are
a quantity of beautiful works of art, various and magnificent; they are
some of exquisite carving, some elegant, some strange and fantastic. We
wandered from room to room, wondering at the wealth, amazed by the
profusion of treasure; but you must not expect enthusiasm from me on
these points. There is something in this sort of treasure, when arranged
for show, which takes from their beauty. Pictures are made to be looked
at for themselves. The view of them excites the passions or calms the
heart; or if even only gratifying to the taste, yet they please for
themselves, and require no extraneous interest. It is a bathos indeed to
turn from them to stones from the mine; but diamonds and jewellery, and
even delicately-carved cups, elegant statuettes and fantastic toys, are
agreeable to look at only as objects of personal ornament or use. Show
me a beautiful woman, or an illustrious sovereign, adorned in
jewels—served in cups that cost a province—and the imagination fills up
a picture pleasing to itself—exalting a human being above his
fellows—and glorifying weak humanity in his image. Show me a room in
which a fellow-creature is accustomed to live, where all he or she
touches might ransom a king, and a thousand feelings and sympathies are
awakened. Thus if we read in the “Arabian Nights,” of apartments
supported by columns encrusted in jewels; then also we find some
enchanted prince, who inhabits the wondrous chamber; or if we read of
basins of diamonds and cups of a single pearl, they are tributes to
beauty from love. With regard to these gems, indeed, we need not go so
far afield as the “Arabian Nights” to imagine regal splendour. When
Napoleon held his court in the North, to which “thrones, dominations,
princedoms” thronged—proud hearts swelled beneath these stones, lifted
up with a sense of greatness, and the lovely adorned by them were made
glad by the consciousness of admiration.
I am afraid my lion-hunting at Dresden is over. After the Grüne Gewolbe
I went to see the collection of porcelain, in an underground suite of
rooms at the Japanese palace. I own I was disappointed. I expected to
find a quantity of curious and exquisite Dresden china. The collection
consists in specimens of porcelain, fabricated from the earliest times
in all parts of the world. I confess a very slight inspection would have
satisfied my curiosity. But I was with a party, and I dare say we spent
two hours in these rooms, which were really vaults. At first their cool
atmosphere, after the excessive heats from which we are suffering, was
agreeable; but I got chilled, and caught a cold. I have been confined to
the house for some days, and feel myself quite incapacitated from
undergoing the fatigue of further sightseeing.
JULY 20TH.
In spite of indisposition, I have contrived to go to the theatre, to
hear _Der Freischütz_ in its native country. Shroeder Devrient is the
_prima donna_; and a pretty young _débutante_, a great favourite here,
was the Bridesmaid. The orchestra and singing were, of course, perfect;
and the music of this opera is indeed enchanting. It is much to be
regretted that the talking part is not arranged for recitative: we are
no longer accustomed to the mixture of singing and speaking, and it
grates on the ear. The imagination easily lends itself at first, and is
soon carried away by the music to admit as natural and proper discourses
in melody and singing; but the change from one to the other jars the
ear, and unhinges the fancy. We had been told that nearly a year had
been devoted to the getting up of the scenery and _diablerie_. They were
very shabby and meagre. When Linda throws open her window in her first
exquisite _scena_, some unlucky urchin had drawn an actual face on the
very oily-looking moon—a laugh through the house was inevitable.
There is an Italian company here, with a handsome _prima donna_. There
is something very antagonistic in the German and Italian operatic
schools. They despise each other mutually. Professors mostly side with
the Germans, but I am not sure that they are right.
The Opera begins at six; it is over by nine; and everybody is in bed by
ten. If you come home after that hour, the porter has a right to a fee
for being disturbed from his bed at untimely hours: as in Paris, you pay
him if you come home after twelve. If early rising conduces to health,
how very healthy the Germans ought to be! But they have other habits by
no means so consonant to our notions of what is good for the
preservation of life. Their dislike of fresh air amounts almost to
frenzy; this, joined to their smoking, and, in winter, to the close
stoves, must make their domestic hearth (only they have no hearth) very
incompatible with our tastes.
JULY 25TH.
The heat continues. Most of the wells and springs of the town are dried
up: that in our house yet affords a small supply. It is said that
Government is about to issue an order that no water, except that of the
Elbe, is to be used, except for culinary purposes. People must send to
the river (and that runs shallow) for supplies to wash their clothes and
keep their rooms clean. I do not think they use much water at any time
for the latter purpose.
The drought indeed becomes alarming. News came, the other day, that a
village was burnt to the ground, and the calamity was attributed to some
trees taking fire from the extreme dryness of the atmosphere.
Our month is at an end. We are about to undertake a long, long journey
to Venice. The dry season has defeated our hopes of ascending the Elbe
in a steamer as far as Prague. Professor Hughes, an Englishman long
established at Dresden, who receives gentlemen in his house for the
purposes of education, and whose kindness has been of the greatest use
to us, has bargained with a _Lohnkutscher_, or _voiturier_, to take us
to Prague, by way of the Saxon Switzerland; as we intend to make the
tour of that singular district. From Prague we shall make a fresh start,
and be guided by circumstances as to the manner. We hope to find some
sort of railroad after Budweis, which will abbreviate a part of our
journey.
I leave several sights unseen. I fear that sightseeing will renew my
attack of illness, and delay our leaving Dresden, and our journey
towards mountain, forest, and stream, for which this heat and drought
inspire an ardent longing. My imagination takes refuge at times in shady
spots beside murmuring rills, and I look out on the dusty Alt Markt in
despair.
When I returned from Rabenau a week or two ago, I found a grasshopper
nestled in my muslin dress, and thoughtlessly I shook it off, out of
window. That night the act weighed on my conscience. It was a stroke of
adversity for the insect, to be transported from the fresh grass and
cool streamlets of wooded Rabenau, and cast out to die in the arid,
herbless market-place of a big town. In the morning, when I opened my
eyes, to my great satisfaction, I found that my grasshopper had rebelled
against my cruelty, and had leapt back into the room; it lay evidently
in great distress on the floor. I gave it water, which it drank
greedily, and put it in a _cornet_ of paper;—that evening, M——, in her
walk, on the other side of the Elbe, took it with her, and set it free
on the grassy banks of the river. It was not its native glen of
Rabenau—but it was all I could do.
In olden times, this insect might have returned to thank me in the form
of a fairy, but the days of wonders are passed. However, pining as I am,
to repose “in close covert, by some brook,” thirsting to betake myself
to “some wide-watered shore,” I hope to be even kinder to myself than to
my victim, and in a few more days to be far, far from the dusty Alt
Markt, amid more congenial scenes.
LETTER X.
The Saxon Switzerland.
DRESDEN, 26TH AUGUST.
Adieu to Dresden—I shall probably never see it more. I cannot say that I
visited it (as far as regards the outside, for I saw no more,) under
unfavourable circumstances—for the great cold that often prevails, were
worse than the heat. Still, every act, every step is a painful exertion.
Besides, I dislike all towns; I would never willingly live in one,
summer or winter. To be near a metropolis usually—within a drive, and
visit it, is pleasant—but I never feel happy except when I live in the
palaces or secret coverts of Nature—mountain—forest—stream—or the shores
of ocean: these are my true home.
Adieu to Dresden. A long, long journey is before us. We are in a
charming ignorance of how we shall proceed, and of how much time the way
will occupy: all we know is, that we must make our way as economically
as we can to Venice, whither we are bound.
Our first destination is, as I told you, the Saxon Switzerland. We have
only time to make a limited tour in this singular region. Professor
Hughes, who has been settled for many years in Dresden, has given us
instructions how to guide our steps, so that we may see some of the most
striking points. I transcribe them, as it may be useful to you if ever
you visit these parts. I must premise that we have bargained with a
_Lohnkutscher_ to take us to Prague. We sent him and his carriage on
with my maid and our luggage, and we are to rejoin them at Arbesau, he
having provided us with another vehicle and driver for our excursion:—
“Start at five o’clock.
“Pilnitz.
“Lohmen.
“Uttervalde—walk through the valley to the Bastei, where the carriage
must again meet you.
“Leave the Bastei at latest at 3 o’clock; drive to Hochstein and
Schandau.
“Leave Schandau the same evening, at latest at 5 o’clock, for the
Wasserfall. Order a mule to meet you at the foot of the Kuhstall; walk
to the Kuhstall; descend; take the mule to the Kleine and Grosse
Winterberg.
“Leave the next morning at nine o’clock for the Prebischthor and
Hernitskretschen on a mule; take a boat for Tätchen; stop at the Bad;
order a carriage for Arbesau.”
AUGUST 27TH.
We left Dresden more than an hour later than the time appointed—a
disaster, as we were to crowd so much into one day. We took the road on
the left of the Elbe, to Pilnitz and Lohmen. The road grew more varied
as we advanced, but I looked out in vain for traces of the mountainous
region which we were to visit. The landscape was pretty, but tame, and
when we reached the little village of Uttervalde, I wondered why it was
necessary to leave the carriage; what road could be here that would not
admit a dozen waggons abreast if need were? However, in obedience to our
instructions, we did alight, and ordering the carriage to meet us at the
Bastei, we hired a sort of open sedan, a comfortable arm-chair placed on
poles carried by two men, for me; my companions were to walk, and we set
out, as it seemed, to look for wonders where none could be.
But immediately on quitting the village the portals of the mountains
opened before us, and we plunged into their recesses. It is difficult to
describe the peculiarity of this region; it differs so much from every
other. Rabenau shared in some degree in its characteristics. Generally,
when you see mountains, they seem (as they are) upraised above the
plains which are the abodes of men; lifting their mighty heads towards
heaven. In Saxony, the impression is as if the tops of the hills were
the outer circumference of the globe, strangely fissured and worn away
by the action of water. We plunge into depths of the earth; we might
fancy some sprite of upper air had forced a passage so to reach the
abode of subterranean spirits. The mystic imagination of the Germans has
indeed peopled this region with gnome and kobold, who watch over hidden
treasure. A thousand romantic legends are associated with scenes whose
aspect awakens the fancy. In uncivilized and disturbed times the
persecuted and houseless found refuge in these secret recesses from
lawless freebooters or religious bigots.
As we proceeded through the narrow ravine, the rocks rose
perpendicularly on each hand, and shut us in as with walls, but not
walls as at Via Mala, abrupt and bare. The precipices are broken into a
thousand fantastic shapes, and formed into rough columns, pillars, and
peaks numberless; with huge caverns, mighty portals, and towering
archways; the whole clothed with pines, verdant with a luxuriant growth
of various shrubs; and, but that for the most part the long drought has
silenced them, resonant with waterfalls. The stream that makes its way
in the depth has thus lost all energy and variety—it ripples murmuring
in its rocky channel. The path, ascending and descending over the rocks,
winds at its side. Sometimes the fissure nearly meets overhead, and the
sun can never shine on the stream below. There is a charm of novelty in
the scene quite inexpressible. We penetrate Nature’s secret chambers,
which she has adorned with the wildest caprice. Various ravines branch
off from the main one, and become numerous and intricate, varied by huge
caverns of strange shapes; some open to the sky, some dark and deep;
there are little verdant spots in the midst, too, where the turf was
green and velvetty, and invited us to rest. We were taken to the
particular spots selected as most remarkable for the formation or
grandeur of the rocks, or where cascades, reduced unhappily to a thread
of water, were accustomed to scatter their spray abroad. The whole way,
I must tell you, was one continued ascent, and this explains the
wondrous view we gain when we emerge again into outer air.
At length we left the ravine, and entered a forest of firs. After
traversing this we found ourselves, as if by magic, at a high elevation,
and stood upon the Bastei or Bastion. This is a vast mass of rock, that
rises 800 feet above the Elbe, in the depths and centre of which the
rent was made which we had thridded. The uttermost edge projects far
beyond the face of the precipice, and here we stood looking on a scene
so utterly different from every other, that it is difficult to describe
it. A caprice of nature is the name usually bestowed on this district;
while geologists explain how the action of water on a peculiar species
of rock has caused the appearance before us. It is still the same,
though on a gigantic and sublime scale. The earth has been broken, and
fissured, and worn away. The Elbe sweeps majestically at the foot of the
Bastei; a plain is spread beneath, closed in by an amphitheatre of huge
columnar hills, which do not, as is usually the case, begin with gradual
upland, but rise at once in shape fantastic,—isolated one from the
other. Some of the highest and most abrupt have been used as fortresses.
The sides of the precipices of the Bastei are clothed in a forest of
firs and other wood.[11] The whole scene was bathed in dazzling
sunshine. The heat was so great, that it was painful to stand on the
giddy verge, which is protected by wooden rails (for the whole district
is prepared for show); yet it was almost impossible to tear oneself
away.
There is an inn at the Bastei, where we dined. German cooking is very
bad, and we had to wait long, and were served slowly. A young Englishman
dined at the same table. In a classification of travellers, what name is
to be given to those who travel only for the sake of saying that they
have travelled? He was _doing_ his Saxon Switzerland; he had _done_ his
Italy, his Sicily; he had _done_ his sunrise on Mount Etna; and when he
should have _done_ his Germany, he would return to England to show how
destitute a traveller may be of all impression and knowledge, when they
are unable to knit themselves in soul to nature, nor are capacitated by
talents or acquirements to gain knowledge from what they see. We must
become a part of the scenes around us, and they must mingle and become a
portion of us, or we see without seeing and study without learning.
There is no good, no knowledge, unless we can go out from, and take some
of the external into, ourselves: this is the secret of mathematics as
well as of poetry.
We indulged, as well we might, in gazing delightedly from this
battlement of nature on the magnificent scene around; and then we turned
to the prosaic part of travelling, the necessity of getting on. Our
driver (provided by the master _voiturier_ who was to take us to Prague)
had been told to meet us at the Bastei; he pretended that this was
impossible; that no carriage ever came up, and we must walk some three
or four miles to join him. We found all this to be utterly false, and
that the usual custom was for the carriages to come up to the Bastei.
With a burning sun above, and a good deal of labour before us, we were
not willing to encounter any unnecessary fatigue: so we sent a man to
order the carriage to come to us. It came; but the _kutscher_ refused to
take us unless we paid him something extra. This was an obvious piece of
rascality, and we begged our friend, who was absolute master of German,
to remonstrate with him. But he had, during his long stay in this
country, acquired too much _laisser-aller_ for our impatient English
natures. Nothing can equal the slow style in which a German makes a
bargain, or discusses a disputed point. He never thinks that he can
argue with any success, unless he puts one hand on the other’s shoulder,
and brings his face close to him. Indeed, this habit of coming so very
near in conversation is, as far as I remarked, usual in Germany. I have
often edged off till I got into a corner, and then there was no help
but, if possible, to run away. To return to our kutscher. With ignorant
and deaf ears we saw him and our friend argue and re-argue the point
while time flew. Our instructions were, to leave the Bastei at three at
latest; it was now long past four. Why not yield to the demand? I
believe travellers alone know the swelling indignation and obstinate
resistance with which, at the worst of times, they meet extortion. We
_would_ not yield; and finding our friend still vainly discussing,
another among us took our books and cloaks from the carriage, and,
pumping up the only German words he could command, said to the
fellow:—“_Kannen sie nach Dresden gehen._” If he had been master, he
might have taken us at our word; but he knew we should meet his master
at Arbesau, so he took fright and consented, without extra pay, to take
us to Schandau. He had been engaged to take us some four miles beyond;
but we (foolishly enough) consented to be satisfied with being driven so
far.
Descending from the Bastei, the road wound round hills, with a stream on
the other hand. Schandau is thus placed, and it is a very pretty country
inn; the stream in front, with a bridge, and before a garden, secluded
and peaceful, reminded one of the inn at Burford Bridge, near Boxhill.
It would have been as well to remain here could we have given three
instead of two days to our excursion. But this was impossible; and we
were anxious, as evening was advancing, to get on. We asked if we could
have a _calèche_ to take us to the foot of the Kuhstall, which is the
last point where a carriage is serviceable; the rest of the excursion
must be performed on foot, in chairs, or on mules.
Our instructions bid us leave Schandau by five at latest; it was now
nearly six: so we begged them to hasten with the carriage. Fair promises
were given, and we loitered away half an hour in the garden of the inn,
and then we grew impatient. After a time it became apparent that the
people were playing the very usual trick of delaying bringing a
carriage, till too late, so to force us to sleep at their inn. We were
rather slow at arriving at this conviction, and not the less resolute to
resist the imposition; indeed, yielding would put us to great
inconvenience. After answering our expostulations for some time with
false promises, they at last impudently declared that we could not have
a carriage. Our only resource was the fellow who brought us from
Dresden, and who by compact ought at once to have taken us to the place
whither we wished to go. Two thalers bribed him, and he agreed to
proceed. We asked for a guide, and engaged him; but, at setting off from
Schandau, he said it was impossible for a lady to reach the Grosse
Winterberg that night, and he refused to go.
On the whole, with evening closing in, the guide deserting, and several
miles before us, to sleep at Schandau seemed our best resource; but we
would not; the cool evening air was pleasant. I did not object to a
little adventure. We should, it is true, miss some points usually
visited, but we should gain a great object with the tourist—that of
viewing the Grosse Winterberg by moonlight and at sunrise;—we went on,
therefore, the road winding at the base of wooded hills, till we reached
the foot of the Kuhstall. The mules were all gone, and so were the
guides. A countryman who was doing work at the inn of the Grosse
Winterberg, offered to show us the way thither, and leaving the
carriage, and loading the man with books and carpet-bag, we set out.
We had been obliged to give up the idea of viewing Kuhstall and the
Kleine Winterberg, and aimed only at reaching the Grosse, which is
situated at the top of a very high hill. It was now past eight o’clock,
and evening had closed in. The hill we climbed was clothed with pines,
and it was impossible to conceive a more fatiguing ascent. The soil was
sand, into which we sank to our ankles, as we toiled up. No breath of
air stirred the trees. After the first chill which followed sunset, the
night became excessively warm; shut in as we were by trees, we were
oppressed by heat and toil. To add to our troubles, it soon grew
pitch-dark—not a star-beam penetrated the trees—our guide went on
before, and we provided him with a cigar, the light of which alone
showed us where he was; and now and then my companions struck sparks
from a flint to throw transient radiance on the path, which bordered (I
believe, but we could see nothing) a steep precipice on one hand; on the
other, we had the broken surface of the mountain, and the boughs of the
pines overhead. The way seemed endless—but as we had conquered the
people at Schandau, and got our own way, we would not be dispirited—and
laughed at our difficulties—and toiled up the steep, plunging as we went
deep into the sand. At last we reached the top of the hill, and another
half hour brought us to the inn. It was eleven o’clock—so you may
imagine that the way had been long, and that we were not a little
fatigued.
Late as it was, we determined to reward ourselves with a little
amusement. Supper was ordered—and we ordered also three Bohemian girls
with their harps. Here, as in Wales, harps form a part of the
entertainment given to travellers at the inns; but in Bohemia, they are
played by girls instead of men. The harpists were gone, it was so late;
but at our call they came, and played and sang several wild national
airs. We were now on the frontiers of Bohemia, whence the race of
Gipsies was said in old times to have emigrated. I do not know whether
there was any Gipsy blood in these girls—their eyes had not the peculiar
cast of the race. One of the three was very handsome, and looked
proud—as indeed she was—and listened with an air of haughty disdain to
every compliment. They had on their faces, that which too often rests on
the countenances of the lower order of Germans—an expression of
sullenness. I soon grew too tired to listen, and left them playing. The
waning moon rose over the sea of hills on which I looked from my window;
I was almost too fatigued to see. At sunrise I started up to gaze;—the
glory of awakening day was on the mountain tops, which looked more like
a stormy ocean than a scene of earth. I scarcely know what I saw; my
eyes were drooping with sleep; I knew my companions would not rise, so I
went again to bed, and when I awoke, it seemed as if I had dreamed of a
glorious sunrise in fairy-land. I looked from the tiny casement of my
room—we were on the highest of many hundred hills, nearly two thousand
feet above the level of the sea, and commanded a wide horizon, inclosing
a district strangely convulsed, wildly heaped up with mountains and
rocks of various and fantastic shapes, clothed with wood.
Murray speaks of the inn at the Grosse Winterberg as two or three
separate huts, where sorry accommodation may be obtained. This state of
things is reformed. On the highest pinnacle of the mountain is a very
good country inn, such as may remind the traveller of those found in
North Wales. The host was very civil, and we had to put his civility to
the test. I had put a quantity of thaler notes in my writing-desk, and
this had gone with our luggage; by a miscalculation, I had not brought
enough of the dirty paper for our exclusion, and the less that I had
expected to pay for our carriage at Prague. But the fellow who drove us
insisted on the money, twelve thalers, before he left us at Schandau;
two more we had to give him to take us to the foot of the hill of the
Grosse Winterberg; and this had entirely drained us. The master of the
inn readily agreed to pass us on to the host at Tätchen, who again would
trust us till we reached Arbesau, and were possessed of our dear
thalers. It is impossible to express the sense of littleness that comes
over one when, in travelling, one has no money at all. Gulliver, in the
palm of the hand of the Brobdignagian reaper, could not have felt
smaller, till we received our host’s ready consent to trust us.
We ought to have left this eagle’s nest on a rock at seven, or, at
latest, at nine o’clock. But loitering was the order of the day; and I
resolved to give way—to make no remonstrance—and see how long we should
linger. We went up to a terrace on the roof of the house, to see a yet
wider prospect; we looked at the different specimens of Bohemian glass;
we listened to the harpists. My mule was brought; but when three of the
party were assembled, a fourth was missing; and when he came, another
had gone. We got away, at last, at one o’clock.
Immediately on leaving this elevated spot, we plunged down a ravine
clothed with firs, just such a one, I suppose, as we had climbed, only
it led in an opposite direction. We were soon told that we had crossed
the frontier line, and were in Bohemia. The toil was considerable; the
descent so steep, that to walk had been less fatiguing; but, as I was
about to get off my mule, another ascent began; and very high and steep
it proved till we reached a pinnacle abutting over the side of the
mountain, which might almost rival the Bastei. The view was different:
the absence of the river rendered it less beautiful. From the side of
this rock springs the Presbichthor—a natural arch of vast size, that
spans a ravine. The face of the rock from which it springs is cut into
terraces; and you climb higher and higher, from one to the other, and
reach the summit of the arch. The scene is inconceivably wild. Earth
looks rent, convulsed, shattered—isolated, disjointed mountains, rising
abruptly from the plain, their sides clothed by firs, are spread around.
The majestic arch forms an object of great beauty in the midst. There is
an inn here for the refreshment of travellers. We only obtained,
however, some bad bread and cheese.
The descent was very abrupt and fatiguing. I walked most part of the way
till we reached the Kamnitz, a large stream, or rather river. This added
softness, yet movement, to the scene, but took from its singularity. The
way was long, but we reached at last Hirniskretschen, where there is a
very dirty inn, crowded by travellers—traders, they seemed to be. No
rustic holiday inn was this; nor one kept for the accommodation of
tourists, but one for the use of the lower order of country people.
Where extortion is not manifest, we ought not to quarrel with the higher
prices of hotels in show places, since they are there—oases of
civilisation amidst the desert of native dirt and discomfort—for our
sole use; and they must be maintained by what they gain during seasons
of tours. The singular filth and squalid appearance of this wretched
place made us regard even the misdeeds of Schandau leniently.
This village is on the Elbe; and gladly we hired a boat, and exchanged
the fatiguing descent of mountain paths for the repose of being carried
swiftly and smoothly down the river. In truth, we did not see the Elbe
to advantage. On account of the long drought, it had shrunk in its bed:
but still a majestic river, sweeping between mountainous banks, always
presents varied and agreeable prospects, which seem all peace and
enjoyment; and, after our two days of toil, we were right glad of the
repose.
Midway on our voyage, we came to the Austrian frontier. The Austrian
Government has not joined the league which unites the rest of Germany,
and has put an end to the annoyance a traveller suffered, passing in one
day the frontiers of several States, and stopped, and his luggage
examined at each. However, though the Austrian preserves his right to
annoy, he amiably abstained. I had given my passport to my maid, but was
not even obliged to get out of the boat to shew myself, the explanation
given by my companions being received even with deference. A
custom-house officer stepped into the boat: eight gute-groschen (a piece
of money similar in value to a shilling) caused him at once to exchange
an appearance of extreme official severity to the excess of considerate
courtesy. We were detained but a few minutes, and found ourselves
admitted in the much-feared Austria with less trouble than we ever
before passed a frontier.
Towards sunset we arrived at Tätchen; our boatmen and the bill at the
Grosse Winterberg were defrayed by the master of the hotel here. We
ordered dinner, and my friends went to bathe in the Elbe. We passed an
hour or two pleasantly, but after this, grew uneasy. It was our wish to
get on beyond Arbesau that same night, that we might reach Prague on the
following day. But the Germans never hurry. It was past six before we
got a very bad dinner, with black bread, which nothing but long habit
would render edible; and then we had to wait for the carriage, or rather
cart, which was to take us on. The first hour or two after sunset was
very chilly: that passed, the usual heat returned. I was excessively
fatigued, and the jolting of our vehicle was distressing. It seemed as
if we should never arrive; and it was past midnight before we entered
the open court-yard of the inn, where all slept silently beneath the
moon except the dog left by our _voiturier_ to guard the carriage. In
our earnestness to get on we were unreasonable enough to call our
coachman up and beg him to set off. He was very angry at being disturbed
by our outrageous design; and returned grumbling to his straw: for these
people never undress, but turn in among straw in the stables, close to
their horses. I confess I was not sorry for the ill success of our
magnanimous design. We got some tea and some tubs of water, and these
were much more suited to us.
LETTER XI.
Baths of Töplitz.—Lobositz.—Arrival at Prague.
AUGUST 30TH.
If we annoyed our kutscher by rousing him and desiring to set out at
twelve at night, he was much more annoyed at our dilatoriness in the
morning. We paid our accumulated account here, and became again
independent of the world.
The country round Arbesau is the scene of one of the most fatal of the
battles, the defeat of Vandamme, which caused the overthrow of Napoleon.
The landscape is otherwise devoid of interest. Bare, sandy uplands are
spread around without tree or inclosure. I dare say if we looked about,
we should discover some rift in the earth, as at Rabenau, and descend
amidst shady woods, and murmuring streams, and strange romantic rocks. A
subterranean habitation, a gnome may be supposed to have formed, to lure
a sylphid to his deep abode, which is all but incommunicable with upper
air.
And this idea was almost realised, as descending the steep from Arbesau
we reached Töplitz, which is situated in a valley on the banks of the
Saubach. I hear that the country around is beautiful: of this we could
see little. Our first achievement, after ordering dinner, was to visit
the Baths. Anything more delicious you cannot imagine. Instead of
entering a dirty coffin, as at Kissingen, or the sort of sarcophagus
usually used for such purpose, one corner of the lofty and comparatively
spacious room in which you bathe is lowered, and you go down a few
marble steps into a basin of the same material, filled with water of
delightful temperature and pellucid clearness. I never experienced a
more agreeable bath. After dinner we wandered about the public gardens,
which are very pretty, and diversified with sheets of water, and ate
ices. Here we had the first specimen of a currency which is very odd,
and puts strangers off their guard. We had left thalers, which are three
shillings, and Bavarian florins, which are two francs, for Austrian
florins, which value two shillings. We were surprised to receive our
bill for our dinner, at Töplitz, nearly thirteen florins. We
expostulated, and it was explained: Murray also gave us the key to this
mystery—all pecuniary transactions are carried on in a nominal currency,
called _schein_, two and a half in name larger than the _müntz_, which
is the real currency. After a complicated sum in arithmetic—multiplying
our bill by two, and then dividing it by five—we found our dinner (for
four) cost us five florins twelve kreutzers. The annoyance of receiving
a bill double what it ought to be, thus agreeably relieved by finding it
reduced to less than half, pacifies the traveller, and takes away his
power of discovering whether it is much or little in its mitigated
state. We slept this night at a dirty inn at Lobositz.
31ST AUGUST.
We reached Prague this evening, stopping on our way at Doxan. The
country is fertile and pleasant, but not striking. In the afternoon we
saw Prague as we thought close, and expected to reach it in five
minutes:—I think we were about two hours. Prague lies on the banks of
the Moldau, and a part of the city climbs the height by which we
descended; but the entrance is on the other side of the river, at the
other extremity of the town; and the road makes a long circuit, sweeping
round the hill and crossing the river at some distance from the gate.
Looking down on Prague from the height, and with it thus in view so
long, as we descended, it wore a most picturesque and almost eastern
aspect, crowned as it is with minarets, domes, and spires.
The portion of Prague that lies on the banks of the river, is divided
into an old and new town. The Neustadt, built by the Emperor Charles IV.
in 1348 (the date of this novelty gives a delightful air of
venerableness to the older portions of the city), was at first separated
from the rest of the city by a ditch. This is now filled up, and gives
the name to the handsomest street of the new town—the Graben—in which
the best hotels are situated. There was no room at the Schwarzes Ross,
which is considered the best; so we went to the Drei Linden, which we
find comfortable.
We had intended proceeding immediately; but one of my companions is
indisposed, and accordingly we remain a day at Prague. I write this
letter, and now I am told the carriage is ready, and I am going out to
see some of the lions. I shall have time for few, for many hours have
been wasted this morning, and but short space of daylight
remains.—Adieu.
END OF VOL. I.
LONDON:
BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
-----
Footnote 1:
Assassination is of frequent occurrence in Italy: these are
perpetrated chiefly from jealousy. There are crimes frequent with us
and the French of which they are never guilty. Brutal murders
committed for “filthy lucre” do not occur among them. We never hear of
hospitality violated, or love used as a cloak that the murderers may
possess themselves of some trifle more or less of property. Their acts
of violence are, indeed, assassinations, committed in the heat of the
moment—never cold-blooded. Even the history of their banditti was full
of redeeming traits, as long as they only acted for themselves and
were not employed by government. There is plenty of cheating in
Italy—not more, perhaps, than elsewhere, only the system is more
artfully arranged; but there is no domestic robbery. I lived four
years in Tuscany. I was told that the servant who managed my
expenditure cheated me dreadfully, and had reason to know that during
that time she saved nearly a hundred crowns: but I never at any time,
when stationary or travelling, was robbed of the smallest coin or the
most trifling article of property. On the contrary, instances of
scrupulous honesty are familiar to all travellers in Italy, as
practised among the poorest peasantry.
Footnote 2:
We have since imported wine from him, and the transaction has turned
out quite successful.
Footnote 3:
Crossing lately from Boulogne to Folkestone, I find, that in the new
hotel still in progress, but partly opened, at the latter place, they
are following this plan; and a printed tariff is hung up in each room.
All is clean and comfortable, and the attendants civil and willing. If
it keeps its promise, it will do well; and strangers especially will
be glad to avoid the pretending exorbitancy of Dover.—(_Note 1844._)
Footnote 4:
Mr. Hayward, in the interesting account with which he has favoured his
friends of his perilous journey over the Splugen in 1834. Mr. Hayward
says, that the storm in question was what is called there Wolkenbruch,
(cloud-break or water-spout). A mass of clouds, surcharged with
electric matter and rain, which had been collecting for weeks along
the whole range of the Alps, came down at last like an avalanche from
the sky. I once witnessed a phenomenon of this sort at Genoa. The
Italians called it a Meteora. A cloud, surcharged with electricity and
water, burst above our heads in one torrent of what was rather a
cataract than rain. It lasted about twenty minutes, and sufficed to
carry away all the bridges over the Bisanzio, flowing between Genoa
and Albaro, and to lay flat all the walls which in that hilly country
support the soil—so that the landscape was opened and greatly
improved. Cottages, cattle, and even persons were carried away. In the
Alps, such a rush of water from the heavens was aided by the torrents
that rushed from the mountain tops, and a sudden melting of snows.
Footnote 5:
“______________________retired leisure,
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure.”
MILTON’S “PENSEROSO.”
Footnote 6:
Dante. Paradiso; Canto 33.
Footnote 7:
Wordsworth.
Footnote 8:
It is enough to refer to M. Andryane’s account of his imprisonment in
the fortress of Spielburg to justify these words. The barbarities of
fabled tyrants fall far short of the cold-blooded tortures imagined
and inflicted by this despot.
Footnote 9:
Characteristic songs of Shelley, by Henry Hugh Pearson, Esq. Published
by Alfred Novello.
Footnote 10:
Giotto and Francesca and other Poems, by A. A. Knox, Esq.
Footnote 11:
A week or two after our visit this wood caught fire, from the effects,
it is said, of the drought, and was entirely consumed. We heard that
the scene, instead of being injured, was improved, as thus laid bare,
the strange characteristics of the region became more distinct.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
Page Changed from Changed to
46 Treisam, which now steals Dreisam, which now steals
murmuring between its murmuring between its
144 Paris; and proceeded by the Paris; and proceeded by the
steamer, up the Some steamer, up the Saône
228 Eisengieserei, or iron-foundry, Eisengiesserei, or iron-foundry,
just outside the just outside the
248 we have La Dame Blanche—Die we have La Dame Blanche—Die
weise Frau—instead weisse Frau—instead
248 extended since the day when extended since the day when
Figaro and the Zauberflaüte Figaro and the Zauberflöte
● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
● Used numbers for footnotes, placing them all at the end of the last
chapter.
● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
● The caret (^) serves as a superscript indicator, applicable to
individual characters (like 2^d) and even entire phrases (like
1^{st}).