A Rhine Journey. Frankfort. Mainz. Sail down the Rhine. Cologne.
Bonn. The Seven Mountains. Worms. Spire. Heidelberg. Tausig's
Death.
ROLANDSECK AM RHEIN, _July 14, 1871_.
You will be surprised to get this letter, dated from a little village on
the Rhine, and I shall proceed to tell you how I came here, if the
vilest of vile paper and pens will permit. I wrote a letter to L. just
before I left Berlin, in which I informed her that I meant to go on a
little trip with a party of friends, as Berlin in summer is malarious,
and I felt the need of a change.
Thursday a week ago we left Berlin and rode straight through to
Frankfort. It was a long journey, and lasted from six o'clock in the
morning until ten at night. I got up at four in the morning in a most
halcyon frame of mind. In fact, I felt as if I were going to get
married, owing to my putting on everything new from top to toe! The
laundress had made such ravages upon my linen that I found myself
suddenly obliged to replenish throughout, and consequently I arrayed
myself with great satisfaction in new stockings, new under-clothes, new
flannel, new skirts, new hat, new veil and new shoes to _boot_! I put on
my black silk short suit, took my bag and shawl, and sallied to the
station, where I found the others waiting for me.
It was a lovely ride from Berlin to Frankfort, and having been shut up
in a city for nearly two years, the country appeared perfectly charming
and new to me, and every little smiling tuft of daisies had a special
significance. I don't know whether you stopped at Frankfort on your
travels. I fell dead in love with it, and liked it better than any part
of Germany I have seen. It is such a quiet town and has such an air of
elegance, and there are such lovely walks all about. Everything looks so
clean, and the streets are so handsomely laid out, and then there are no
_smells_, as there are in Berlin. The river flows all along the outside
of the city, and the promenade along it is delightful. I went to see the
house where my adorable Goethe was born, and afterward walked over the
bridge over which he used to go to school. There was a gilded cock
perched upon it, which he used to be very fond of as a child. We saw his
statue, and then visited the Museum where was Danecker's great
masterpiece, Ariadne sitting on the Panther. It is the most exquisite
thing, and it is cut out of one solid block of Carrara marble. Through a
pink curtain a rosy light is thrown on it from above, which gives the
marble a delicious tinge. Strange that he should have risen to such a
poetic conception, and never done anything afterwards of importance.
We went into a great room where life-size pictures of all the Emperors
of Germany were. Some of them are very handsome men, and the Latin
mottoes underneath are very funny. One of them was: "If you don't know
how to hold your tongue, you'll never know the right place to speak." I
hope P. will keep L. well at her Latin and her history, and teach her
something about architecture and mythology, for these one needs to know
when one travels abroad. We only stayed one day in Frankfort, for there
isn't a great deal to be seen there. The afternoon we spent in walking
about and in sitting on logs by the river-side. Oh, what a sweet place
one of those beautiful villas by the swiftly flowing river would be to
live in!
We left Frankfort at seven P. M., and rode to Mainz, which is only a
ride of two hours, I believe. As we came over the railroad bridge into
the town, we got our first glimpse of the Rhine, and it was a splendid
sight. Our hotel was very near the river, and as our rooms were front
rooms, and three stories up, we had a magnificent view of it. In the
evening it was so fascinating to watch the lights on the water and the
boats plying up and down, that it was long before we could make up our
minds to leave the windows and go to bed. At Mainz we saw our first
cathedral. It is six hundred years old, and had suffered six times by
fire, but it was very fine, notwithstanding. We spent a long time
studying it out. Afterwards we visited another church and ascended a
tower which was built 30, B. C. It seemed almost as firm as the day it
was finished. The view from it is magnificent, and the top of it is all
overgrown with harebells, golden rod and grass. It was very picturesque.
On Sunday evening we took the boat for Cologne which we reached at four
o'clock in the afternoon. Oh, that sail down the Rhine was too
delicious! The weather was perfect, and everything seemed to me like a
fairy tale. It is one of the most beautiful parts of the Rhine, and it
was too lovely to see those old castles in every degree of ruin, jutting
out over the steep rocks, so high in the air, and then the vineyards
sloping down the hillsides to the water's edge. The whole lay of the
land was so exquisite. I didn't wonder that it is so celebrated, and
that so much has been written about it. A funny old Englishman came and
sat beside me, and we had a long conversation, pretty much as follows:
Englishman.--"England is no doubt the finest country in the world. You
know the people there are so enormous rich, they can do as they please."
"Ah, indeed," said I, "have you travelled much in Germany?" "O yes! I've
been all over Germany. I come up the Rhine every year," said he. "It's
all very pretty when you've never seen it before, but it's nothing to me
now." "Have you been to Berlin?" asked I. "O yes," said he. "Shouldn't
want to live there. Your Prussians are so confounded arrogant. They
think they're the greatest people in the world." "How did you like
Dresden?" said I. "Stupid hole," said he. "Leipsic?" "Dull town."
"Stuttgardt?" "Quite pretty." "Kissingen?" "'Orrible place, nothing but
fanatics; every other day a Saint's day, and the shops shut up."
"Wiesbaden?" "Very fine place." "Ems?" "Never been to Hems." "Mainz?"
"Nasty hole." "Cologne?" "Stinking place." "Munich?" "Dreadful
unhealthy. They have fevers there, typhus, etc. _I_ call 'em fevers."
"How do you like the Rhine wines?" "Don't like them at all. It's very
seldom a man gets to drink a decent glass of wine here. I don't drink
'em at all. I like a glass of port." "Beer?" "O, the German beer isn't
fit to drink. The English beer is the best in the world. German beer is
'orrible bad stuff. Nothing but slops,--slops!" Here I burst out
laughing, for his flattering descriptions were too much for me. He gave
me a quizzical look and said, "Well, I'm glad I made you laugh. You're
from America, aren't you?" "Yes," said I. "Very unhealthy place, I'm
told." "Indeed? I never heard so," said I. "O yes, _very_!" said he.
Then he went off, and after a long while he returned. "I've been
asleep," said he, "I've slept two hours and a half, all through the fine
scenery." "_What!_" said I, "don't you enjoy it?" "No, I don't enjoy it
at all." Then he told me he lived in Rotterdam, and that I must come to
Holland. He was very complaisant over the Dutch, whom he said were
"nice, decent people, like the English. There's nothing of the German in
them," said he, "they're quite another people--not so
en-_thu_si-_as_tic,"--with a contemptuous air. We got out at Cologne,
and he went on to his dear Rotterdam. So I saw him no more.
Oh! isn't the Cologne Cathedral magnificent? It quite took my breath
away as I entered it. The priests were just having vespers as we went
in, and there was scarcely a person in the cathedral beside. It was so
solemn and so touching to see them all by themselves intoning the
prayers, their voices swelling and falling in that vast place. And when
the superb organ struck up, and they began to sing a hymn, so wildly
sweet, with an interlude most beautifully worked up at the end of each
line by the organist--as we sat there under those great arches which
soar up to such an immense height, I felt as if I were in Heaven.
* * *
ANDERNACH, _July 16, 1871_.
I believe I left off in my last with our arrival at Cologne, of which I
saw very little, as I was extremely tired, and remained at the hotel.
The Cathedral was, of course, the main point of interest, and that I saw
thoroughly, as I went to it twice, and spent a number of hours each
time. I was entirely carried away by its beauty and grandeur, as
everybody must be. The descriptions I had heard and the photographs I
had seen of it didn't prepare me at all. The _height_ of the great pile
is one of the most astounding things, I think. The three and four story
houses about it look like huts beside it. Beside the Cathedral I only
saw the church where the eleven thousand virgins are buried, but that
was more curious than beautiful.--I was much taken down by the shops in
Cologne, which I think much finer than the Berlin ones, and saw no end
of things in the windows I should like to have bought. The cravats alone
quite turned my head!
We only spent two days in Cologne, and then sailed for Bonn, which is
but a very short distance. Here we were in a hotel directly upon the
river, and I had a sweet little room quite to myself. The view up and
down the river was superb, and we could see the Seven Mountains most
beautifully. Bonn is the most quiet, sleepy little town you can imagine,
and just the place to study, I should think. We saw the house where
Beethoven was born, a little yellow, two-story house, and then we
visited the Minster, which is nine hundred years old. We saw there a
tomb devoted to the memory of the first architect of the Cologne
Cathedral, with his statue lying upon it. He had a severely beautiful
face, and I could very well imagine him capable of such a great
conception. We had great difficulty in getting a dinner at Bonn, as,
being a university town, the students gobble up everything. Finally, we
found a little restaurant where they got us up one, consisting of steak
and potatoes. After dinner I went to walk with Mr. S. and we ate
cherries all the way, and finally sat down on a bench by the river's
side, where we had an enchanting view. Then we went back to the hotel,
and I went directly to bed. It was delicious to lie there and hear the
little waves washing up outside my window. It is just the place for a
honey-moon--so out of the world as it seems, and with none of the
activity and bustle of other cities.
At six o'clock the next morning we took the boat, and in about half an
hour we landed at a little town on the side of the river opposite to
Bonn, and began our pedestrian tour through the Seven Mountains, of
which we ascended and descended four. They were all very steep and
difficult to climb, and it reminded me of my trip to Mount Mansfield,
years ago, only _then_ we had horses. We spent the night on one of
them, the Löwenberg (Lion-mountain). This was a funny experience, as all
we five ladies had to sleep in one room, and in one great bed of straw
made up on the floor. The fleas bit us all night, so we did not sleep
_too_ much. I mentioned the little fact to the servant next day, to
which she replied, "Yes, when you aren't used to fleas and bed-bugs, it
_is_ hard to sleep!" I agreed with her perfectly!--Our walk was
enchanting in spite of the difficulty of the ascent, and of the fact
that all of us had satchels slung over our shoulders, and a shawl and
umbrella to carry, which made locomotion rather difficult. We were in
the sylvan shades, following delicious footpaths scented with flowers,
and with the birds singing and trilling as loud as they could over our
heads.
It was heavenly on the Löwenberg, for the view was glorious on every
side, and it seemed as if we were on the highest peak in the universe. I
sat for hours looking over the lovely country and following the
meanderings of the Rhine. The atmospheric effects produced by the sunset
were wonderful, and when it got to be nine o'clock we saw the lights
twinkle up one by one from the distant villages below like little
earth-stars--reflections of the heavenly ones above. The last mountain
we ascended was the Drachenfels (Dragon-rock), and a fearful pull it
was. The three others had been so easy, comparatively, that we none of
us knew what we were in for. Soon found out, though! It was like trying
to go up a wall, it was so steep. But when we got up we were rewarded,
for the view was superb, and there was an interesting old Roman ruin up
there. We wandered all about, and got an excellent dinner, and then
came down late in the afternoon, took a row boat and rowed across the
Rhine to Rolandseck--a fashionable watering place, and as charming as
German towns have a way of being.
* * *
GOTHA, _July 27, 1871_.
Since I wrote you from Andernach I have been travelling steadily. The
whole party except Mrs. V. N. and myself made a pedestrian tour along
the Rhine from Rolandseck to Bingen, a distance of sixty miles. I
started to walk, but when I had gone fifteen miles I gave out, and was
glad to take the boat. Mrs. V. N. was an invalid and couldn't walk, so I
took charge of her, and we would travel on together. When we got to the
station where we had agreed to wait for the others, I would seat her
somewhere with the bags of the party piled up around her, and then I
would make a sortie, look at the hotels, and engage our rooms.
We saw the Rhine from Cologne to Worms very thoroughly--for we kept
stopping all along. It is truly magnificent, and nothing can be more
interesting and picturesque than those old ruined castles which look as
if they had grown there. Bingen is the sweetest place, and just the spot
to spend a summer. We travelled from there to Worms, which is a
delightful old city. We were there only an hour or two, but the walk
from the boat to the cars was through the prettiest part of it, I should
judge, and was very romantic, through winding walks overshadowed with
trees. We saw that great Luther monument there, which is most imposing.
The exterior of the Cathedral is splendid, and in quite another style
of architecture from the Cologne Cathedral. From Worms we went to Spire,
in order to see the Cathedral there, which is superb, and very
celebrated. It was founded in 1030 by Conrad the Second, as a burial
place for himself and his successors. It has no stained windows at all,
even in the chancel, which surprised me, but the frescoes and the whole
interior colouring are gorgeous in the extreme. It is in the Romanesque
style of architecture, and is so entirely different from the Cologne
Cathedral that it was very interesting, but there's nothing equal to the
Gothic, after all.
From Spire we went to Heidelberg. I was enchanted with Heidelberg. It is
the most romantic and beautiful place I was ever in. The Castle is the
prince of ruins. I had made up my mind all along that I was going to
enjoy myself at Heidelberg, for my friend Dr. S. was studying there, and
I knew I should have him to go about with. So I had been urging the
party to go there from the first. As soon as we arrived, off I went to
find him, which I soon accomplished. He was very glad to see me, and put
himself at once at my disposal. You know the S.'s used to live at
Heidelberg, among other places, so he knows it all by heart. After
dinner we all went up to the Castle, of course. I was very sorry that I
had never read Hyperion. We had to ascend a long hill before we got to
it, but the weather was perfect, so we didn't mind. It is so high up
that the view of the town and of the Neckar winding through it, with the
wooded hills on the opposite shore, is panoramic.
The Castle itself is an enormous ruin, and very richly ornamented. Ivy
two hundred years old climbs over it in great luxuriance. We passed
through a gateway over which stand two stone knights which are said to
change places with each other at midnight, and there are all sorts of
charming stories like that connected with the place. We saw a
beautifully carved stone archway which was put up in a single night, in
honour of somebody's birthday, and a monument with an inscription over
it stood in one corner of the grounds, stating that here had stood some
distinguished personage (I always forget all the names, unluckily, but
"the _principle_ remains the same"), when the Castle was being besieged
by the French. Two balls came from opposite directions, passed close by
him, and struck against each other, miraculously leaving him unharmed!
After we had walked around the outside of the Castle sufficiently we
went inside. It took us a long time to go over it, it was so large. We
saw the stone dungeon, which was called the "Never Empty," because
somebody was always confined there--a dreadful hole, and it must have
been in perfect darkness--and we saw the great Heidelberg cask which had
a scaffolding on the top of it big enough to dance a quadrille on. But
the finest of everything was the ascending of the tower. Just as we got
to the top of it, and had begun to take in the magnificent scenery, an
orchestra at a little distance below struck up Wagner's "Kaiser March."
It was the one touch which was needed to make the _ensemble_ perfect. On
one side the landscape lay far below us, with the silver river winding
through it; on the other the hills rose behind the Castle to an immense
height, and with the greatest boldness of outline. The tops were thickly
wooded, and lower down the trees were beautifully grouped, and the
velvety turf rolled and swelled to the foot of the Castle. The sun was
just setting in a clear sky, and cast long shadows athwart the scene,
and I thought I had never seen anything more striking. Then to hear
Wagner's Kaiser March by a well-trained orchestra come soaring up, made
a combination such as one gets perhaps not more than once in a
life-time.
The march is superb, so pompous and majestic, and with delicious
melodies occasionally interwoven through it. Wagner's melodies are so
heavily and intoxicatingly sweet, that they are almost narcotic. His
music excites a set of emotions that no other music does, and he is a
great original. It has the power of expressing longing and aspiration to
a wonderful degree, and it always seems to me as if two impulses were
continually trying to get the mastery. The one is the embodiment of all
those vague yearnings of the soul to burst its prison house, and the
other is the cradling of the body in the lap of pleasure. I always feel
as if I should like to swoon away when I hear his compositions. Then his
harmonies are so strangely seductive, so complicated, so "grossartig,"
as the Germans say, and so peculiar! Oh, I have an immense admiration
for him! He thinks that music is not the impersonation of an idea, but
that it _is_ the idea.
But to return to the Castle.--We stayed up in the tower for some time,
and then we made the tour of the interior. Afterwards we walked and sat
about until all the party thought it was time to go back to the hotel
Dr. S. and I thought we would stay up there to supper. So we went where
the orchestra was playing, which was in an enclosed space near the
Castle. We took our seats at a little table in the open air, and ordered
a delicious little supper, also
"A bottle of wine
To make us shine"
in _conversation!_--and so glided by the most ideal evening, as far as
surroundings go, that I ever spent.
In our hotel at Heidelberg I kept hearing a man play splendidly in the
room below us, and every time we passed his door it was open, and we
could partly see the interior of a charming room with a grand piano in
it, at which he was seated. A pretty woman was always lying back in the
corner of the sofa listening to him, apparently. The presence of a large
wax doll indicated that there must be a child about, and the perfume of
flowers stole through the open doorway. My interest was at once excited
in these people, and I said to myself as I heard this gentleman practice
every day, "This must be some artist passing the summer here and getting
up his winter programme." Accordingly, on Sunday afternoon when he was
playing beautifully, I roused myself up and enquired of a servant who he
was. "Nicolai Rubinstein, from St. Petersburg," replied she. He is the
brother of the great Anton Rubinstein, and is nearly as fine a pianist.
I know a scholar of Tausig's who had studied with him, and Tausig had a
high opinion of him.
Oh, isn't it _dreadful_? When we were at Bingen we saw the news of
Tausig's DEATH in the paper! He died at Leipsic, on the 17th of July, of
typhus fever, brought on by over-taxing his musical memory. It was a
dreadful blow to me, as you may imagine, and when I think of his
wonderful playing silenced forever, and comparatively in the beginning
of his career, I cannot get reconciled to it. If you could have heard
those matchlessly trained fingers of his, you would be able to
sympathize with me on the subject. I had counted so on hearing him next
winter, for he gave no concerts in Berlin last winter. He was only
thirty-one years old!