Deals in order of seniority with two of the hills on which Prague
stands. First in order, Vy[vs]ehrad, with its memories of Libu[vs]a and
her supernatural gift. Refers also to one P[vr]emysl, Libu[vs]a's chosen
consort, and the long line of rulers his descendants. Tells of how the
foundations of the Hrad[vs]any were laid according to Libu[vs]'s
instructions. Tries to describe the Hrad[vs]any as seen to-day,
inadequately be it admitted, but illustrations are added in order to
help the reader's comprehension of this crowning glory of Prague. Tells
a story or two about sentries, one of which at least is intended to
thrill. There is also mention of one Czech, of his discovery of the hill
[vR]ip. This chapter shows also how by degrees the descendants of
P[vr]emysl emerged from the mist of legend with the dawn of Christianity
over these Slavonic tribes.
Duke Mnata and his wife Strzezislava flit across the stage. Then we
linger on Bo[vr]ivoj and note that German influence begins to make
itself felt. St. Methodius is also mentioned, as is one Svatopluk,
Prince of Moravia. Finally we arrive at properly authenticated Princes
of Bohemia, each labelled and dated correctly, St. Wenceslaus and his
brother Boleslav. Mentions also a saintly lady Ludmilla and her
daughter-in-law Dragomira in vivid contrast. Family dissensions among
the P[vr]emysls which lead to such unpleasant happenings as the murder
of St. Ludmilla and the consequent banishment of Dragomira by her son
Wenceslaus, of whom there is so much to relate that he is worthy to open
a fresh chapter.
Let us lift up our eyes unto the hills, the hills on which stands
Prague, and if help do not come at once we may at least hope for
inspiration; the beauty of the scene alone assures us. Look out from
your terrace of a morning, a cloudless morning of early summer, and
gainsay it if you can. The town is extending considerably, growing up
the distant slopes on the far side of the river and trickling down into
the little valleys, but the general outline of Prague is much the same
as it has been for centuries; the eternal hills may be scarred and
patched by us who have here no "abiding city," but they remain.
I have already mentioned the hills on which Prague was built, and had
decided that they are five in number, not seven as is popularly alleged.
I have counted those hills several times over, and make their number
five, and quite sufficient too; another two hills would mar the
composition. At the risk of repeating myself, I maintain that Prague can
well afford to be original and forgo any imitation of other cities by
insisting on standing on seven hills; a truly great city should not
descend to servile flattery. Paris, for example, undoubtedly a great
city, is quite content to stand on two hills, Montmartre and
Montparnasse, the latter quite worn flat by the levelling tendencies of
modern times.
It is now time that we delved down into the history of Bohemia, and in
this we gain inspiration from the hills of Prague, the works of man that
crown them and the traditions, legends, shreds of history that cling to
them. Of these hills that of Vy[vs]ehrad is entitled to hold seniority
in the history of Prague. It takes a place somewhat akin to that held by
the Capitoline Hill of Rome. It was from here that the city started,
though this hill has little left of former grandeur and shows nothing to
compare with Rome's monuments to a glorious past. A crumbling block of
masonry, the story of which is quite unknown, a round chapel dating from
the days when Christianity was young among the Slavs and still found
ready martyrs in its cause even among princes, and an _enceinte_ of
brick fortifications, stone-faced and in Vauban's best style, battered
by Frederick the Great's guns, are all that Vy[vs]ehrad has to show by
way of relics of a stormy past.
Vy[vs]ehrad is about the first striking view you obtain of Prague as the
_train de luxe_ brings you round a bend before crossing the railway
bridge over the Vltava. Travellers seeing Prague for the first time are
apt to mistake this hill of Vy[vs]ehrad for the castle. I did so myself;
my delight, therefore, at the first sight of Prague's crowning glory,
the Hrad[vs]any, was all the greater.
Seen against the evening sky, Vy[vs]ehrad looks very imposing; it is at
its best by winter twilight, when the heavy mass is dully reflected on
the surface of the frozen river. Then you may gain some idea of what
this rugged promontory stands for in the life-history of a race that has
passed through great tribulation. Two Gothic spires point to the skies,
rising from a church which, despite its newness, seems more in accord
with the spirit of Prague than do the copper domes of Jesuit
structures; but then this church is built on foundations so ancient as
to defy investigation by the most assiduous chroniclers. No doubt those
spires are right enough in their way, but they are almost painfully
modern and unromantic compared to a square bit of crumbling masonry that
clings limpet-like to the crags of Vy[vs]ehrad overhanging the river at
the feet of the twin church towers. For here, according to legend, is
the cradle of the city of Prague. In popular parlance this bit of
masonry is called Libu[vs]a's bath, and hereby hangs a tale to introduce
which we must hark back some fourteen centuries.
* * * * *
Some time in the sixth century--nobody seems to know exactly or to care
much when it was--one Czech or Czechus was wandering about this land of
Bohemia with a party of friends and relatives, probably a whole tribe of
them. Czech seems to have had the country to himself; if he had met any
strangers there would have been a fight, and we should have heard about
it. It may therefore be assumed that the former occupants, probably
lodgers only, had moved on. There was much movement going on in those
early centuries of the Christian era, the main tendency being from
north-east to south-west, from cold, damp and short-commons to warmth
and plenty. Now we have sufficient reason to believe that Thuringians
and Rugians abode for a while in Bohemia and parts of Bavaria, and
Lombards in Moravia, and that these gentry, hearing of loot to be had in
plenty farther south, left their temporary homes, crossed the Danube and
made themselves unpopular elsewhere, leaving the lands of Bohemia and
Moravia to anyone who cared to take them. This happened some time about
the middle of the sixth century, which gives us something more definite
to go upon as to Czech's place in time. Anyway, there were Czech, his
friends and relations wandering at their own sweet pleasure over the
rolling wood-clad landscape of Bohemia. On this excursion Czech espied
from afar a peculiar shaped hill (not one of the hills of Prague) to
which he promptly gave the appropriate name of [vR]ip. Now this
innocent-looking word is, by virtue of the sign placed over the R,
pronounced in a peculiar manner; between the initial consonant and the
"i" you should insert a sound somewhat like that of the French "j" as in
"jamais," for instance. Heaven and the Czechs only know what meaning you
would convey did you neglect this euphonious concatenation of consonants
and simply say "rip"--probably something to cover the young person with
confusion; but rightly pronounced, and with due regard to the soft but
insistent sibilant, this mixture of sounds means--toadstool. It is all
so simple when once you know: [vR]ip = toadstool,--and there you are.
The description tallies too: the hill of [vR]ip does look like a
toadstool; I have seen it myself, and am prepared to support Czech's
statement on oath. Anyway, [vR]ip stands there still, much the same as
when Czech discovered it, but for a chapel dedicated to St. George on
its summit, the result of some one else's piety.
You can see [vR]ip for miles round, as it has chosen a fairly level
plain out of which to arise much like a mushroom on the lawn after a
rainy night. No wonder, then, that Czech made straight for [vR]ip,
climbed to the top, looked around him, approved of what he saw, and
decided to stay. He did, so did his friends and relatives and those that
came after them, and no power on earth was able to shift them. The
descendants of Czech are there still. One of these told me that the best
and sturdiest type of Czech is bred round about [vR]ip; he was born
thereabouts himself, and should know. I am prepared to believe it
anyway, as my friend is certainly of the best and sturdiest type of
Czech.
That much for Czech and his descendants; we must now skip a century or
two which even Cosmas of Prague was unable to fill out with legend, and
return to the lady whose bath I have already referred to. Not that I
believe the ruined bits of wall to have contained a lady's bathroom; I
have tried to imagine Libu[vs]a using the place for the morning tub,
and have failed to conjure up any picture that would carry conviction.
However, I do not wish to prejudice the case; come out to Prague and
judge for yourself.
Libu[vs]a was one of three sisters, daughters of Krok, Prince of
Bohemia, or at least some part of it, for frontiers in those very early
days were even more elastic than those drawn by International
Commissions. Anyway, there was Krok lording it over as much of Bohemia
as he could control, from his fastness of Vy[vs]ehrad. Of Libu[vs]a's
sisters, Kazi and Teta, nothing but their names is known even in legend;
they passed into oblivion on Krok's demise, for he ordained that
Libu[vs]a, his youngest daughter, should succeed him. Libu[vs]a,
according to legend, was a model of all the virtues, and as in those
days there was no ever-ready Press lurking to pounce on historical
inaccuracies, we may accept the statement of kindly Saga.
Libu[vs]a had a rare gift, one which proved uncomfortable to other
ladies of legend similarly endowed, uncomfortable both to themselves and
their belongings, the gift of prophecy. She foretold the future
greatness of Prague, and undoubtedly spotted a winner. This was not the
only occasion either, for she did herself a good turn too by means of
her supernatural power. As it happened, despite her possession of all
the virtues, she had trouble with her subjects, who declared themselves
weary of petticoat government and urged her to look round for a husband.
She did, calling to aid her uncanny gift. The discussion with her
subjects probably took place in the open, high up on Vy[vs]ehrad.
Libu[vs]a, with that far-away gaze proper to all soothsaying, pointed
out over the distant hills, saying, "Behind those hills is a small river
called Belna, and on its bank a farm named Stadic. Near that farm is a
field, and in that field your future ruler is ploughing with two spotted
oxen. His name is P[vr]emysl, and his descendants will rule over you for
ever. Take my horse and follow it; you will be led to the place."
The lady was not quite correct about P[vr]emysl and his
descendants--they have ceased to rule over the Czechs, and are now
replaced by a sovereign people; but she certainly was right in her
description of her future husband and his surroundings. The search
party, following Libu[vs]a's horse, found P[vr]emysl busy at his plough,
roped him in and brought him to their Princess. Legend again asserts
that P[vr]emysl made a first-class husband and ruler (he probably did
exactly as his wife told him) and his descendants reigned with varying
fortunes, until the first years of the fourteenth century--a very good
innings for the lineage of P[vr]emysl, the sturdy farmer, and that
far-seeing lady Libu[vs]a, his wife. During those centuries the Czechs
had consolidated into an important kingdom; from a misty chaos of
heathen Slavonic tribes had grown a people brave and generous, with a
culture all its own, and above all with a surpassing gift of expressing
itself in music.
It must not be supposed that Libu[vs]a rested content with being wife to
P[vr]emysl, just keeping house, mending clothes and minding the babies.
She continued her activities as directress of her people's fortunes, and
is made responsible, among other matters, for choosing the site of the
Hrad[vs]any, the Castle of Prague, and this is what the chronicler has
to say about it.
One day as Libu[vs]a looked out from her fastness over the river towards
the wooded heights to northward, she was moved by the gift of prophecy
to which she was addicted when deeply stirred.
Her own abode, built by her father, hung upon that rocky crag called
Vy[vs]ehrad, and was probably by no means roomy; Krok, her father, had
no doubt found it a convenient spot, being somewhat difficult of access
in those days to armed visitors, who were likely to prove a disturbing
element. The ancient Slav preferred to build in secluded spots, on
heights amid forests for choice, there was so much to guard against in
those dark ages, so the wooded heights that Libu[vs]a looked out upon
must have appealed to her strongly. Anyway, she decided to act,
prefacing action by some quite useful sooth-saying. According to the
chronicler Cosmas of Prague, who lived three or four centuries after
Libu[vs]a had passed away, the following impressive scene was enacted:
Libu[vs]a, standing on a high rock on the Vy[vs]ehrad in presence of her
husband P[vr]emysl and the elders of the people, incited by the spirit
of prophecy, uttered this prediction: "I see a town, the glory of which
will reach the stars. There is a spot in the forest, thirty stades from
this village which the River Vltava encircles, and which to the north
the stream Brusnice secures by its deep valley; and to the south a hill,
which from its rocks takes the name Pet[vr]in, towers above it. When you
have reached this spot you will find a man in the midst of the forest,
who is working at a door-sill for a house; even mighty lords bend before
a low door. From this you shall call the town which you will build there
'Praha.'" The elders did as they were bid, and so Prague arose. The
Czech name is Praha, the derivation possibly from _prah_= door.
The Hrad[vs]any Hill was thus by Princess Libu[vs]a indicated as the
pinnacle on which should rest for ever the glory of Prague and of
Bohemia. Glory is a doubtful gift and costly, and the history of Prague
shows clearly that this is true. No doubt work was started at once on a
castle to crown the hill. Libu[vs]a probably saw to it that there was no
time wasted. This would be some time about the middle of the eighth
century, but history, as handed down from those days, is wrapped about
with mystery and legend from the obscurity of which events gradually
detached themselves. It was not till Christianity had got a firm hold of
the Czech people that any half-way reliable records were kept.
We will take it for granted that it was Libu[vs]a who, with the seer's
eye penetrating the future, laid the foundations of that right royal
pile, Prague's crown of glory, the Hrad[vs]any. We have the authority of
Cosmas for this; also Smetana composed an opera all about Libu[vs]a, so
all our doubts are dispelled. We have noticed the site, and that it is
admirably adapted to defence, a rocky eminence rising like a promontory
above the broad Vltava, its steep sides falling down to the river on the
eastern side, and to deep-cut valleys to north and south. The position
offers a wide view over the rolling plains to westward. It was from this
side chiefly that the attackers came--Germans in the cause of the Holy
Roman Empire, mercenaries of many nations that swelled the imperial
hosts arrayed against Protestant Bohemia, marauding armies of Swedes,
all these surged up against the walls and towers of Prague's Royal
Castle. They broke and passed away like the fleeting cloud shadows you
may watch floating across the fields and wooded slopes of Jilove,
[vC]erny Kostelec and Zbraslav to the blue hills of Hrade[vs]in beyond.
But the castle still stands a sentinel over ancient Prague.
It must have been a pleasant post, that of sentry upon a look-out tower
of the Castle of Prague. What with the ever-changing beauty of the
landscape and the chance of noticing a hostile force approaching with
colours flying and spear-heads a-glitter in the sun, with, moreover, a
prospect of a fight, a sentry's life should have been a happy one. It
would be expected of the sentry that he should not be so held by the
fascination of the scene as to omit to report any unusual occurrence. I
have known such a thing happen even to an otherwise well-regulated
sentry. It was in Mandalay where from a wooden tower in the middle of
Fort Dufferin a sentry held watch and ward over the town. One bright
afternoon the town caught fire. The sentry was so much impressed by the
grandeur of the scene that he quite forgot to report the matter, and a
large part of the town was utterly destroyed. That man might have been
qualified as an artist, an author or a poet; as a sentry he was
disappointing.
There are no records of sentry yarns dating back to the really exciting
times in the history of the Hrad[vs]any; I have discovered only one, and
that of a comparatively recent date. The event narrated happened in the
autumn of 1753 at 11 p.m. The sentry was a grenadier; please note the
accuracy of detail which should dispel any doubt as to the truth of the
story--the grenadier touch is especially convincing. This grenadier, it
would seem, was posted in the inner court of the castle, probably at the
entrance to what is now the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and Propaganda
(places of that kind want a deal of watching). The grenadier was
probably as bored as any sentry can be up till midnight sharp, when
things began to happen. First of all, the dark mass of the cathedral was
suddenly brilliantly illuminated from within. Then from that little side
entrance to the cathedral emerged a tall figure all in white. The sentry
challenged, as a sentry should. No use. The tall figure strode up to the
sentry, halted before him, cast a handful of corn at his feet and
stalked back the way it came. Lights out!... The next night at the same
hour the programme was repeated before a new sentry, also a grenadier:
the former one had probably reported himself sick. On the second night
the apparition cast down a handful of silver coin. The grenadier left
them all lying on the ground--this is the only part of the story that
strikes me as weak. On the third night, the military being represented
as before, the tall figure reappeared with commendable punctuality. On
this occasion the management had arranged a display of moonlight in
order to show up the pallid features, blood-stained clouts and other
accessories suitable to a first-class apparition. Moreover, this being
positively its last appearance in public, the tall figure spake: "1754
rich harvest, 1755 gold in plenty, 1756 blood in streams." And so it
happened. In the year 1754 there was a record harvest in Bohemia, the
year 1755 brought considerable wealth into the country (the handful of
silver was probably something on account), and in 1756 the Seven Years'
War broke out. So the story must be true, all except that little bit
about the grenadier leaving all the silver lying on the ground.
* * * * *
We were really still watching the Hrad[vs]any grow out of Libu[vs]a's
prophecy. The chronicler left it to others to find out where the
building stood for which the man in the forest was carpentering the
door-sill as described by Libu[vs]a. That great lady simply said that
the work was going on in the forest which surely extended down to the
river-bank in those days. This may have encouraged the belief that the
first house, built by Libu[vs]a herself, of course, stood somewhere
below the Castle Hill--it is said on the site of the old posting house,
but some one obliterated all trace of it by erecting a church, dedicated
to St. Procopius, above it, no doubt as part of the business of stamping
out paganism. The Church of St. Procopius is no longer in evidence, and
as there have been further additions and improvements to the quarter of
Prague in question since the eighth century, it is now quite impossible,
even to the liveliest imagination, to fix upon the spot where stood that
first house. It does not matter very much either. The Hrad[vs]any itself
is easily the most imposing and interesting sight which Prague has to
offer.
The massive strength of the castle, the Hrad[vs]any, holds your gaze
from whatever quarter of Prague you may happen to look out. The castle,
as we know, has a hill to itself, up the sides of which rise clustering
palaces, churches, convents and monasteries, buildings of grey stone and
red-tiled roofs, standing amidst terraced gardens. In spring this
ancient quarter decks itself with glorious apparel of white of cherry,
pear and plum, with here and there the delicate pink of almond blossom;
in winter, when the snow lies "smooth and crisp and even," the scene is
changed into a fairy network as of delicate lace on a foundation of grey
and purple; in all seasons it is beautiful.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE HRAD[vc]ANY FROM THE FUERSTENBERG GARDEN.]
The first sight of the Hrad[vs]any conveys an impression of sheer
strength, much as does Gibraltar; it also suggests a lion couchant but
watchful and strong to protect the city at its feet; this effect is
particularly noticeable from the Fuerstenberg garden. The beauty of this
massive pile grows upon you gradually as you see it under the
ever-varying atmospheric conditions of Prague. By all the canons of
art the long straight lines of the Hrad[vs]any should be unlovely. The
towers which broke those lines no longer stand out boldly as shown in
old prints and engravings, at least on the townward side of the castle.
They have been gradually merged into the general mass of the building as
time and progress brought greater demands for living room and lessened
the need of defensive measures. The straight outlines are still broken
here and there by some trace of the ancient building showing through, a
mullioned window, an old stack of chimneys, but on the whole, the mass
by itself is heavy and uniform. Nevertheless, the general effect is
splendid, whether you see this stately pile standing out strong and
massive above the mist from the river or rising in tiers out of dimmed
silvery greys against an evening sky all gold and emerald, or flushed
with sunset scarlet. The crown of all this terraced glory is the great
cathedral. A square massive tower stands up out of the body of the
church. A purist may find fault with the mixture of styles this tower
incorporates. The bulk of its structure is Gothic; at the base of the
superstructure appears a nondescript medley of styles (nondescript at
least in the eyes of a dilettante) out of which arises a concern of
domes and cupolas one above the other, supported at each corner by
little pinnacles crowned with onion-shaped tops. The copper coating of
these domes and cupolas gives a distinctive touch of colour to the whole
edifice of warm grey stone; this note of green you will find repeated
elsewhere on the churches and other buildings of Prague, a piquant note
but alien to the spirit of Prague both ancient and modern. There has
been talk of removing the superstructure from the main tower of the
cathedral and replacing it by a Gothic spire such as adorn the towers
that flank the west front of the building, spires that gleam like
lacework when standing out sunlit against dark banks of cloud. It were
best to leave the superstructure of the main tower as it is; it marks an
epoch and serves as reminder of a tyranny now overpast. The highest
point of the main tower is not adorned with a usual emblem of our faith,
a cross or a cock, but flaunts instead the "Lion of Bohemia" in all his
rampant pride of a double tail. I shall have more to say about this
wonderful heraldic animal on some future occasion; it is significant
that this crest swings over the sacred fane where rest the remains of
St. Wenceslaus, over the cradle of Bohemia's religious life.
You will remember Libu[vs]a's vision of an endless succession of little
P[vr]emysls. She overrated P[vr]emysl a bit as a good wife should, for
the P[vr]emysl dynasty ended abruptly with the murder of Wenceslaus III
in 1306 at the hand of some unknown assassins at Olomouc, by the Germans
called Olmuetz. Nevertheless, the family had had a good long spell of
life and plenty to keep them busy during those six or seven centuries;
it produced some very fine rulers; all honour to old farmer P[vr]emysl.
The first eleven scions of that line are very faint figures; they are
not even dated; only a few of them show more than a shadowy outline in
the mist of legend and dawning history. Of these early rulers there is
echo of one Mnata, who is said to have built the first stone house on
the Hrad[vs]any for his wife Strzezislava. I wonder what he called her
for short? Strz sounds a bit abrupt, Slava is too general among Slavonic
people: perhaps he called her Cissie. Strzezislava is certainly too rich
for ordinary household use. Cosmas passes by this point in silence,
which is a pity; it is just those intimate little touches that foster
pleasant social relations and justify the chronicler's attitude of
omniscience; our illustrated Press has reached perfection in that line.
Mnata and Strzezislava flit across the stage and pass into oblivion
without the benefit of gramophone and cinema. Then emerges one
Bo[vr]ivoj, first of that name, who stands out more distinctly against
the background of misty legend, probably by reason of his having
embraced Christianity; he also embraced a lady, Ludmilla, who became his
wife and one of Bohemia's moat popular saints and patrons. It happened
that Bo[vr]ivoj had occasion to ask his neighbour Svatopluk, Prince of
Moravia, for protection, and then he became acquainted with that
energetic missionary, St. Methodius. Unhappily we have no precise
information concerning date and place of this picturesque event. The
chronicler has done his best by giving the following story to fill up
the blank. He narrates that Bo[vr]ivoj was not allowed to sit at table
with Svatopluk, but was given a low stool apart, as being unfit to
associate with Christian company. This is what the Christian chronicler
says, and he made it his business to bear testimony on all occasions. It
is, however, quite conceivable that Bo[vr]ivoj's manners were not up to
refined Moravian form. Anyway, Bo[vr]ivoj allowed himself to be
converted, and as there is no mention of his table manners we may assume
that he reached the required standard.
After all, manners are a matter of relativity, and not so long ago,
somewhere about 1700, the Austrian Court found it necessary to issue a
handbook thereon, in which guests bidden to the imperial banquets were
requested not to throw their chicken bones under the table, it made so
much extra work for the servants. There is quite a modern touch about
this.
With all the fervour of a convert, Bo[vr]ivoj set about the salvation of
his people from heathen darkness. I have sought diligently for some
records of the beliefs held by this branch of the Slavonic race. There
is no evidence of any deities of strong if unpleasant personality, such
as that obstinate, one-eyed Wotan, or that destructive bully Thor, whose
brutality coloured German mentality down to most recent days, and seems
to do so still. Neither seem those Slavs to have been subject to
visitations in their homes by such doubtful characters as Hermes, nor
was their sense of propriety outraged by the "carryings on" of Zeus. No
doubt they had some benign deity, and also a malignant, jealous one, no
western creed is complete without the latter at least, if only for the
benefit of the priests, but they have left no trace on a people that has
suffered so much from the wickedness and stupidity of their human
oppressors. The western Slavs in general and the sons of Czech in
particular, had their flights of fairies, sprites, pixies and other
lovable immortals. They are here still; even I, a stranger, claim to
have heard them in "den heiteren Regionen, wo die reinen Formen wohnen,"
on the sun-kissed snow of the mountains, in the whispering voices of the
forest and the song of the burn in the glen. A sight of these benign
beings has been denied me--for this I make the heavy cuisine of Bohemia
responsible; but their spirit lives on and informs the sons of Czech in
the realm of the spirit, in art and poetry, above all in music.
Bo[vr]ivoj plunged into Christianity with enthusiasm; he is known to
have built a church at Levy Hradec, and is said to have laid the
foundations of another on the Castle Hill. It appears, however, that
the pace he set was rather too hot for his people; they raised a deal of
trouble, and Bo[vr]ivoj had to call in the German King Arnulf to help in
restoring order. This step did not bring unmixed blessings; it gave the
Germans an excuse for interfering in Bohemian affairs. Now Arnulf was a
Carolingian, of bastard blood indeed, but nevertheless under the "Holy
Roman Empire" obsession, and therefore convinced of the German right to
round up all Christian countries into that Empire. In this action of
Bo[vr]ivoj we see the first instalment of the endless trouble caused by
the obsession which originated with Charlemagne as mentioned in the
first chapter. Moreover, this German intervention gave to the
inhabitants of Bohemia their first experience of religious dissension.
Their first contact with Christianity brought them the choice of rival
liturgies, the Latin as favoured by the Germans with their "Holy Roman"
idea, and the Slavonic which St. Methodius had introduced. So
Christianity in Bohemia began with an exhibition of divergent religious
views, which may account for a good deal of the suffering brought upon
this country for its own salvation and its neighbours' benefit.
Bo[vr]ivoj's successors, Spytihnev I and Vratislav I, were kept so busy
guarding their country against Magyar inroads that it seems they had no
time to worry about religious differences. Neighbour Svatopluk's
extensive empire had fallen to pieces owing to the quarrels of his sons
and under Magyar aggression; this gave Spytihnev the opportunity of
freeing himself from the supremacy of Moravia which Bo[vr]ivoj had
accepted in return for assistance rendered him by Svatopluk and the
Slavonic liturgy thrown into the bargain. This, again, brought the
Germans nearer to Bohemia, as neither Spytihnev nor Vratislav were
strong enough to stand alone. As politics and Church worked hand in hand
in those days, the Germans imposed the Bishop of Ratisbon, and with him
the Latin liturgy, on Bohemia, whereas such Slavs as had taken to
Christianity at all were rather inclined to the other version. This must
have caused a good deal of trouble, so it is not to be wondered at if
the rulers of Bohemia recalled happier, simpler days. There came a
certain reaction in the affairs of the P[vr]emysl family. We have noted
the saintly lady Ludmilla, wife of Bo[vr]ivoj, the first Christian
Prince of Bohemia. Ludmilla was very pious indeed; you will find
frescoes illustrating her good deeds, adorning the walls of Karlov Tyn
(Karlstein), a fine old castle of which I will tell you more by and by.
It is quite impossible to be so picturesquely good and pious as was
Ludmilla, in these days of mail-orders, wholesale departments, banking
accounts and cheque-books. There was another lady of the P[vr]emysl
family, and she, according to all accounts, was neither good nor pious.
She was a reactionary, a thorough-paced pagan, and it was this lady who
caused trouble in the household. The lady's name was Dragomira; she had
married Bo[vr]ivoj's second son, and had been left a widow with three
sons. This did not have the usual soothing effect upon the lady.
Dragomira, as regent during the minority of her sons, had revived
paganism, and this brought her into conflict with the German King, Henry
the Fowler. Pious Ludmilla, Dragomira's mother-in-law, was much upset
about this conflict, for with all her good works she found time to take
an active interest in foreign politics. Here were all the elements of a
hearty family row; in addition, Dragomira's sons took different sides:
Wenceslaus with his grandmother Ludmilla, Boleslav the younger with his
pagan mother. The chronicler sides entirely with Ludmilla and Wenceslaus
in his narrative of the domestic dissensions of the P[vr]emysl family.
He shows no sympathy for the other side, does not realize that Dragomira
must have got very weary of her mother-in-law's piety and annoyed at
that lady's interference in the education of her sons. There is a great
deal to be said for Dragomira's point of view, and it is a pity that her
remarks on the rival Christian liturgies, Latin and Slavonic, have not
been handed down to us. Dragomira certainly carried matters too far when
she strangled Ludmilla with her own veil one evening in chapel; she made
the mistake of furnishing the other side with a first-class saint and
royal martyr.
Wenceslaus, the pious elder son, was extremely annoyed at this open
demonstration of family discord. Dragomira was sent into exile; her name
was never mentioned again. The treatment meted out to his mother made of
young Boleslav a more determined pagan than he was before; he sat up at
night hatching heathen plots against brother Wenceslaus. Boleslav's
reincarnation is probably to be found among international financiers of
the present day. The result of his machinations must be told in a fresh
chapter.