Charles and the Housing Problem. The "carryings on" in the New Town, and
more about "St. Mary of the Snow"; also about Rudolph II and some
troublesome guests of his inviting, called the "Passauer." How Count
Thurn chased the "Passauer" out of town. A word about the Salvation
Army. How the centre of fashion shifted to the Old Town in the days of
Wenceslaus IV, and we move with it down the Karlova Ulice, look at
various matters of interest and listen to a story about a confectioner
and his nocturnal visitors. The 21st of June in Prague and the Hus
celebrations on the 6th of July. The Old Town Hall and the Church of Our
Lady of Tyn. The "Powder Tower," night life in Prague, and a word on
missionaries of long ago and of to-day. A good deal about concerts,
theatres, opera and other recreations. A mention of Jungmann and Kalina,
and the Slav Congress of 1848. A memory of barricades and street
fighting. Something about Sokols.
Charles, we have seen, had added a fourth quarter, the New Town, to his
city of Prague, moved thereto by the acuteness of the "Housing Problem,"
which, by the way, is equally urgent to-day. Prague is again the capital
of a free and flourishing State, and is again hard put to it to find
room for all those who feel attracted to her. The New Town soon entered
into the spirit of mediaeval Prague, put on no airs, but just joined in
any fray that happened to be going on. So New Town and Old were wont to
meet in battle over some vexed question, generally of theology strongly
mixed with politics, and a favourite cockpit was the ground in front of
"St. Mary of the Snow." It was on one of those occasions that the
steeple was brought down, together with a couple of monks who were
hiding in it, and also the big bell Carolus; a gun was brought into
action, and no doubt gave tone to the proceedings. This was in 1434;
nearly two centuries later some visitors generally alluded to as the
"Passauer," plundered this church and monastery.
This visit of the "Passauer" was again due to that noxious mixture,
religion plus politics. The Union of Protestant German Princes had been
broken, and Ravaillac's dagger had killed Henri Quatre, spoiling his
plans towards helping Protestantism, in which plans the French King had
also included Bohemia. Just about this time the Habsburger King of
Bohemia, Rudolph II, who must have been rather mad, was looking out for
a successor. He loathed all his relatives with complete impartiality,
save one, and that one was a cousin, Archduke Leopold, Bishop of
Strassbourg and Passau. Leopold was one of those fighting prelates who
send others to do the dirty work; in this case an army of his, some
thirty thousand bandits led by a foreign _condottiere_, invaded Bohemia,
burning and pillaging until they came to Prague. Rudolph had probably
invited them, as the imperial garrison of the Hrad[vs]any admitted these
"Passauer" to the Mala Strana. In Old Prague these marauders met with
resistance, though here too preparations had been made towards their
visit, as gunpowder and other warlike stores had been found in
monasteries and houses of the Jesuits. The Estates of Bohemia hastily
equipped Count Thurn, who soon got the better of Leopold's mercenaries,
and chased them and the Jesuits out of the country. Fighting about this
quarter of Prague--in fact, anywhere in the city--is now discouraged by
an efficient police force, and the only warlike sounds I have ever heard
proceeding from out the shadows of "St Mary of the Snow" came from the
band of the Salvation Army. A very good band it is too, though the tunes
it plays are not up to the native standard of music. Nevertheless the
Salvation Army is not only tolerated, but enjoys a certain amount of
popularity; deservedly too, for that organization does a great deal of
good rescue work. Jungmann's statue looks down thoughtfully upon this
somewhat corybantic form of religious expression when on a Sunday
afternoon the Salvation Army band is in full blast. Jungmann, who
brought out the value of the Czech language, its poetic possibilities,
by translating into it Milton's _Paradise Lost_, may wonder at this
strange striving after "the Beauty of Holiness," which also comes from
England. But probably he understands.
The New Town seems to have developed along a line of local politics all
its own and at variance with that of its very close neighbours, Old
Town, Vy[vs]ehrad and Mala Strana. Their local politicians did not lack
initiative; no one can accuse them of that failing. I can recall one
instance as example. During the days when the Protestants of Prague, in
their religious ardour, had split up into at least two distinct and
hostile parties, a procession of Utraquists, priests leading with the
Host, passed by the New Town Hall. Some one threw a brick and hit a
priest, thereupon the populace stormed the Town Hall and hurled Mayor
and Corporation out of the window; those of the victims who still showed
signs of life were dispatched with clubs--in fact, a clean-up of
municipal authorities took place. Public spirited certainly,
unconventional, you may say; but if the Bohemian is to have no power of
imagination, who may?
In the days of Wenceslaus IV the fashionable centre of Prague seems to
have been shifted from the impressive Hrad[vs]any side to the Old Town.
The King himself preferred to live in close touch with his people; he
wanted to see life--he certainly made it, for Wenceslaus when young was
quite "one of the lads of the village." Let us look up that good King's
haunts. On crossing the Charles Bridge from the Mala Strana to the Old
Town we keep straight along the Karlova Ulice--that is, as straight as
you can along this narrow old street by which Charles must have made his
way to the Carolinum. I have already pointed out to you the dome which
surmounts the home of the Red Cross Knights, the Knights Crucifer, and
told you that this building and the church that stands somewhat apart on
your left, behind the statue of Charles IV, is the work of the Jesuits.
We may go in by the wide gateway into this mass of buildings, the
Clementinum, also part of the University, but this is guide-book
business, and I prefer to take you my own way. So we go along the
crooked street past a bunch of churches, one of which is the longest in
Prague; you may see their bulbous towers from my terrace, or your own if
you get the right point of view. These churches do not interest me
particularly except for a lovely bit of wrought-iron railing belonging
to the Italian Chapel, just where the street takes a slight twist. Here
you have quaint old houses, with red-tiled roofs and dormer windows. One
of them seems inclined to impede the progress of the traffic, and the
street bends slightly away to the right to oblige this building. There
are quaint ornamentations on the narrow side of this house facing us,
human figures and wreaths, and in the centre of the design a star. This
old house has a little story to tell. Long ago, possibly in the
sixteenth century, it was an inn, or a lodging-house, was said to be
haunted, so the great-grandson of the last innkeeper there gave up
taking lodgers and became a confectioner. One winter's evening, probably
in preparation for Christmas, this confectioner was surveying the day's
handiwork. He was particularly pleased with two little sugar figures he
had fashioned; they represented a lady and her gallant in Spanish dress,
each draped in the heavy folds of a cloak. He was interrupted by a knock
at the door, and in came two figures, in Spanish dress, cloak and all, a
lady and her cavalier. The only thing strange about them were their
faces: they were like masks, beautiful indeed, but lifeless. However,
the couple were quite amiable; they took the proffered seats, and the
gallant spoke. "Have you, good master [gramercies, gadzooks, etc.,
according to taste], a couple of sugar figures in Spanish dress, each
draped in a cloak?" "Zounds!" or something equally effective (in Czech,
please) from the confectioner, "here is the very article!" The little
figures gave satisfaction; the gallant purchased them with much fine
gold, then proffered a request for a favour in return. "Granted," or
words to that effect, from the confectioner. "As it happens," continued
the gallant, "we have lost our heads, and would be much obliged if you
would recover them for us. You see, we called here about a hundred
years ago and were murdered in our beds, here in this house. It was your
great-grandfather's doing; he was a bit peevish that evening. We had
arrived with all our trunks, had searched the whole town for lodgings;
every place was crowded. Some one advised us to call here. The old
gentleman, after a deal of grumbling, showed us into a room, the first
floor front. I feel sure he really never liked us; in fact, we were no
sooner asleep than he came in and cut our heads off. He put our bodies
in one of our trunks, the contents of which he kept as souvenirs; you
know he was a great collector. He mislaid our heads, and we have
suffered much inconvenience in consequence. The ones we are wearing now
are not real ones--wax, you know; quite good of their kind, but not what
we have been used to. If you would be good enough to look around for
those heads, put them in a coffin with our bodies and have our whole
outfit decently buried, we should feel much relieved. By the way, our
old trunks are somewhere about the premises still, down in the cellar;
your great-grandfather was always keen on cold-storage--a collector
should be." The confectioner promised to see to this little matter, the
visitors tried to get up a smile of gratitude, and faded away. Right
enough, after searching diligently amongst his ancestor's collection,
the confectioner found the missing articles, carried out the
instructions given him by his visitors, and never saw them again. They
have left Prague for good and all, I gather.
It is well worth while to dive into the little narrow streets and alleys
to right and left; here you come upon many reminders of ancient Prague.
Look out especially for the quaint house-signs, some of which have not
yet been swept away--signs of exquisite design and workmanship, a lily,
a fish, keys or bunches of grapes. The Karlova Ulice eventually lands us
in the little Old Town Square, where you will find a beautiful
wrought-iron cage over a well, of sixteenth-century workmanship, and
passing on we arrive at one of the most historic spots of Prague, the
Starom[ve]stke Nam[ve]sti, the Old Town Square, or Ring. In shape it is
neither of these two, but that does not detract from the throbbing
interest that clings to it.
* * * * *
There was something unusual in the atmosphere of Prague when on the 21st
of June the sun dispelled the river mist, penetrated the purple shadows
of the quaint old streets, lit up the windows along the modern quays,
and gave promise of a glorious day to those who hurried to their daily
work. The unusual thing was an occasional streak of black in the general
radiance. Above that quarter of the castle where the President's
standard flies, a black flag floated on the morning breeze. The same
black note was repeated at the Czech National Theatre, and elsewhere
black banners waved out over the streets. This 21st of June was a day of
mourning for the children of Prague; on that day they remembered the
events of three centuries ago, events which robbed them of their rights
as a sovereign people, and fixed them firmly, ruthlessly, under the yoke
of Habsburg. It was the commemoration day for those who had made the
supreme sacrifice for the faith that was in them. The battle of the
White Mountain had been lost, and with it went the last remnant of those
able to resist the encroaching Austrians and the band of adventurers
who, under the cloak of religion, waged savage war in this fair country.
The cause of the trouble is far to seek. It arose from a characteristic
of these Slavonic people which should endear them to us, namely, a very
strong feeling of race and its responsibilities and a great tenacity
when defending their political and religious liberty. It is particularly
in the latter direction that the people of Bohemia and Moravia have been
in close touch with English thought. They were among the first, perhaps
the only people of the Continent, to embrace the tenets of Wycliffe, and
they fought for their convictions during the weary vicissitudes of the
Hussite wars. There were many Germans among those who took to the new
religious thought; Germans who had made their home in Bohemia and
Moravia, and were among the most earnest workers for the country's
welfare. But the _Drang nach Osten_ of the Germans of the Holy Roman
Empire under its semi-independent Princes and Electors, all intent on
their own advancement, was a constant menace to the peaceful development
of the Bohemian and Moravian people. They were not protected from
invasion by the silver sea. Bohemia never had a sea-coast, despite the
descriptive scenery in _Measure for Measure_. And here, I fear, is
another shattered illusion. When Shakespeare spoke of Bohemia he meant
Apulia, which at one time was named Bohemundia, after its King Bohemund.
Bohemia has always been exposed to enemies from the west, who could pour
in over the passes from Saxony or Bavaria. So the stout resistance of
the Hussites was eventually broken, and the House of Habsburg, for some
time elected Kings of Bohemia, encroached more and more on the chartered
freedom of the country. A first definite act of imperial bad faith
following on years of a policy inspired by malevolence and tempered by
stupidity, brought matters to a climax. A heated scene in the Council
Chamber of the Castle of Prague ended in what is described as the "Act
of Defenestration." In plain English, the Emperor's lieutenants, who, by
the way, happened to be a couple of Czech gentlemen bringing evidence of
the sovereign's treachery, were thrown out of the window. A midden in
the moat broke their fall; the officials fell soft, and got safely away.
But this very distinct lack of appreciation of the Emperor's demands on
the part of the Bohemian Estates let loose all the horrors of the Thirty
Years' War, a conflict which, waged under the cloak of religion and with
the blessings of Rome, set back civilization in Central Europe for many
generations. For the Czech inhabitants of Bohemia and Moravia, as for
those of Teuton origin who sympathized with the liberal movement of the
time, the battle of the White Mountain and its tragic sequel on that
21st of June was the death-knell of their hopes.
That there were Germans among the victims shows that it was not merely
racial rivalry as between Slav and Teuton, and that there was one Roman
Catholic among the number demonstrates that their protest was not
directed solely against the power and presumption of an intolerant
creed.
[Illustration: ON THE WHITE MOUNTAIN.]
The beauty of the architectural composition grouped about the Town Hall
was spoilt by the same black note that marked the 21st of June of this
year of grace. A large tribune, draped in black, projected well out into
the square from under the slender turret of the Town Hall Chapel.
Escorted by alien mercenaries, the twenty-seven martyrs were led to
execution; the dull, continuous rolling of drums accompanied the scene
until the last victim had been disposed of. Strange to relate, the sword
which was used by the one executioner was discovered some forty-four
years ago in an Edinburgh curiosity shop. On its basket hilt are graven
the names of the Bohemian gentlemen who fell by it (three of the
twenty-seven were hanged), and under those names the remark in the Czech
language: "The last unhappy task, on 21st June 1621. G. M." The sword
has returned to the country where the effects of its fell work are felt
to this day.
This day, the anniversary, the sunlit square saw numbers of pious folk
carrying wreaths to place them where white stones serve as constant
reminder of those men who died in the courage of their convictions, both
religious and political. It seems to be a peculiarly Slavonic trait,
this recalling of sad events in their history. The Serbs still celebrate
Vidovdan, the day of their disastrous defeat at Kossovo, where their
chivalry, the finest in Eastern Europe, went under in a sea of blood.
[Illustration: THE CHAPEL OF THE TOWNHALL.]
As a boy I was very strong on observing national and other holidays, but
cannot recall any celebration of the Saxon defeat at Hastings; it never
occurred to me: lack of imagination probably--and another festive
occasion missed.
There is, however, something fine in this Slavonic conception of events
worth commemorating; they may celebrate victories, but they also observe
the anniversaries of great national disasters, "lest they forget."
In the broad space between the Town Hall and the Tyn Church stands an
imposing group of statuary. Its centre figure of a simple and
convincing dignity represents Master John Hus, the great precursor of
those sons of Bohemia who died for their faith. The figure stands facing
towards the Town Hall.
This group of statuary has only recently found its appropriate site here
in the ancient centre of the city's life--formerly a column surmounted
by the "Virgin" threw its slender shadow across the square.
Looking out over the city on the 6th of July the first sight that caught
my eye was a display of bunting; flags flew everywhere, most of them the
colours of the Czecho-Slovak Republic, red and white with a blue
triangular insertion close up to the flagstaff. There is a correct
heraldic method of describing this, but to most people, as to myself, it
is barely intelligible, and hardly fits in with an everyday account of
things seen from a terrace in the capital of a very modern republic, the
constitution of which allows of no titles of nobility, and therefore has
little use for heraldry.
Titles of nobility have been abolished, and he who under the old regime
of Austria would style himself Count von Potts and Kettlehausen is now
called plain Mr. Potts. Other titles, those that have been won by
individual achievement and cannot be inherited, still remain in use to
brighten our drab existence. Most common amongst these is "Doctor"; you
may be a doctor of any or many more or less exact sciences; Professor
seems to come next in quantity; again you may profess anything you like.
This title is run rather close by Rad, or so it sounds at least, which
seems to be the old German _Rath_ slightly modified; of these also there
is a great and glorious variety. You have Pan (Mister) President for the
august being who presides over boards of financial, commercial or
industrial enterprise; Pan Inspectors are also plentiful and in highly
variegated form. In fact, there is quite an imposing array of titled
dignitaries who as true republicans have risen by their own merits. As
yet the "leprosy of decorations," as Dr. Seton Watson describes the
outbreak of coloured ribbons on manly chests, its spread in inverse
ratio to danger incurred, has not assumed undue proportions--but who
knows? I must, however, get back to the 6th of July and tell you how the
memory of John Hus is kept green.
A glance at the streets on that day shows you groups of wayfarers
carrying wreaths, and they converge on the square outside the Old Town
Hall where stands the monument to John Hus. The shop windows display
portraits of the Czech national hero, which is also reproduced inset in
wreaths, and this recalls to my mind the same day in 1918, when I first
became aware of what Master John Hus stands for to this people of
tenacious memory.
It was a day of pure Italian colour, that 6th of July, 1918, when I set
out from among those lovely Colline Euganie towards the front among the
Alps. First along broad, well-kept roads, through the plains of Veneto,
where trellised vine hung heavy laden, past homesteads, villas of warm
ochre hues or red, or pink, and all embowered in rich green foliage.
Through the narrow winding streets of graceful Vicenza, across the
arcaded market-place of old Verona, past the stately ruins of
Montecchio, till the road reached the foothills of the Alps. Then up by
hairpin turns, gaining an ever wider view of the vast plain lying in a
morning haze beyond which you knew was Venice and the blue Adriatic,
then down by winding ways into a valley. An outpost in Italian
field-grey uniform, not men of the Italian type, but stocky, fair-haired
and square-jawed, their collars decorated with red and white tabs. Every
group displayed a wreath, within it an effigy of John Hus, for these
soldiers were of the Czecho-Slovak Legion, and they were for the first
time in their lives allowed to commemorate without let or hindrance the
anniversary of their national hero's death. On this day five centuries
ago John Hus had met death at the stake for holding to his religious
convictions. Trusting in the word of an Emperor who had promised him a
safe conduct back to his own country, John Hus had gone to Constance to
defend his faith. Rome proved all-powerful, prevailed against the
promise of an Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, and John Hus perished,
on his lips, they say, the words, "O Sancta Simplicitas!" But his memory
lives, and most surely amongst those of simple faith.
We do not observe the memory of those who suffered martyrdom for
England's spiritual freedom; by the way, there is in Bohemia a church
dedicated to St. Thomas a Becket.
I am describing the space between Town Hall and Cathedral as a square,
which is as about as accurate as the German name "Altstaedter Ring." The
Czech name for it is easier to pronounce than most of their words. Czech
is an immensely difficult language, and I still marvel at the clever
inhabitants of the country who pronounce it with ease--even with great
fluency. They can make jokes in it too, for the pleasant sound of
laughter is often heard in this "City Beautiful." I have never tackled a
Czech joke, but am quite prepared to give it credit for all the wit and
humour required of a joke, and as long as somebody is happy over it all
is well, and I smile with him.
[Illustration: THE TOWER OF OUR LADY OF TYN.]
Really there is something about this city which is smile-producing. It
is difficult to analyse, and may be attributed to the sheer beauty of
the place. And your smile may well go with a catch in your throat, for
there is always pathos in great beauty, and nowhere more so than here in
Prague. There is the delicate beauty of the Town Hall Chapel, and facing
it the tall steeples of the Tyn Church, with clusters of quaint little
pointed turrets, overtop a row of houses that seem to have set
themselves down with the deliberate intention of blocking the west
entrance. Now these houses are arcaded, and so are those on the south
side of the square. You puzzle for a while and then recall Padua, Verona
and other towns of Northern Italy; so now you know whence came the
inspiration that set up arcades in a northern capital. You ask how and
when this influence came to Prague, so I remind you of the relations
that existed between Bohemia and Italy, and of which I have told you
when discussing King John and his great son Charles. Under the guidance
of the latter, the Renaissance was not long in making its influence felt
in Prague--in fact, in all Bohemia--and Italian architects who
introduced the arcaded house added fresh beauties to the city. To the
earlier period of Italian influence must be attributed a quaint arched
house, the one at the corner of the Tynska Ulice. It seems to block the
west entrance to the Church of Our Lady of Tyn. The old house dates back
to the early days of the fourteenth century, at which period the Tyn
Church, though founded in the eleventh century, was still a-building. I
cannot blame the old houses for having squatted down in front of this
church; they were probably under the impression that it would never be
finished. They have at least left a vaulted alley-way leading to the
somewhat insignificant west entrance. The Tyn Church, though not
completed till fairly recently, has actually served as the principal
church of the Old Town since 1310. Here the reformers, preachers that I
have already mentioned, Conrad Waldhauser and Mili[vc] of
Krom[ve][vr]i[vz]e, drew large congregations by their fiery
denunciations and their call to repentance. Our Lady of Tyn is to Prague
what St. Paul's is to London in a certain degree; many celebrities are
buried here, among them that strange character Tycho de Brahe,
astronomer, logician, drunkard and duellist, the friend of Keppler and
his own worst enemy.
The show-entrance to the Tyn Church is a Gothic porch of rarest beauty;
it is tucked away in the little alley on the north side, and generally
closed. You are expected to enter by the south door.
A word of warning here: never try to be enterprising between midday and
2 p.m. in Prague, or for that matter anywhere else in the country,
unless it be in search of food. At midday everything closes
down--churches, museums, shops; they do not open again till the good
people in charge of them have had sufficient time for an ample meal--two
hours are considered sufficient. You will therefore find the cathedral
closed to you until the vergers have dined. But in the meantime you will
find the quaint conglomeration of buildings at the east end of the
cathedral very attractive. These buildings originally served many
purposes--cathedral close, market and custom house, and even at times as
bear-garden or zoo. To my thinking, the outside of the cathedral is far
more attractive than the inside, which suffers from over-decoration in
the incongruous style peculiar to Continental churches. I shall not
conduct you personally round the Church of Our Lady of Tyn.
Good King Wenceslaus, of whom we sing at Christmas-time, seems to have
caused the chapel and tower of the Town Hall to be built, at least
according to archaeologists; the sign of a kingfisher within a wreath
which appears here is taken to denote work done in his time. The master
architect of those last decades of the fourteenth century was Peter
Parler, who also did a good deal of work on the Tyn Church.
[Illustration: A CORNER OF THE OLD TOWN.]
The tower was added to the house of Welflin od Kamene, which was
acquired in 1538, and some fifty years later the beautiful chapel, the
Gothic projection of which looks out on to the scene of martyrdom of
1621. You will find two very interesting and lovely Sessions Rooms in
this Town Hall. In one of these George Podiebrad, a native of Bohemia
and of the country's faith, was elected and proclaimed King in 1458. To
my thinking, the best time of day on which to come upon this old Town
Hall is of an evening, say in late autumn; approach it by that quaint
little alley, the Melantrichova, called so in honour of Melantrich, who
was famous as printer and publisher in the latter half of the sixteenth
century. While wandering about the narrow alleys, these quaint passages
under the houses, a peculiar feature of Prague, you will pick up
something of the old spirit of the city and repeople it with the shades
of former inhabitants or visitors to suit your taste or knowledge of
its history. There is, for instance, one visitor whom I can quite see
roaming about in nocturnal Prague--Dr. Faust. Local legend prefers to
call him Wilhelm instead of Heinrich, but that does not matter--he fits
into the picture.
Sooth to say, I find about this old quarter of the city a certain
atmosphere spiced with wickedness, not thoroughly bad, just enough to
keep you amused. Look round for yourself o' nights, and you will
probably find reason to agree with me. There is again, in this spicy
atmosphere, a local--or shall we say native?--foundation with a markedly
exotic top-dressing. For the foundation of this peculiar atmosphere I
make Good King Wenceslaus responsible. I have already suggested that he
was "hot stuff," and certainly, when he moved into the palace that stood
near the "Powder Tower," he made things merry and bright in the Old
Town. A night out with Wenceslaus was a liberal education. Fundamentally
his form of amusement was probably the same as you may enjoy to-day if
you are inclined that way. An exotic touch is given to nocturnal
diversions nowadays by American bars and "Palais de Danse" varying in
degree of respectability; here the English language seems to
predominate, in our version and that of our distant relatives across the
Atlantic. The natives of the city do not frequent these haunts in any
great numbers; they have their own amusements, but they look in
occasionally, possibly as a mark of respect to the great allied nations,
and their representatives, the bearers of western culture. The Bohemian
when thinking of America recognizes only the United States of that
continent. Many of them emigrate to that country; some return with their
own rendering of the English language and a professed admiration for the
country of their sometime sojourn, of its institutions and leading
citizens. The Pragers have expressed this admiration by naming their
finest railway station after President Wilson of the Lost Points,
whereas their own President has to be content with a rather grubby old
terminus.
It would be quite possible for me to enlarge upon the subject of night
life in Prague, but discretion advises me not to do so; this is a side
of Prague which you must find out for yourself. When after a good dinner
you proceed to draw those furtive covers in the region between the Town
Hall and the "Powder Tower," you may pick up the scent which, I
maintain, hangs about there--that of rather spicy wickedness. I do not
mean anything offensive in this; in fact, everything is conducted
decently and in good order, also with a certain geniality; the
suggestion is rather that you might be mildly wicked if you wanted to
be. However, though we have to live in this world we need not be of it.
For those who do not feel drawn towards the furtive corners of the town,
there are many other opportunities of recreation. One of these was built
by the city itself, and is called the Obecni Dum, which means Town
House, I believe; anyway, when asking your way to it linger on the last
word and pronounce it as if written "doom." This was built about the
site of the palace where Wenceslaus IV held his revels, but it is
informed of a more sober spirit. You come upon this building as you pass
along the broad street, formerly the moat of the Old Town defences,
until you arrive at the street-junction I have already mentioned. Here
stands one of the most beautiful monuments to Prague's former glory, the
"Powder Tower." When first you come upon this, rising serenely in all
its ornate loveliness out of the roar and rattle of the traffic, the
sight of it catches your breath. King Vladislav II caused it to be
erected--one of the gates of the old city. An unhappy King this latter,
I should say; at least his lot was cast in unhappy times. One of the
last Slavs to occupy the throne of Bohemia--he was a Prince of
Poland--Vladislav succeeded one of the most popular of Bohemian
monarchs, George Podiebrad. The times in which Vladislav reigned were
evil; the internal religious struggles of Bohemia had reached a
desperate stage; all attempts to reunite the Utraquists with Rome had
failed, and Alexander Borgia was Pope. The reign of this King, for all
the glory of the monuments that commemorate it, seems as it were
illumined by the false light that presages disaster. His son Louis was
drowned while leaving the battlefield of Moha[vc], which reduced the
greater part of Hungary to a Turkish province, and anarchy held the
lands of the Bohemian Crown until in 1526 Ferdinand of Habsburg bribed
his way to the throne; one noble Bohemian is said to have accepted fifty
thousand gulden for his kind offices.
The "Powder Tower" looks out directly at a somewhat shabby building
opposite to it. I have mentioned it before as standing on the site of an
early monastic institution founded by those Irish monks who did so much
towards bringing Central Europe into the fold of the Church. They were,
in fact, the only missionaries, these pilgrims from the Isle of Saints,
who took up the task in the fifth and sixth centuries, wandering far
afield, through the German forests, along the great rivers Danube and
Main, to Italy and Switzerland, where St. Fridian at Lucca and St. Gall
in the hills above the Bodensee are still held in pious memory. The
Saxon monk Winfrith, better known as St. Boniface, also deserved well of
the people of Central Europe, for it was his zeal and energy which
assisted Charles the Great in his colonizing achievements. In our own
times other missionaries of Anglo-Saxon race, or at least
English-speaking, penetrated to the darkest recesses of the Continent,
even to Bohemia. They started as soon as the war was over and Europe
again a safe place to travel in. They took their toilsome way, by _train
de luxe_ and at Government expense, to such distant places as Prague and
Vienna, even Buda-Pesth. They were of those who were indispensable while
men were fighting, whose services could be spared when danger no longer
threatened. They came deeply imbued with the importance of their
mission, their commission, diplomatic, economic, hygienic, whatever it
was. They came in scores, accompanied by willing and well-paid workers,
to bring relief to those who had suffered in the war. They bought up
the scanty supplies of the countries to which they brought the blessing
arising out of their own high rate of exchange. They came in their
hundreds to spread the light of learning in matters hygienic to Prague,
the old university town famous for its school of medicine. They taught
the young the blessing of western guilds or associations, the young of a
country which forged its weapon of social defence, the Sokol, some
seventy years ago. They expect a deal of gratitude for all this; they
are also entirely devoid of any sense of humour, or they would all go
home and keep quiet.
Of real use to the good relations which have existed, intermittently
perhaps, but never clouded by misunderstanding, was the mission of the
English Singers who came to Prague. They sang to us in the large hall of
the Obecni Dum, the building dedicated to the townsfolk's recreation.
They sang us old-time motettes, madrigals, ballads, and we were taken
back to our own country by the soothing harmonies of Weelkes. We saw
Winchester Cathedral, its long nave and squat tower, standing in lush
meadows in the shade of ancient elms, the College Gate, its pillars so
artfully, invitingly rounded by William of Wykeham, drew us in again. We
were stirred by William Byrd's "Praise our Lord, all ye Gentiles," and
taken to Oxford by Gibbons's "What is our life? A play of passion. Our
mirth? The music of division." Purcell recalled our gracious English
landscape, and English life, "When Myra sings we seek the enchanting
sound"; and Thomas Morley with "Now is the month of maying." Then there
was rollicking Tom Bateson, of Dublin, with his alluring "Come follow
me, fair nymphs!" And the Bohemian audience were loud in generous
applause.
You may well believe that a land which has given to the world Smetana,
Dvo[vr]ak, [vS]ev[vc]ek, and so many other famous musicians, will
concentrate all that is good in music in Prague, its capital. There are
two opera-houses to start with; one of them, the National Theatre,
throws its reflections on the surface of the river at the end of the
Narodni T[vr]ida; the German Theatre stands on the rising ground between
the Museum at the top of the Vaclavske Nam[ve]sti and the Wilson
Station. There are numerous concert-halls, and every restaurant of any
repute has a good little orchestra of its own. Then there is a quaint
old theatre down in the centre of the Old Town; you will find it
standing comfortably among old red-roofed houses, between two open
spaces, market-places bright with fruit and flowers in their season. It
was in this theatre that Mozart's _Don Giovanni_ was performed for the
first time.
It is one of the most interesting parts of Prague, just around this old
theatre, and among the crooked lanes and dark corners; it lets you in to
the intimacy of the city if you set about your investigations in the
right spirit. Alongside of this old theatre, the Mozarteum, divided only
by a narrow alley, runs the front--I suppose it is the front--of the
Carolinum, the collegiate buildings of Charles's foundation. There is
little left outwardly of this building's former aspect, just one
glorious Gothic projection which almost touches the balcony of the
theatre. Within the Carolinum are spacious halls devoted to all manner
of academic functions. In one of these halls I witnessed a scene which
struck me with a sense of incongruity that I have not been able to
explain to myself. The Indian poet and philosopher, Rabindranath
Thagore, was received here by the University of Prague. Learned
professors read lengthy addresses of welcome in Czech, and to their own
entire satisfaction; the Indian poet spoke in English and recited poetry
in his own language, let us hope also to his own satisfaction. Thereupon
Rabindranath Thagore, his hands folded meekly inside his wide sleeves,
his head drooping and eyes half closed as becomes a poet of the tender
kind, passed out from among us--to travel to Paris in an aeroplane. I do
not know whether it was this latter event, or the expression of a
philosophy so entirely at variance with my own, or perhaps the sound of
the high-pitched plaintive voice, that gave me the sense of
incongruity, but there it was undoubtedly.
In your wanderings about the Old Town you will come upon all manner of
quaint corners, old houses with courtyard and balconies, churches of all
sizes and dedicated to many saints, and among these one which to my
thinking deserves particular interest. It is the Church of St.
Martin-in-the-Wall, very old--how old I cannot tell you--much mutilated
and disfigured by restorers whose heads should have gone into the
decorative scheme over the gateway of the Mala Strana bridge-tower; but
here in this church the Sacrament was first given in both forms, _sub
utraque_.
There are many little backwaters in the Old Town; you may people them
with the shades of all those who for centuries have toiled to restore
Bohemia to her rightful place among the States of Europe. You may see
flitting figures in the twilight, cloaked and obvious conspirators to
your discerning eye. These men were probably among those marked down by
the secret police as "patriots." Men who were working for freedom of
thought what time Jungmann and Kalina, another national poet, died, and
twelve thousand of the people joined in the funeral procession as it
passed the Town Hall where Arnold, Kalina's friend, was imprisoned. This
was in 1847. Then the Slav Congress in 1848, and its stirring scenes,
the meeting for Divine Service under the statue of St. Wenceslaus, the
scuffle with a sentry caused by an _agent provocateur_, the charge of
troops on an unarmed mob. Followed the erection of barricades, over a
hundred in half an hour, and street fighting in various quarters of the
city. Ruthless slaughter of citizens as at the Polytechnic School, where
an attack by ten thousand troops with artillery was repulsed by seven
hundred students of the Clementinum. Then the despair of the vanquished.
But the spirit fostered by Bohemia's great men lived on; the people had
their museum, containing books and records of their National Society,
they had their associations, Sokols, and above all, their music. And so
they waited, and not in idleness, for the better days which came to
them out of the Great War.
The Sokol movement should interest you; it has taken a firm hold among
Slavonic nations, and has in it something of the spirit of Freemasonry.
Sokol means "falcon"--no doubt the original badge favoured by Slavonic
societies. You will find the falcon, sometimes eagle, cropping up in
various places. There is a distinguished Order, that of the White Eagle
of Serbia, for instance; then the Poles also have started an Order with
an eagle or a falcon in it--I am not acquainted with this Order. Members
of Sokol societies wear an eagle's feather, or perhaps a falcon's, in
the saucy little head-dress, somewhat like our old cavalry forage-cap,
when in their becoming full dress. But Sokol means a great deal more
than this.
A year or so ago I witnessed a Sokol display on that flat-topped height
called Letna; it is, as it were, an eastward prolongation of the Castle
Hill. Here is a large recreation ground for the use of such bodies as
Sokol societies. In the arena, before a large and appreciative but
critical public, the Socialist Sokols gave their display of gymnastic
exercises on the occasion I have in mind. It was a stirring sight: ten
to twenty thousand young men and maidens went through their graceful
movements in perfect unison to the strains of their national music. It
must be borne in mind that those exercises have not only physical value
but are useful memnonic training. There is much discipline bred of these
exercises; the captain goes through the movements by himself, the team
repeats them after him. Then again, the Sokol is, and has been from the
beginning, a political union. Surely Socialists who submit themselves to
this training, to such discipline, are a powerful asset to a young State
that has got to make its mark in the world.
By the way, what is a Socialist? I take it that any man who has a
flowerpot in his window, whereas his neighbour has none, is no
Socialist. But this is, no doubt, a matter of taste or political
conviction, I am not quite clear which.