city is not yet awake, or at most is rubbing its eyes and yawning. While
they are preparing my breakfast, I sally forth at random, as my custom
is, without guide or cicerone, in pursuit of the unknown.
The hotel, at which I have been set down, is situated on the quay of the
Alster, a basin as large as the Lac d'Enghien, which it still further
resembles in being peopled with tame swans. On three sides, the Alster
basin is bordered with hotels and handsome modern houses. An embankment
planted with trees and commanded by a wind-mill in profile forms the
fourth; beyond extends a great lagoon. From the most frequented of these
quays, a café painted green and built on piles, makes out into the
water, like that café of the Golden Horn where I have smoked so many
chibouques; watching the sea-birds fly. At the sight of this quay, this
basin, these houses, I experienced an inexplicable sensation: I seemed
to know them already. Confused recollections of them arose in my memory;
could I have been in Hamburg without being aware of it? Assuredly all
these objects are not new to me, and yet I am seeing them for the first
time. Have I preserved the impression made by some picture, some
photograph?
While I was seeking philosophic explanations for this memory of the
unknown, the idea of Heinrich Heine suddenly presented itself, and all
became clear. The great poet had often spoken to me of Hamburg, in those
plastic words he so well knew how to use--words that were equivalent to
realities. In his "Reisebilder," he describes the scene--café basin,
swans, and townsfolk upon the quays--Heaven knows what portraits he
makes of them! He returns to it again in his poem, "Germania," and there
is so much life to the picture, such distinctness, such relief, that
sight itself teaches you nothing more.
I made the circuit of the basin, graciously accompanied by a snow-white
swan, handsome enough to make one think it might be Jupiter in disguise,
seeking some Hamburg Leda, and, the better to carry out the deception,
snapping at the bread-crumbs offered him by the traveler. On the farther
side of the basin, at the right, is a sort of garden or public
promenade, having an artificial hillock, like that in the labyrinth in
the "Jardin des Plantes." Having gone thus far, I turned and retraced my
steps.
Every city has its fashionable quarter--new, expensive, handsome--of
which the citizens are proud, and through which the guide leads you with
much complacency. The streets are broad and regular, and cut one another
at right angles; there are sidewalks of granite, brick, or bitumen;
there are lamp-posts in every direction. The houses are like palaces;
their classically modern architecture, their irreproachable paint, their
varnished doors and well-scoured brasses, fill with joy the city fathers
and every lover of progress. The city is neat, orderly, salubrious, full
of light and air, and resembles Paris or London. There is the Exchange!
It is superb--as fine as the Bourse in Paris! I grant it; and, besides,
you can smoke there, which is a point of superiority.
Farther on you observe the Palace of Justice, the bank, etc., built in
the style you know well, adored by Philistines of every land. Doubtless
that house must have cost enormously; it contains all possible luxury
and comfort. You feel that the mollusk of such a shell can be nothing
less than a millionaire. Permit me, however, to love better the old
house with its overhanging stories, its roof of irregular tiles, and
all its little characteristic details, telling of former generations. To
be interesting, a city must have the air of having lived, and, in a
sense, of having received from man a soul. What makes these magnificent
streets built yesterday so cold and so tiresome, is that they are not
yet impregnated with human vitality.
Leaving the new quarter, I penetrated by degrees into the chaos of the
old streets, and soon I had before my eyes a characteristic, picturesque
Hamburg; a genuine old city with a medieval stamp which would delight
Bonington, Isabey or William Wyld. I walked slowly, stopping at every
street-corner that I might lose no detail of the picture; and rarely has
any promenade amused me so well.
Houses, whose gables are denticulated or else curved in volutes, throw
out successive overhanging stories, each composed of a row of windows,
or, more properly, of one window divided into sections by carved
uprights. Beneath each house are excavated cellars, subterranean
recesses, which the steps leading to the front door bestride like a
drawbridge. Wood, brick, stone and slate, mingled in a way to content
the eye of a colorist, cover what little space the windows leave on the
outside of the house. All this is surmounted by a roof of red or violet
tiles, or tarred plank, interrupted by openings to give light to the
attics, and having an abrupt pitch. These steep roofs look well against
the background of a northern sky; the rains run off them in torrents,
the snow slips from them; they suit the climate, and do not require to
be swept in winter. Some houses have doors ornamented with rustic
columns, scroll-work, recessed pediments, chubby-cheeked caryatides,
little angels and loves, stout rosettes and enormous shells, all glued
over with whitewash renewed doubtless every year.
The tobacco sellers in Hamburg can not be counted. At every third step
you behold a bare-chested negro cultivating the precious leaf or a Grand
Seigneur, attired like the theatrical Turk, smoking a colossal pipe.
Boxes of cigars, with their more or less fallacious vignettes and
labels, figure, symmetrically disposed, in the ornamentation of the
shop-fronts. There must be very little tobacco left at Havana, if we can
have faith in these displays, so rich in famous brands.
As I have said, it was early morning. Servant-maids, kneeling on the
steps or standing on the window-sills, were going on with the Saturday
scrubbing. Notwithstanding the keen air, they made a display of robust
arms bare to the shoulder, tanned and sunburned, red with that
astonishing vermilion that we see in some of Rubens' paintings, which is
the joint result of the biting of the north wind and the action of water
upon these blond skins; little girls belonging to the poorer classes,
with braided hair, bare arms, and low-necked frocks, were going out to
obtain articles of food; I shivered in my paletot, to see them so
lightly clad. There is something strange about this; the women of
northern countries cut their dresses out in the neck, they go about
bare-headed and bare-armed, while the women of the South cover
themselves with vests, haicks, pelisses, and warm garments of every
description.
Walking on, still at random, I came to the maritime part of the city,
where canals take the place of streets. As yet it was low water, and
vessels lay aground in the mud, showing their hulls, and careening over
in a way to rejoice a water-color painter. Soon the tide came up, and
everything began to be in motion. I would suggest Hamburg to artists
following in the track of Canaletto, Guardi, or Joyant; they will find,
at every step, themes as picturesque as and more new than those which
they go to Venice in search of.
This forest of salmon-colored masts, with their maze of cordage and
their yellowish-brown sails drying in the sun, these tarred sterns with
apple-green decks, these lateen-yards threatening the windows of the
neighboring houses, these derricks standing under plank roofs shaped
like pagodas, these tackles lifting heavy packages out of vessels and
landing them in houses, these bridges opening to give passage to
vessels, these clumps of trees, these gables overtopped here and there
by spires and belfries; all this bathed in smoke, traversed by sunlight
and here and there returning a glitter of polished metal, the far-off
distance blue and misty, and the foreground full of vigorous color,
produced effects of the most brilliant and piquant novelty. A
church-tower, covered with plates of copper, springing from this curious
medley of rigging and of houses, recalled to me by its odd green color
the tower of Galata, at Constantinople....
As the hour advanced, the crowd became more numerous, and it was
largely composed of women. In Hamburg they seem to enjoy great license.
Very young girls come and go alone without anyone's noticing it, and--a
remarkable thing!--children go to school by themselves, little basket on
the arm, and slate in hand; in Paris, left to their own free will, they
will run off to play marbles, tag, or hop-scotch.
Dogs are muzzled in Hamburg all the week, but on Sundays they are left
at liberty to bite whom they please. They are taxed, and appear to be
esteemed; but the cats are sad and unappreciated. Recognizing in me a
friend, they cast melancholy glances at me, saying in their feline
language, to which long use has given me the key:
"These Philistines, busy with their money-getting, despise us; and yet
our eyes are as yellow as their louis d'or. Stupid men that they are,
they believe us good for nothing but to catch rats; we, the wise, the
meditative, the independent, who have slept upon the prophet's sleeve,
and lulled his ear with the whir of our mysterious wheel! Pass your hand
over our backs full of electric sparkles--we allow you this liberty, and
say to Charles Baudelaire that he must write a fine sonnet, deploring
our woes."
As the Lübeck boat was not to leave until the morrow, I went to Wilkin's
to get my supper. This famous establishment occupies a low-ceiled
basement, which is divided into cabinets ornamented with more show than
taste. Oysters, turtle-soup, a truffled filet, and a bottle of Veuve
Cliquot iced, composed my simple bill of fare. The place was filled,
after the Hamburg fashion, with edibles of all sorts; things early and
things out of season, dainties not yet in existence or having long
ceased to exist, for the common crowd. In the kitchen they showed us, in
great tanks, huge sea-turtles which lifted their scaly heads above the
water, resembling snakes caught between two platters. Their little horny
eyes looked with uneasiness at the light which was held near them, and
their flippers, like oars of some disabled galley, vaguely moved up and
down, as seeking some impossible escape. I trust that the personnel of
the exhibition changes occasionally.
In the morning I went for my breakfast to an English restaurant, a sort
of pavilion of glass, whence I had a magnificent panoramic view. The
river spread out majestically through a forest of vessels with tall
masts, of every build and tonnage. Steam-tugs were beating the water,
towing sailing-vessels out to sea; others, moving about freely, made
their way hither and thither, with that precision which makes a
steam-boat seem like a conscious being, endowed by a will of its own,
and served by sentient organs. From the elevation the Elbe is seen,
spreading broadly like all great rivers as they near the sea. Its
waters, sure of arriving at last, are in no haste; placid as a lake,
they flow with an almost invisible motion. The low opposite shore was
covered with verdure, and dotted with red houses half-effaced by the
smoke from the chimneys. A golden bar of sunshine shot across the plain;
it was grand, luminous, superb.
[Footnote A: From "A Winter in Russia." By arrangement with, and by
permission of, the publishers, Henry Holt & Co. Copyright, 1874. Hamburg
is now the largest seaport on the continent of Europe. London and New
York are the only ports in the world that are larger. Exclusive of its
rural territory, it had in 1905 a population of 803,000.]
SCHLESWIG[A]
BY THÉOPHILE GAUTIER
When you are in a foreign country, reduced to the condition of a
deaf-mute, you can not but curse the memory of him who conceived the
idea of building the tower of Babel, and by his pride brought about the
confusion of tongues! An omnibus took possession of myself and my
trunks, and, with the feeling that it must of necessity take me
somewhere, I confidingly allowed myself to be stowed in and carried
away. The intelligent omnibus set me down before the best hotel in the
town, and there, as circumnavigators say in their journals, "I held a
parley with the natives." Among them was a waiter who spoke French in a
way that was transparent enough to give me an occasional glimpse of his
meaning; and who--a much rarer thing!--even sometimes understood what I
said to him.
My name upon the hotel register was a ray of light. The hostess had been
notified of my expected arrival, and I was to be sent for as soon as my
appearance should be announced; but it was now late in the evening, and
I thought it better to wait till the next day. There was served for
supper a "chaud-froid" of partridge--without confiture--and I lay down
upon the sofa, hopeless of being able to sleep between the two
down-cushions which compose the German and the Danish bed....
I explored Schleswig, which is a city quite peculiar in its appearance.
One wide street runs the length of the town, with which narrow cross
streets are connected, like the smaller bones with the dorsal vertebræ
of a fish. There are handsome modern houses, which, as usual, have not
the slightest character. But the more modest dwellings have a local
stamp; they are one-story buildings, very low--not over seven or eight
feet in height--capped with a huge roof of fluted red tiles. Windows,
broader than they are high, occupy the whole of the front; and behind
these windows, spread luxuriantly in porcelain or faience or earthen
flowerpots, plants of every description; geraniums, verbenas,
fuchsias--and this absolutely without exception. The poorest house is as
well adorned as the best. Sheltered by these perfumed window-blinds, the
women sit at work, knitting or sewing, and, out of the corner of their
eye, they watch, in the little movable mirror which reflects the
streets, the rare passer-by, whose boots resound upon the pavement. The
cultivation of flowers seem to be a passion in the north; countries
where they grow naturally make but little account of them in comparison.
The church in Schleswig had in store for me a surprise. Protestant
churches in general, are not very interesting from an artistic point of
view, unless the reformed faith may have installed itself in some
Catholic sanctuary diverted from its primitive designation. You find,
usually, only whitewashed naves, walls destitute of painting or
bas-relief, and rows of oaken benches well-polished and shining. It is
neat and comfortable, but it is not beautiful. The church at Schleswig
contains, by a grand, unknown artist, an altar-piece in three parts, of
carved wood, representing in a series of bas-reliefs, separated by fine
architectural designs, the most important scenes in the drama of the
Passion.
Around the church stand sepulchral chapels of fine funereal fancy and
excellent decorative effect. A vaulted hall contains the tombs of the
ancient Dukes of Schleswig; massive slabs of stone, blazoned with
armorial devices, covered with inscriptions which are not lacking in
character.
In the neighborhood of Schleswig are great saline ponds, communicating
with the sea. I paced the high-road, remarking the play of light upon
this grayish water, and the surface crisped by the wind; occasionally I
extended my walk as far as the chateau metamorphosed into a barrack, and
the public gardens, a miniature St. Cloud, with its cascade, its
dolphins, and its other aquatic monsters all standing idle. A very good
sinecure is that of a Triton in a Louis Quinze basin! I should ask
nothing better myself.
[Footnote A: From "A Winter in Russia." By arrangement with, and by
permission of, the publishers, Henry Holt & Co. Copyright, 1874.]
LÜBECK[A]
BY THÉOPHILE GAUTIER
In the evening the train carried me to Lübeck, across magnificent
cultivated lands, filled with summer-houses, which lave their feet in
the brown water, overhung by spreading willows. This German Venice has
its canal, the Brenta, whose villas, tho not built by Sanmichele or
Palladio, none the less make a fine show against the fresh green of
their surroundings.
On arriving at Lübeck, a special omnibus received me and my luggage, and
I was soon set down at the hotel. The city seemed picturesque as I
caught a glimpse of it through the darkness by the vague light of
lanterns; and in the morning, as I opened my chamber-window, I perceived
at once I had not been mistaken.
The opposite house had a truly German aspect. It was extremely high and
overtopped by an old-fashioned denticulated gable. At each one of the
seven stories of the house, iron cross-bars spread themselves out into
clusters of iron-work, supporting the building, and serving at once for
use and ornament, in accordance with an excellent principle in
architecture, at the present day too much neglected. It is not by
concealing the framework, but by making it distinct, that we obtain more
character.
This house was not the only one of its kind, as I was able to convince
myself on walking a few steps out of doors. The actual Lübeck is still
to the eye the Lübeck of the Middle Ages, the old capital of the
Hanseatic League.[B] All the drama of modern life is enacted in the old
theater whose scenery remains the same, its drop-scene even not
repainted. What a pleasure it is to be walking thus amid the outward
life of the past, and to contemplate the same dwellings which
long-vanished generations have inhabited! Without doubt, the living man
has a right to model his shell in accordance with his own habits, his
tastes, and his manners; but it can not be denied that a new city is far
less attractive than an old one.
When I was a child, I sometimes received for a New Year's present one of
those Nuremberg boxes containing a whole miniature German city. In a
hundred different ways I arranged the little houses of painted wood
around the church, with its pointed belfry and its red walls, where the
seam of the bricks was marked by fine white lines. I set out my two
dozen frizzed and painted trees, and saw with delight the charmingly
outlandish and wildly festal air which these apple-green, pink, lilac,
fawn-colored houses with their window-panes, their retreating gables,
and their steep roofs, brilliant with red varnish, assumed, spread out
on the carpet.
My idea was that houses like these had no existence in reality, but were
made by some kind fairy for extremely good little boys. The marvelous
exaggeration of childhood gave this little parti-colored city a
respectable development, and I walked through its regular streets, tho
with the same precautions as did Gulliver in Liliput. Lübeck gave back
to me this long-forgotten feeling of my childish days. I seemed to walk
in a city of the imagination, taken out of some monstrous toy-box. I
believe, considering all the faultlessly correct architecture that I
have been forced to see in my traveler's life, that I really deserved
that pleasure by way of compensation.
A cloister, or at least a gallery, a fragment of an ancient monastery,
presented itself to view. This colonnade ran the whole length of the
square, at the end of which stood the Marienkirche, a brick church of
the fourteenth century. Continuing my walk, I found myself in a
market-place, where awaited me one of those sights which repay the
traveler for much fatigue: a public building of a new, unforeseen,
original aspect, the old Stadthaus in which was formerly the Hanse hall,
rose suddenly before me.
It occupies two sides of the square. Imagine, in front of the
Marienkirche, whose spires and roof of oxydized copper rise above it, a
lofty brick façade, blackened by time, bristling with three bell-towers
with pointed copper-covered roofs, having two great empty rose-windows,
and emblazoned with escutcheons inscribed in the trefoils of its ogives,
double-headed black eagles on a gold field, and shields, half gules,
half argent, ranged alternately, and executed in the most elaborate
fashion of heraldry.
To this façade is joined a palazzino of the Renaissance, in stone and of
an entirely different style, its tint of grayish-white marvelously
relieved by the dark-red background of old brick-work. This building,
with its three gables, its fluted Ionic columns, its caryatides, or
rather its Atlases (for they are human figures), its semicircular
window, its niches curved like a shell, its arcades ornamented with
figures, its basement of diamond-shaped stones, produces what I may call
an architectural discord that is most unexpected and charming. We meet
very few edifices in the north of Europe of this style and epoch.
In the façade, the old German style prevails: arches of brick, resting
upon short granite columns, support a gallery with ogive-windows. A row
of blazons, inclined from right to left, bring out their brilliant color
against the blackish tint of the wall. It would be difficult to form an
idea of the character and richness of this ornamentation.
This gallery leads into the main building, a structure than which no
scene-painter, seeking a medieval decoration for an opera, ever invented
anything more picturesque and singular. Five turrets, coiffed with roofs
like extinguishers, raise their pointed tops above the main line of the
façade with its lofty ogive-windows--unhappily now most of them
partially bricked up, in accordance, doubtless, with the exigencies of
alterations made within. Eight great disks, having gold backgrounds, and
representing radiating suns, double-headed eagles, and the shields,
gules and argent, the armorial bearings of Lübeck, are spread out
gorgeously upon this quaint architecture. Beneath, arches supported upon
short, thick pillars yawn darkly, and from far within there comes the
gleam of precious metals, the wares of some goldsmith's shop.
Turning back toward the square again, I notice, rising above the houses,
the green spires of another church, and over the heads of some
market-women, who are chaffering over their fish and vegetables, the
profile of a little building with brick pillars, which must have been a
pillory in its day. This gives a last touch to the purely Gothic aspect
of the square which is interrupted by no modern edifice. The ingenious
idea occurred to me that this splendid Stadthaus must have another
façade; and so in fact it had; passing under an archway, I found myself
in a broad street, and my admiration began anew.
Five bell-towers, built half into the wall and separated by tall
ogive-windows now partly blocked up, repeated, with variations, the
façade I have just described. Brick rosettes exhibited their curious
designs, spreading with square stitches, so to speak, like patterns for
worsted work. At the base of the somber edifice a pretty little lodge,
of the Renaissance, built as an afterthought, gave entrance to an
exterior staircase going up along the wall diagonally to a sort of
mirador, or overhanging look-out, in exquisite taste. Graceful little
statues of Faith and Justice, elegantly draped, decorated the portico.
The staircase, resting on arches which widened as it rose higher, was
ornamented with grotesque masks and caryatides. The mirador, placed
above the arched doorway opening upon the market-place, was crowned with
a recessed and voluted pediment, where a figure of Themis held in one
hand balances, and in the other a sword, not forgetting to give her
drapery, at the same time, a coquettish puff. An odd order formed of
fluted pilasters fashioned like pedestals and supporting busts,
separated the windows of this aërial cage. Consoles with fantastic masks
completed the elegant ornamentation, over which Time had passed his
thumb just enough to give to the carved stone that bloom which nothing
can imitate....