tolerably clean; the meals, served in a large dining-hall not far away,
are only fair. The people of Oberammergau, our landlord says, face a
difficult problem in caring for the Passion Play crowds. These come but
once in ten years and during the intervening time visitors to the town
are comparatively few. Yet the villagers must care for the great throngs
of play years, though many apartments and lodging-houses must stand
empty during the interval and the only wonder is that charges are so
moderate.
The regular population of Oberammergau is less than two thousand, though
during the play it presents the appearance of a much larger place. The
houses are nearly all of the prevailing Bavarian style, with wide,
overhanging eaves and white walls often decorated with brightly colored
frescoes. Through the center of the village rushes the Ammer, a clear,
swift mountain stream which sometimes works havoc when flooded. The
church is modern, but its Moorish tower and rococo decorations do not
impress us as especially harmonious and there is little artistic or
pleasing in the angular lines of the new theatre. The shops keep open on
every day of the week, including Sunday, until nearly midnight. These
are filled with carvings, pottery, postcards and endless trinkets for
the souvenir-seeking tourist and perhaps yield more profit to the town
than the play itself. There are several good-sized inns, but one has no
chance of lodging in one of them unless quarters have been engaged
months in advance--not very practicable when coming by motor.
[Illustration: OBERAMMERGAU]
One will best appreciate the magnificent situation of the village from a
vantage-point on one of the mountains which encompass the wide green
valley on every side. On the loftiest crag of all gleams a tall white
cross--surely a fit emblem to first greet the stranger who comes to
Oberammergau. In the center of the vale is the village, the clean
white-walled houses grouped irregularly about the huge church, which
forms the social center of the place. The dense green of the trees, the
brighter green of the window-shutters, the red and gray-tile roofs and
the swift river cleaving its way through the town, afford a pleasing
variety of color to complete the picture. The surrounding green pastures
with the herds of cattle are the property of the villagers--nearly every
family of this thrifty community is a landholder. The scene is a quiet,
peaceful one, such as suits the character of the people who inhabit this
lovely vale.
And these same villagers, simple and unpretentious as they are, will
hardly fail to favorably impress the stranger. The Tyrolese costume is
everywhere in evidence and there is a large predominance of full-bearded
men, for the play-actors are not allowed to resort to wigs and false
whiskers. They exhibit the peculiarities of the Swiss rather than the
Germans and their manners and customs are simple and democratic in the
extreme. While the head of the community is nominally the burgomaster,
the real government is vested in the householders. The freedom from envy
and strife is indeed remarkable; quarrels are unknown and very few of
the inhabitants are so selfish as to seek for honor or wealth. The
greatest distinction that can come to any of them is an important part
in the play; yet there is never any contention or bitterness over the
allotments. It would be hard to find elsewhere a community more
seriously happy, more healthful or morally better than Oberammergau.
I shall not write at length of the world-famous play. It has been so
well and widely described that I could add but little new. It is
interesting as the sole survival of a vast number of mediaeval miracle
plays, though it has cast off the coarser features and progressed into a
really artistic production. I must first of all plead my own ignorance
of the true spirit and marvelous beauty of the play ere I saw it. I
thought it the crude production of a community of ignorant peasants who
were shrewd enough to turn their religion into a money-making scheme and
I freely declared that I would scarcely cross the street to witness it.
But when the great chorus of three hundred singers appeared in the
prelude that glorious Sunday morning, I began to realize how mistaken I
had been. And as the play progressed I was more and more impressed with
its solemn sincerity, its artistic staging and its studied harmony of
coloring. Indeed, in the last named particular it brought vividly to
mind the rich yet subdued tones of Raphael and Michael Angelo, and the
effect of the rare old tapestries one occasionally finds in the museums.
The tableaux in many cases closely followed some famous picture--as
Leonardo DaVinci's "Last Supper" or Rubens' "Descent from the
Cross,"--all perfectly carried out in coloring and spirit. The costumes
were rich and carefully studied, giving doubtless a true picture of the
times of Christ. The acting was the perfection of naturalness and the
crude and ridiculous features of the early miracle plays--and, not so
very long ago, of the Passion Play itself--have been gradually dropped
until scarce a trace of them remains. The devil no longer serves the
purpose of the clown, having altogether disappeared; and even the
tableau of Jonah and the whale, though given in the printed programs,
was omitted, evidently from a sense of its ridiculousness. I found
myself strangely affected by the simple story of the play. One indeed
might imagine that he saw a real bit of the ancient world were it not
for the great steel arches bending above him and the telephone wires
stretching across the blue sky over the stage.
But I think the best proof of the real human interest of the play is
that it held the undivided attention of five thousand spectators for
eight long hours on a spring day whose perfect beauty was a strong lure
to the open sky. And it did this not only for one day but for weeks,
later in the summer requiring an almost continuous daily performance.
And, having seen it once, I have no doubt the greater number of
spectators would gladly witness it again, for so great a work of art
cannot be grasped from a single performance.
Of course Oberammergau has not escaped the critics, but I fancy the
majority of them are, like myself before our visit to the town, quite
ignorant of the facts as well as the true spirit of the people. The
commonest charge is that the play is a money-making scheme on the part
of the promoters, but the fact is that the people are poor and remain
poor. The actual profits from the play are not large and these are
devoted to some public work, as the new theatre, the hospital and the
good cause of public roads. The salaries paid the players are merely
nominal, in no case exceeding a few hundred marks. The only source of
private profit comes from the sale of souvenirs and the entertaining of
visitors, but this can not be great, considering that the harvest comes
only once in a decade. The play is "commercialized" only to the extent
of placing it on a paying basis and if this were not the case there
could be no performance. The very fear of this charge kept the villagers
up to 1910 from placing their tickets and reservations in the hands of
Cook and other tourist agencies, though they were finally persuaded to
yield in this as an accommodation to the public. The most effective
answer to the assertion that the chief end of the play is money-making
may be found in the constant refusal of the villagers to produce it
elsewhere than in Oberammergau. Offers of fabulous sums from promoters
in England and the United States for the production of the play in the
large centers of these countries have been steadily refused, and the
actors have pursued their humble avocations in their quiet little town
quite content with their meager earnings. Nor have they yielded to the
temptation to give the play oftener, though it would be immensely
profitable if presented every year or even every alternate year.
We leave the little mountain-girdled valley with a new conception of its
Passion Play and its unique, happy people. The majestic spectacle we
have witnessed during our stay will linger with us so long as life shall
last and it can never be otherwise than a pleasant and inspiring memory.
V
BAVARIA AND THE RHINE
Munich is sixty miles north of Oberammergau and the road is better than
the average of German highways. For some distance out of the village we
pursue a winding course among the mountains, which affords some glorious
vistas of wooded vales and snow-capped Alps while we descend to the wide
plain surrounding Munich. We pass through several sleepy-looking
villages, though they prove sufficiently wide-awake to collect a toll of
two or three marks for the privilege of traversing their streets. A
well-surfaced highway bordered by trees leads us into the broad streets
of Munich, where we repair to the Continental Hotel.
We remain here several days and have the opportunity of closely
observing the Bavarian capital. We unhesitatingly pronounce it the
cleanest, most artistic and most substantial city we have ever seen. A
number of drives through the main streets and environs reveal little in
the nature of slums; even the poorest quarters of the city are solidly
built and clean, and next to its beautiful buildings and artistic
monuments the cleanliness of Munich seems to us most noteworthy. Perhaps
the ladies should be given credit for this--not the members of the
women's clubs, who are often supposed to influence civic affairs for the
better, but the old women who do the sweeping and scrubbing of the
streets, for we see them in every part of the city. This spick-and-span
cleanliness of the larger German cities forms a sharp contrast to the
filth and squalor of the villages, some of which are even worse than
anything we saw in France--but of this more anon.
Munich has a population of more than a half million, and having been
built within the last century, is essentially modern. It has many
notable public buildings, mainly in the German Gothic style--the
Rathhaus, with its queer clock which sets a number of life-size
automatons in motion every time it strikes the hour, being the most
familiar to tourists. The Royal Palace and the National Theatre are
splendid structures and the latter is famous for grand opera, in which
the Germans take great delight. Munich ranks as an important art
capital, having several galleries and museums, among which the Bavarian
National and German Museum are the most notable. There are numerous
public gardens and parks, all kept with the trim neatness that
characterizes the entire city. And one must not forget the beer-gardens,
which play so large a part in German life; the whole population
frequents these open-air drinking-places, where beer and other
refreshments are served at small tables underneath the trees. The best
feature of these is the excellent music which is an invariable
accompaniment and Munich is famous for its musicians. The most
proficient of these think it no detraction to perform in the
beer-gardens, which are attended by the best people of all classes;
students, artists, professors, business and military men make up a large
proportion of the patrons of these resorts. The gardens are conducted by
the big brewers and Munich beer is famous the world over. There is
comparatively little manufacturing in the city, though we noted one
exceptionally large iron foundry and a great engine works.
During our stay we took occasion to have our car overhauled at a public
garage and were impressed with the intelligence and efficiency of the
German mechanics. They were usually large, fine-looking fellows, always
good-natured and accommodating. The wages paid them are quite small as
compared with those of American mechanics, being about one-third as
much. At four o'clock in the afternoon everything stops for a quarter of
an hour while the workmen indulge in a pot of beer and a slice or two of
black bread. We saw this in a large foundry, where several hundred men
were employed and were told that the custom is universal.
The Captain, while admitting that most of the German workmen were very
good fellows, often treated them in a supercilious manner that I fear
sometimes worked against our interests. In fact, the Captain's dislike
of everything German was decidedly pronounced and the sight of a company
of soldiers usually put him in an ill humor. "I'll have to take a crack
at those fellows some time, myself," he would say, in the firm
conviction that war between England and Germany was inevitable.
He was not put in a better state of feeling towards our Teutonic hosts
when he came to pay the bill at the Continental. Through carelessness
unusual on his part, he neglected to have an iron-clad understanding
when he engaged accommodations and we had to suffer in consequence. He
made a vigorous protest without appreciable effect on the suave clerk,
who assured us that the rates of the Continental were quite like the
laws of the Medes and the Persians. They were high--yes; but only
persons of quality were received. Indeed, a princess and a baroness were
among the guests at that moment and he hinted that many applicants were
turned away because their appearance did not meet the requirements of
the Continental. "We just look them over," said the clerk, "and if we
don't like them we tell them we are full." All of which the Captain
translated to us, though I should judge from his vehemence in replying
to the clerk that he used some language which he did not repeat--perhaps
it had no equivalent in English. But it was all to no purpose; we paid
the bill and were free to get whatever comfort we could from the
reflection that we had been fellow-guests with a princess. "I saw her
one day," said the Captain. "She was smoking a cigarette in the parlor
and I offered her one of mine, which she declined, though she talked
with me very civilly for a few minutes."
We start rather late in the day with Ulm and Stuttgart as objective
points. The weather is fickle and the numerous villages through which we
pass would be disgusting enough in the sunshine, but they fairly reek in
the drizzling rain. The streets are inches deep in filth and we drive
slowly to avoid plastering the car--though the odors would induce us to
hasten if it were possible. Along the highroad stretch the low thatched
cottages; each one is half stable and the refuse is often piled above
the small windows. We dare not think of our plight if a tire should
burst as we drive gingerly along, but we fortunately escape such
disaster. Everywhere in these villages we see groups of sturdy
children--"race suicide" does not trouble Germany, nor does the
frightfully insanitary conditions of their homes seem to have affected
them adversely. On the contrary, they are fat, healthy-looking rascals
who--the Captain declares--scream insulting epithets at us. On all
sides, despite the rather inclement weather, we see women in the fields,
pulling weeds or using heavy, mattock-shaped hoes. We even see old
crones breaking rock for road-work and others engaged in hauling muck
from the villages to the fields. Men are more seldom seen at work--what
their occupation is we can only surmise. They cannot be caring for the
children, all of whom seem to be running the streets. Possibly they are
washing the dishes. But, facetiousness aside, it is probable that the
millions of young men who are compelled to do army service for three
years leave more work for the women at home. The railway traveler in
Germany sees little of the conditions I have described in these smaller
villages; few of them are on the railroad and the larger towns and
tourist centers are usually cleanly.
The dominating feature of Ulm is the cathedral, whose vast bulk looms
over the gray roofs of the houses crowding closely around it. It is the
second largest church in Germany and has one of the finest organs in
existence. The great central spire is the loftiest Gothic structure in
the world, rising to a height of five hundred and twenty-eight feet,
which overtops even Cologne. It has rather a new appearance, as a
complete restoration was finished only a few years ago. The cathedral
has made Ulm a tourist center and this no doubt accounts for the
numerous hotels of the town. We have a very satisfactory luncheon at the
Munster, though the charge startles us a little. We cannot help thinking
that some of these inns have a special schedule for the man with an
automobile--rating him as an American millionaire, who, according to the
popular notion in Germany, is endowed with more money than brains.
[Illustration: ULM AND THE CATHEDRAL]
From Ulm we pursue a poor road along the River Fils to Stuttgart, making
slow progress through the numerous villages. The streets are thronged
with children who delight in worrying our driver by standing in the road
until we are nearly upon them. The Captain often addresses vigorous
language to the provoking urchins, only to be answered by an epithet or
a grimace.
Stuttgart is a clean, well-built city with large commercial enterprises.
We see several American flags floating from buildings, for many
Stuttgart concerns have branches in the States. It is a famous
publishing center and its interest in books is evidenced by its splendid
library, which contains more than a half million volumes. Among these is
a remarkable collection of bibles, representing eight thousand editions
in over one hundred languages. There are the usual museums and galleries
to be found in a German city of a quarter of a million people and many
fine monuments and memorials grace the streets and parks. The population
is largely Protestant, which probably accounts for the absence of a
church of the first magnitude. We stop at the old-fashioned Marquardt
Hotel, which proves very good and moderate in rates.
The next day we cover one hundred and sixty miles of indifferent road to
Frankfort, going by the way of Karlsruhe, Heidelberg and Darmstadt. We
come across a few stretches of modern macadam, but these aggregate an
insignificant proportion of the distance. The villages exhibit the same
unattractive characteristics of those we passed yesterday. Many have
ancient cobblestone pavements full of chuck-holes; in others the streets
are muddy and filthy beyond description. It is Sunday and the people are
in their best attire; work is suspended everywhere--quite the opposite
of what we saw in France. The country along our route is level and
devoid of interest. From Karlsruhe we follow the course of the Rhine,
though at some distance from the river itself. We pass through several
forests which the government carefully conserves--in favorable contrast
with our reckless and wasteful destruction of trees in America. There is
much productive land along our way and the fields of wheat and rye are
as fine as we have ever seen. But for all this the country lacks the
trim, parklike beauty of England and the sleek prosperity and bright
color of France.
Heidelberg, thirty miles north of Karlsruhe, is a town of nearly fifty
thousand people. The university, the oldest and most famous school in
the empire, is not so large as many in America, having but sixteen
hundred students in all departments. It has, however, an imposing array
of buildings, some of these dating from the fourteenth century, when the
school was founded. The town is picturesquely situated on the Neckar,
which is crossed by a high bridge borne on massive arches. There is a
fine view down the river from this bridge and one which we pause to
contemplate. From the bridge we also get a good view of the town and the
ancient castle which dominates the place from a lofty hill. Ruined
castles, we have found, are as rare in Germany, outside the Rhine
region, as they are common in England.
We reach Frankfort at dusk, more weary than we have been in many a day.
The roads have been as trying as any we have traversed in Europe for a
like distance, and these, with the cobblestone pavements, have been
responsible for an unusual amount of tire trouble, which has not tended
to alleviate our weariness or improve our tempers. The Carlton Hotel
looks good and proves quite as good as it looks. It is the newest hotel
in the city, having been opened within a year by the well-known
Ritz-Carlton Corporation. In construction, equipment and service it is
up to the highest Continental standard--with prices to correspond.
One would require several days to visit the points of interest in
Frankfort, but our plans do not admit of much leisurely sightseeing. It
is one of the oldest of German cities, its records running back to the
time of Charlemagne in 793. We shall have to content ourselves with a
drive about the principal streets and an outside view of the most
important buildings. Chief among these is the magnificent opera house,
the railway station--said to be the finest on the Continent--the
library, the Stadel Museum, the "Schauspielhaus," or new theatre, and
the municipal buildings. The Cathedral of St. Bartholemew is the oldest
church, dating from 1235, but architecturally it does not rank with
Cologne or Ulm. The interior has a number of important paintings and
frescoes. St. Peter's, the principal Protestant church, is of the modern
Renaissance style with an ornate tower two hundred and fifty feet in
height.
There is one shrine in Frankfort that probably appeals to a greater
number of tourists than any of the monumental buildings we have
named--the plain old house where the poet Goethe was born in 1749 and
where he lived during his earlier years. Goethe occupies a place in
German literature analogous only to that of Shakespeare in our own and
we may well believe that this house is as much venerated in the
Fatherland as the humble structure in Stratford-on-Avon is revered in
England. It has been purchased by a patriotic society and restored as
nearly as possible to its original condition and now contains a
collection of relics connected with the poet--books, original
manuscripts, portraits and personal belongings. The custodian shows us
about with the officiousness and pride of his race and relates many
anecdotes of the great writer, which are duly translated by the Captain.
While it is hard for us to become enthusiastic over a German writer
about whom we know but little, it is easy to see that the patriotic
native might find as much sentiment in the Goethe house as we did in
Abbotsford or Alloway.
[Illustration: GOETHE'S HOUSE--FRANKFORT]
It is only a short run from Frankfort to Mayence, where we begin the
famous Rhine Valley trip. We pause for luncheon at the excellent Hotel
d'Angleterre, which overlooks the broad river. The city, declares Herr
Baedeker, is one of the most interesting of Rheinish towns and certainly
one of the oldest, for it has a continuous history from 368, at which
time Christianity was already flourishing. It figured extensively in the
endless church and civil wars that raged during the middle ages, and was
captured by the French in 1689 and 1792. After the latter fall it was
ceded to France, which, however, retained it but a few years. Formerly
it was one of the most strongly fortified towns in the kingdom, but its
walls and forts have been destroyed, though it still is the seat of a
garrison of seventy-five hundred soldiers. It has a cathedral of first
importance, founded as early as 400, though few traces of the original
building can be found. A notable feature is a pair of bronze doors
executed in 988, illustrating historic events of that time. But the
greatest distinction of Mayence is that Johann Gutenberg, the father of
modern printing, was born here near the end of the fourteenth century.
At least this is the general opinion of the savants, though there be
those who dispute it. However, there is no doubt that he died in the
city about 1468; neither is it disputed that he established his first
printing shop in Mayence, and did much important work in the town. The
famous Gutenberg Bible, a copy of which sold recently for $50,000, was
executed here about 1450. A bronze statue of the famous printer by
Thorwaldsen stands in front of the cathedral.
[Illustration: BINGEN ON THE RHINE]