"elektrische Bahn" on my little expedition from Wiesbaden to Mainz. I
reflected, as I saw the Haushaelterin get down heavily with all the
deliberation of her sixty-five and a half years, that feline amenities
are much the same in Germany as in England; and I felt sorry for poor
Fraeulein Meyer, who might have given up her small vanities and made
pancakes and _Apfelkuchen_ for the Professor quite as well in the end
as the Haushaelterin.
The cathedral of Mainz was, of course, the object of our expedition.
It dominates the city from afar, with its wonderful towers and
pinnacles, making of Mainz (a commonplace city enough) a thing of
beauty. From the shores of the Rhine we crossed a wide street planted
with trees and lined on each hand with modern German houses of pinkish
stone (covered with heavy sculpture and breaking out into countless
balconies and bay windows), and soon found ourselves in the
market-place. And here, indeed, one felt oneself in the Germany of
bygone days. Instead of pseudo-classic buildings, heavy with
meaningless ornamentation, we found beautiful old timber-framed
houses, with deep eaves and wood carvings. On one of these I read:
Zum Kurfuerstlichen
Wappen.
Erneuert in Jahr
des Heils
1899.
It was evidently a Gasthaus of considerable antiquity, and had been
carefully restored. Close by a Brobdingnagian finger lured the unwary
to where it pointed--a low doorway above which was inscribed the
legend: "_Hier essen Sie gut_." The market-place had been dismantled
of its stalls and umbrellas all but one, which was being furled as we
arrived on the scene. A couple of men in blue smocks were sweeping up
the cabbage leaves, straw and refuse, market carts were driving off,
and smart-looking officers in beautiful uniforms strolled across what
we English miscall "a square" for want of a better word.
But to get a good view of the exterior of the cathedral was what we
wanted, and to this end we dived down strange, evil-smelling alleys,
and went round and round a labyrinth of streets, always expecting to
see, and never arriving at, the cathedral's facade. At last we
realised that the quest was hopeless, since the building is so
surrounded and deformed by commonplace, ugly houses that nothing of it
but roof and towers can be seen from outside. We entered it at last by
a narrow lane between poor, ugly houses, an unfit approach indeed to
this beautiful Romanesque cathedral--one of the four famous Romanesque
Gothic cathedrals of Germany. The general effect of the interior is
that of strength, solidity, and simplicity. The grand structural lines
are noble and pure. There is an entire absence of the florid in
architecture, and no attempt at all at decoration as one understands
it in Spanish cathedrals. The tone of the walls and floor is a pinkish
brown, and the whole church has a warm glowing effect from its
richly-coloured stone. I could have spared most, if not all, of the
overladen rococo monuments to the Electors of Mainz, with their
monstrous records of impossible perfections; but my companion (a
German lady) thought them beautiful. The whole church struck one as
rather ill-kept; perhaps the red stone floor had something to do with
it. Dust and mud do not adhere somehow to an opus Alexandrinum
pavement. A guide appeared to offer his services, almost obsequiously
polite in his attentions to the English lady. Whatever their opinions
may be as to our failings and vices, our shortcomings and our
iniquities, most Germans are civil to us nowadays.[3] They hate us
cordially, envy us sincerely, attack us in the press and out of it,
and are insanely jealous of the people they affect to despise. But
while the superficial _entente_ lasts, they smile and bow and are
outwardly polite. I asked an English lady, the widow of a German
official, if her husband, having married an English wife, did not
cherish kindlier sentiments towards us than the majority of his
countrymen. "He died during the Boer war," she said, "and he died in
the sure and certain hope that England was done for."
[Footnote 3: This was written before the war.]
Apart from the Domkirche, there is little to see in Mainz, although
the city is of great antiquity, having been founded by Drusus. It is a
strongly fortified place, and stood once upon a time a memorable
siege. There are pleasant walks by the Rhine, beautiful Anlagen, a
picturesque old tower, and the site of Gutenberg's house to see. The
Grand Ducal Palace once sheltered Napoleon the First, as did many
another palace in Germany. The present Grand Duke prefers his palace
in Darmstadt, the Neue Palais (built by Queen Victoria for Princess
Alice), and comes little to the ancient city of bygone Electors.
We have fallen into German ways--alarming thought!--and become
unquestionably alive to the virtues of cafes and Restaurations as a
wind-up to a day's expedition. At Mainz we discovered a cafe close to
the theatre, and sipped coffee and ate _Streuselkuchen_ out of doors
in the shadow of the cathedral and Gutenberg's statue. A
pleasant-faced Gretchen brought us miniature Mont Blancs of whipped
cream on small glass plates, and loitered near us ostensibly
rearranging a table, but in reality studying our gowns and hats.
Before we paid our Rechnung, the Haushaelterin and Frau Rittergutsbesitzer
turned up hot and rather cross, having spent their time since we
parted in futile attempts to match Schleswig-Holstein ribbons with
those of the sunny Rhineland.
SCHLANGENBAD.
GREEN HILLS AND BLUE WATERS.
Schlangenbad, although a charmingly pretty spot, is not one to
fascinate a painter. The landscape is unvaryingly green, and that
green is too monotonous in tone for effect in a picture. Moreover, it
lies shut in by hills, and there is no distant horizon to give the
value of foreground and middle distance. But less critical eyes find
much to admire in Schlangenbad. The great wide road leading to it from
Eltville testifies to its former popularity in the days of family
coaches and postilions. Nowadays an ugly steam tram transports the
traveller from the Rhine to the "Serpent's Bath," and nearly poisons
and chokes him _en route_ with the horrible smoke it emits. Half of
the tram is open to the air at the sides, like a char-a-banc; and when
we travelled by it a little party of Germans were enjoying an
_Ausflug_, each man with one eye cocked on the scenery and the other
on the look-out for a _Bier-garten_.
Next to me sat a student, whose face was so slashed and gashed that it
reminded one of "Amtshauptmann Weber" (in Reuter's delightful book),
whose "face looked as if he had sat down upon it on a cane-bottomed
chair." Opposite the student was a middle-aged fat "Assessor," with a
small girl in long frilled drawers and short petticoats; and on the
other side of the gangway were two homely-looking women in
lead-coloured garments. As we passed through Altdorf the child drew
her father's attention to a fat goose which waddled away as the tram
approached. "_Sieh mal, Vater_," said she, "_die schoene Gans_."
("Look, father, at the beautiful goose.") "O! _die Gans_," said her
practical and prosaic parent, "_wird viel schoener sein, mein Kind,
wenn sie gebraten ist_." ("The goose will be much more beautiful, my
child, when it is roast.") "And has an accompaniment of sage-stuffing
and apple-sauce," I added, to which he in all serious conviction bowed
an assent.
The valley up which we journeyed was green and pleasant. There were no
walls or fences on either side of the road, but trees shaded the
wayfarer, and his outlook on gardens, bean-poles, orchards, and vines
was agreeable enough. If he chose to look further afield a silvery
streak called the Rhine was visible, and beyond that again low blue
hills stretched away until their cobalt and that of the sky got mixed
on the palette of Nature. From this valley comes the famous
Rauen-thaler wine. Most of the hills, indeed, are covered with vines,
and the village houses showed grapes hanging from their eaves and
peeping in at their windows.
At Neudorf we paused to pick up a _Barmherzige Schwester_; and as our
halt was exactly in front of the village shop I amused myself by
making a mental inventory of its contents. The window--an ordinary
one--had wooden shelves nailed across it; and on these were displayed
soap, slates and slate-pencils, bottles of peppermint lozenges,
hearthstone, flannel, lemon-drops, gingham, sausages, and gingerbread.
The houses of the village were covered with rough stucco, and white or
yellow-wash was swished liberally over them. Under their deep eaves an
occasional small image of _Die Mutter Gottes_ was to be seen. Many
were covered with grape-vines, and all had clean muslin blinds at
their windows, and often pots of geraniums and fuchsias outside.
Sunflowers, dahlias, and roses grew in the little patches of garden by
the road; and all was charming and primitive, save for the discordant
electric fittings which hung midway on the telegraph-posts, and the
anomaly of a brand new brick _Brod-fabrik_ just outside the village.
All the way up the "cane-bottomed chair" and the "Assessor" smoked
stolidly, while their women-folk cackled like human geese. "_Wie
schoen!_" "_Colossal!_" "_Entzueckend!_" "_Reizend!_" Nothing but
incessant and weary adjectives! I turned with relief to the
"Barmherzige Schwester," a prim and silent little figure in neat blue
cotton gown, black apron, and white kerchief pinned over her shining
hair.
The tram stopped at last before the village church, and we all got
out. To our left, as we faced the Kurhaus, straggled a long line of
houses with deep verandahs and balconies, to our right shady walks and
bath-houses and beautiful woods. Here and there amid the hotels and
villas was a shop, and we knew that Schlangenbad marched with the
times when we saw the word "_Schamponieren_" and a bunch of Empire
curls exhibited as a modern trophy. We stopped at a shop and examined
its wares, which, indeed, hung chiefly on the shutters. There were
Swiss embroidered gowns and blouses to be bought, edelweiss penwipers,
wooden paper-cutters, and clocks with chamois climbing wooden rocks.
Nothing apparently in that shop had been "made in Germany." When we
reached the verandah of the "Nassauer Hof" we were gladdened by bows
from the "Assessor" and the student, who with the "cackling geese"
were seated at a long table consuming piles of Apfelkuchen,
Streuselkuchen, and Napfkuchen to an accompaniment of steaming coffee.
As for dull, useful information Schlangenbad, of course, was known to
the Romans, and they bathed in its waters. The Middle Ages seem to
have neglected Spas generally, and to have been dead to the joys of a
bath. At all events, nothing more was heard about Schlangenbad or its
springs until in 1687 a wooden hut was put over what was known as the
"Roemer Bad." Next the Landgraf of Hesse awoke to the virtues of its
waters, and caused the "Oberes Kurhaus" to be built. Five years
later, the "Nassauer Hof" was erected, and a time of prosperity and
fashion set in for Schlangenbad. The waters have always had a great
reputation for beautifying the skin and healing wounds and sores. It
is on record that Frederick the First of Sweden ordered four thousand
bottles of Schlangenbad water a year as _eau de toilette_, and another
and still vainer sovereign three hundred a week. After this who shall
dare say that women have the monopoly of vanity?
Besides embellishing, the Schlangenbad waters are good in nervous
disorders, rheumatism, and asthma. They are of an exquisite light-blue
colour, and when bathing in them one's limbs have the appearance of
marble. That the Schlangenbad people think highly of their "cure" is
obvious. I bought a map of the district (manufactured in the place)
and found the word Schlangenbad printed in huge letters, while the
neighbouring town of Wiesbaden was in such small ones that it looked
as if scarcely worth mentioning at all.
LIEBENSTEIN.
Here in the Thuringian Forest, aloof from the stir and roar of life,
lies a Kur-Ort little known to the English world. Its waters are
analogous to those of Schwalbach, its air is as pure, its scenery more
beautiful, and its prices half those of the Taunus Wald. Its people
still retain their primitive charm, unspoilt as yet by the
potentialities of South African or American money-bags. Within easy
reach of such interesting towns as Eisenach, Weimar, Erfurt, Gotha,
and Coburg, it offers many alluring baits to the sightseer; yet to the
coming and going of tourists is it altogether unaccustomed.
Liebenstein lies in a green and beautiful valley, and the hills which
surround it are covered for the most part with great black forests.
Patches of wheat and rye vibrate in the winds which sweep up the
valleys, and the fields of potatoes alternate on the low grounds with
pasturage and orchards. Under the great limestone rocks, which near
Liebenstein rise sheer out of the plain, nestle charming villages, and
long avenues of poplars conduct you where you would go along the high
roads. By the roadside a wealth of flowers is yours for the
picking--wild thyme and asparagus and mallow, periwinkles, and the
picturesque dock and crowfoot. The woods are starred with flowers, and
the perfume of the pines is a revelation.
The humbler houses of Liebenstein (for the greater part timber-framed
and red-tiled) straggle up the immediate hills which surround it.
Those of more pretention and inevitable ugliness range themselves
decently and in order along two parallel roads. Aloof as this village
is from "the madding crowd's ignoble strife," it has yet been touched
to its undoing by the ruthless finger of conventionality. The
inevitable Kur-Haus and bandstand and Anlagen are here; worst of all,
a Trink-Halle! The Trink-Halle stands a mute and awful warning to the
vaulting ambition which overleaps itself, since a classic temple in
the heart of Liebenstein is surely as much out of place as a tiara
would be on the head of the peasant woman who hands you your daily
portion of Stahlwasser. Even the spring it originally sheltered has
revolted against its sham marble pillars and grotesque entablature,
and betaken itself elsewhere! Nowadays the paint and plaster are
peeling off the columns, and its door is padlocked. Happily--although
a melancholy warning to the educated--it remains a source of pride to
the peasant, who loves his shabby temple as the Romans do the marble
glories of their Vesta.
Immediately behind the temple are the springs of Georg and Kasimir, at
which stand two charming maidens ready to fill your glasses. No
conventional and hideous hat or bonnet disfigures the neat outline of
their heads. No travesty of Berlin or Paris fashion burlesques their
sturdy figures. Theirs the traditional costume of the Thuringian
female peasant--a dark skirt, and white, short-sleeved chemisette, a
blue apron and the daintiest of white silk kerchiefs, fringed sparsely
and brocaded abundantly with red roses. Albeit their arms are red and
coarse with the combined effect of iron-water, hot sun, and exposure
to the air, their faces make ample amends in their innocent,
good-tempered comeliness. They greet you with a kindly "Guten Tag" or
"Guten Abend," and, in the case of a lady, seldom omit the pretty
"Gnaedige Frau," for which our "Ma'am" is but a poor correlative.
Wandering through the streets of Liebenstein, one is struck by the
intensely picturesque sights of its older and original part. The
little houses are timber-framed and whitewashed, with deep projecting
eaves and often many gables. Their windows are made gay outside by
boxes filled with geraniums, nasturtiums, and fuchsias. Beneath the
windows lie small gardens, in which bloom roses and single dahlias,
while scarlet runners send their tendrils climbing over the palings
which separate road and garden. Many of the little houses have
projecting signs, on which one reads such legends as "_Tabak,
Cigarren, Cigaretten_;" "Adolf Schmidt, _Herren kleidermacher_;"
"_Weinhandlung Naturreinheit garantirt_;" or the very indispensable
"_Baeckerei_." One house bears a tablet announcing to an admiring world
that "_Herzoglich. Sachsen-Meiningen Stadtesbeamter_" lives within.
Cocks and hens, dogs and children, make common playground of these
narrow streets, and one sees in them pretty well every form of animal
life represented, except horses. Now a long cart, drawn by oxen and
well filled, toils up the hill, and not long after follows one drawn
by a big dog. At a pump two tiny girls are busily employed filling
stone jars, which by the beauty and purity of their outlines might
have been Etruscan. Mothers beat mats at their cottage doors, and
shrilly scream at their children to get out of the way of the passing
carts; and the world in this remote village goes on pretty much as it
does elsewhere.
But the fashionable life of Liebenstein does not concern itself with
such mean sights and bucolic sounds as oxen-carts and crowing of
cocks. It takes its pleasure up and down the long avenues of beech
trees which lie between the Kur-Haus and the Hotel Bellevue. It
rallies round the bandstand, and makes great show of studying the
programmes of the daily concert. It chatters glibly over the previous
evening's illuminations, and describes them as "_colossal!_" and
"_wunderschoen_." Beauty is not in vogue at Liebenstein, judging by the
middle-class Kur guests who haunt the shade of the beech trees.
Indeed, if anywhere in the world an Englishman might be forgiven for
thanking God that he is not as other men are, it would be here among
the "_Ober-Lieutenants_" and "Herr Professors" and their mates.
Figures, both male and female, seem to be of the switchback
order--faces rudimentary in their modelling, and uncompromising in
their plainness, dressing of the ugliest. Yet, _Gott sei Dank!_ Hans
thinks his Gretchen perfection, and it would never enter into innocent
Gretchen's head, as it does mine, to bestow upon Hans the carping
criticism of Portia upon Monsieur Le Bon: "God made him, and therefore
let him pass for a man."
TREVES
The dominant glory of the Moselle region is Treves. No town or city
near has the smallest affinity with its peculiar character, and all
seem modern and prosaic compared with its well-preserved tale of
antiquity. "Nowhere north of the Alps," we are told in weary
iteration, "exist such magnificent Roman remains." It is generally on
the obvious that the unimaginative English parson takes upon himself
to comment. We listen submissively to much school-book lore as to
"Claudius" and the "fourth century" and the "residence of Roman
Emperors," but when it rains Bishops and Archbishops and Electors we
fly before them. For, after all, what signifies the paltry learning of
a dry-as-dust dominie compared with the vivid tales these grand old
ruins tell if suffered to speak for themselves? In Treves people need
to absorb silently, and then assimilate undisturbed by weary chatter.
One looks at the tender turquoise sky, flecked with luminous clouds;
at the fine horizontal distance, with its sense of breadth and
breathing-space; at the low hills covered with vines; at the
cornfields, and orchards, and river--and we wonder what the old Romans
thought of it all, and reflect on the strangeness of life that a
people so remote from our times should have lived and loved and died,
as we live and love and die to-day. Whether Treves lie on the right or
left bank of the Moselle is immaterial except to the tiresomely
precise or to those who pin their faith to guide-books and such
shallow teachers. There is a more valuable lesson to be learnt of the
place than that of its exact situation; and no Baedeker or Murray can
help you to appreciate Treves as quiet communings with your own
intelligence will. If it so happens that you have none to commune
with, then God help you--and yours!
In Treves you have not far to go in search of the Romans. Their
_magnum opus_ confronts you boldly at the very threshold of the town.
Solid and massive and symmetrical, it stands a pregnant lesson to the
jerry-builders of to-day. There is little affinity indeed between the
building methods of the ancient Romans and those of their trade whose
sorry, pitiable record exists in the Quartiere Nuovo of Rome. About
the Porta Nigra is no trace of stucco or rubble. The huge blocks of
which it is built stand one upon the other clean-hewn and square. No
signs of mortar are left, but we see marks of iron or brass clamps.
Its colour is a warm, deep red, softened here and there by streaks of
green.
The Porta Nigra has passed through strange phases since first it
started in life as a city gate. Obviously built for purposes of
fortification, and equipped with towers of defence, its second phase
was an ecclesiastical one, and the "spears" were indeed turned into
"pruning-hooks" when the bellicose propugnaculum found itself
transformed into a church.
"Last scene of all,
That ends this strange, eventful history."
The gate was in 1876 finally cleared of priests and altars, and
allowed to revert to its original form.
Not far from the Porta Nigra stands the Cathedral, one of the oldest
in Germany, archaeologically interesting, inasmuch as it owes its
inception to the Romans. The Basilica, built by Valentinian as a court
of law, is clearly traceable in the present cathedral, and one reads a
strange tale of Romans and Franks in the sandstone and limestone and
brick of its walls. Here is treasured the famous Heilige Rock, or holy
coat worn by our Saviour when a boy. At rare intervals this garment is
exhibited to the faithful, who come from all countries to gaze
reverently upon it. Who that has seen can forget the last exposition
in 1891? Never before or since has there been anything more pathetic
than the sight of the long rows of tired, haggard, perspiring, praying
pilgrims, who stood patiently for hours in the broiling August sun,
moving only when permitted, and then at a snail's pace, towards their
Mecca. Plebeian though the majority of faces were, their devotional,
solemn, rapt expressions for the time being ennobled and beautified
them.
Treves during that time, however, was by no means the reposeful,
dignified city it is to-day. Its buildings were defaced with flags and
banners, its streets blocked with pilgrims, and the road leading from
the station to the town was lined with booths, whose owners disposed
quickly of such delicacies as Napfkuchen, Streusel-Kuchen, and
Apfelwein. Piety and profit went everywhere hand-in-hand, and a
roaring trade was done in rosaries and benitiers, the last made of the
blue pottery of the country, and stamped with a representation of Leo
XIII. against a background of Domkirche.
But to be thoroughly in harmony with Treves one must be Pagan and
Roman rather than Christian and German. Indeed, one feels in sympathy
with the Isle of Wight farmer who after he had found a Roman villa on
his farm gave up the bucolic and inglorious occupation of growing
turnips and potatoes, and could talk of nothing meaner than hypocausts
and thermae. So we, like the farmer, slight the really beautiful Early
Gothic "Liebfrauenkirche" and roam and muse for hours about the ruins
of the Amphitheatre, the Roman Baths, the Roman Palace and the
Basilica.
LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, DUKE STREET,
STAMFORD STREET, S.E., AND GREAT WINDMILL STREET, W.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES
page 23--inserted a missing closing quote after 'Dank!'
page 36--inserted a missing period after 'Burns'
page 61--inserted a missing closing quote after 'France'
page 82--typo fixed: changed a comma into a period after 'pavement'
page 83--typo fixed: changed a comma into a period after 'Electors'
page 93--spelling normalized: changed the position of semi-colon and
a quote after 'Cigaretten'