Höllenthal Pass--Ladies--Black Forest--Night Music--Beds--Lake
Titisee--Pontius Pilate--Storm--Starers--Singers--Source of the
Danube.
Planning your summer tour is one of the most agreeable of occupations.
It is in June or July that the Foreign Bradshaw becomes suddenly of
intense interest, and the well-known pages of "Steamers and
Railways"--why, it is worth while being a bachelor to be able to read
each of these as part of your sketched-out plan, and (oh, selfish
thought!) to have only one mind to consult as to whither away.
All this pleasure is a good deal influenced, however, by true answers to
these questions,--Have you worked hard in working time, so as to be
entitled to play in these playhours? Is this to be a vacation of
refreshment, or an idle lounge and killing of time? Are you going off to
rest, and to recruit delicate health, or with vigour to enjoy a summer
of active exertion?
But now the infallible Bradshaw could not help me with the canoe one
iota, and Baedeker was not written for a boat; so at Freyburg my plans
resolved themselves into the simple direction, "Go at once to the source
of the Danube."
Next morning, therefore, found the Rob Roy in a cart, and the
grey-clothed traveller walking beside it on the dusty Höllenthal road.
The gay, light-hearted exultation of being strong and well, and on a
right errand, and with unknown things to do and places to see and people
to meet, who can describe this? How easy it is at such times to be glad,
and to think this is being "thankful."
After moralizing for a few miles, a carriage full of English people
overtook me, and soon we became companions. "The English are so distant,
so silent, such _hauteur_, and gloomy distrust," forsooth! A false
verdict, say I. The ladies carried me off through the very pretty glen,
and the canoe on its cart trundled slowly after us behind, through the
Höllenthal Pass, which is too seldom visited by travellers, who so often
admire the spire of Freyburg (from the railway perhaps), passing it on
their route to Switzerland.
This entrance to the Schwartzwald, or Black Forest, is a woody, rocky,
and grim defile, with an excellent road, and good inns.
The villages are of wood, and there is a saw-mill in every other house,
giving a busy, wholesome sound, mellowed by the patter of the
water-wheel. Further on, where tourists' scenery stops, it is a grand,
dark-coloured ocean of hills. The houses get larger and larger, and
fewer and fewer, and nearly every one has a little chapel built
alongside, with a wooden saint's image of life-size nailed on the gable
end. One night I was in one of these huge domiciles, when all the
servants and ploughboys came in, and half said, half sung, their
prayers, in a whining but yet musical tone, and then retired for a
hearty supper.
Our carriage mounted still among crags, that bowed from each side to
meet across the narrow gorge, and were crested on high by the grand
trees that will be felled and floated down the Rhine on one of those
huge rafts you meet at Strasbourg. But everybody must have seen a Rhine
raft, so I need not describe it, with its acres of wood and its street
of cabin dwellings, and its gay bannerets. A large raft needs 500 men to
navigate it, and the timber will sell for 30,000_l._
At the top of this pass was the watershed of this first chain of hills,
where my English friends took leave of me. The Rob Roy was safely housed
in the Baar Inn, and I set off for a long walk to find if the tiny
stream there would possibly be navigable.
Alone on a hillside in a foreign land, and with an evening sun on the
wild mountains, the playful breeze and the bleating sheep around
you--there is a certain sense of independent delight that possesses the
mind then with a buoyant gladness; but how can I explain it in words,
unless you have felt this sort of pleasure?
However, the rivulet was found to be eminently unsuited for a canoe; so
now let me go to bed in my wooden room, where the washingbasin is oval,
and the partitions are so thin that one hears all the noises of the
place at midnight. Now, the long-drawn snore of the landlord; then, the
tittle-tattle of the servants not asleep yet,--a pussy's plaintive mew,
and the scraping of a mouse; the cows breathing in soft slumber; and,
again, the sharp rattle of a horse's chain.
The elaborate construction of that edifice of housewifery called a
"bett" here, and which we are expected to sleep upon, can only be
understood when you have to undermine and dismantle it night after night
to arrive at a reasonable flat surface on which to recline.
First you take off a great fluff bag, at least two feet thick, then a
counterpane, and then a brilliant scarlet blanket; next you extract one
enormous pillow, another enormous pillow, and a huge wedge-shaped
bolster,--all, it appears, requisite for the Teutonic race, who yet
could surely put themselves to sleep at an angle of forty-five degrees,
without all this trouble, by merely tilting up the end of a flat
bedstead.
Simple but real courtesy have I found throughout. Every one says "Gut
tag;" and, even in a hotel, on getting up from breakfast a guest who has
not spoken a word will wish "Gut morgen" as he departs, and perhaps "Bon
appetit" to those not satisfied like himself. About eight o'clock the
light repast of tea or coffee, bread, butter, and honey begins the day;
at noon is "mittagessen," the mid-day meal, leaving all proper excuse
for another dining operation in the shape of a supper at seven.
No fine manners here! My driver sat down to dinner with me, and the
waiter along with him, smoking a cigar between whiles, as he waited on
us both. But all this is just as one sees in Canada and in Norway, and
wherever there are mountains, woods, and torrent streams, with a sparse
population; and, as in Norway too, you see at once that all can read,
and they do read. There is more reading in one day in a common house in
Germany than in a month in the same sort of place in France.
I had hired the cart and driver by the day, but he by no means admired
my first directions next morning--namely, to take the boat off the main
road, so as to get to the Titisee, a pretty mountain lake about four
miles long, and surrounded by wooded knolls. His arguments and
objections were evidently superficial, and something deeper than he said
was in his mind. In fact, it appears that, by a superstition long
cherished there, Pontius Pilate is supposed to be in that deep, still
lake, and dark rumours were told that he would surely drag me down if I
ventured upon it.[V.]
[V.] The legend about Pilate extends over Germany and Italy.
Even on the flanks of Stromboli there is a _talus_ of the volcano which
the people dare not approach, "because of Pontius Pilate."
Of course, this decided the matter, and when I launched the Rob Roy from
the pebbly shore in a fine foggy morning, and in full view of the
inhabitants of the region (eight in number at last census), we had a
most pleasant paddle for several miles.
At a distance the boat was invisible being so low in the water, and they
said that "only a man was seen, whirling a paddle about his head."
There is nothing interesting about this lake, except that it is 3,000
feet above the sea and very lonely, in the middle of the Black Forest.
Certainly no English boat has been there before, and probably no other
will visit the deserted water.
After this, the Rob Roy is carted again still further into the forests.
Lumbering vehicles meet us, all carrying wood. Some have joined three
carts together, and have eight horses. Others have a bullock or two
besides, and all the men are intelligent enough, for they stop and
stare, and my driver deigns to tell them, in a patois wholly beyond me,
as to what a strange fare he has got with a boat and no other luggage.
However, they invariably conclude that the canoe is being carried about
for sale, and it could have been well sold frequently already.
About mid-day my sage driver began to mutter something at intervals, but
I could only make out from his gestures and glances that it had to do
with a storm overhead. The mixture of English, French, and German on the
borders of the Rhine accustoms one to hear odd words. "Shall have you
pottyto?" says a waiter, and he is asking if you will have potatoes.
Another hands you a dish, saying, it is "sweetbone," and you must know
it is "sweetbread."
Yes, the storm came, and as it seldom does come except in such places. I
once heard a thunder peal while standing on the crater of Mount
Vesuvius, and I have seen the bright lightning, in cold and grand
beauty, playing on the Falls of Niagara in a sombre night, but the
vividness of the flashes to-day in the Black Forest, and the crashing,
rolling, and booming of the terrible and majestic battery of heaven was
astounding. Once a bolt fell so near and with such a blaze that the
horse albeit tired enough started off down a hill and made me quite
nervous lest he should overturn the cart and injure my precious boat,
which naturally was more and more dear to me as it was longer my sole
companion.
As we toiled up the Rothenhaus Pass, down came the rain, whistling and
rushing through the cold, dark forests of larch, and blackening the top
of great Feldberg, the highest mountain here, and then pouring heavy and
fast on the cart and horse, the man, the canoe, and myself. This was the
last rain my boat got in the tour. All other days I spent in her were
perfectly dry.
People stared out of their windows to see a cart and a boat in this
heavy shower--what! a boat, up here in the hills? Where can it be going,
and whose is it? Then they ran out to us, and forced the driver to
harangue, and he tried to satisfy their curiosity, but his explanation
never seemed to be quite exhaustive, for they turned homeward shaking
their heads and looking grave, even though I nodded and laughed at them
through the bars of the cart, lifting up my head among the wet straw.
The weather dried up its tears at last, and the sun glittered on the
road, still sparkling with its rivulets of rain, but the boat was soon
dried by a sponge, while a smart walk warmed its well-soaked captain.
The horse too had got into a cheerful vein and actually trotted with
excitement, for now it was down hill, and bright sun--a welcome change
in ten minutes from our labouring up a steep forest road in a
thunder-storm.
The most rigid teetotaller (I am only a temperance man) would probably
allow that just a very small glass of kirchwasser might be prescribed at
this moment with advantage, and as there was no "faculty" there but
myself, I administered the dose medicinally to the driver and to his
employer, and gave a bran-mash and a rub down to the horse, which made
all three of us better satisfied with ourselves and each other, and so
we jogged on again.
By dusk I marched into Donaueschingen, and on crossing the little
bridge, saw at once I could begin the Danube from its very source, for
there was at least three inches of water in the middle of the stream.
In five minutes a crowd assembled round the boat, even before it could
be loosened from the cart.[VI.]
[VI.] After trying various modes of securing the canoe in a
springless cart for long journeys on rough and hilly roads, I am
convinced that the best way is to fasten two ropes across the top of a
long cart and let the boat lie on these, which will bear it like springs
and so modify the jolts. The painter is then made fast fore and aft, so
as to keep the boat from moving back and forward. All plans for using
trusses of straw, &c., fail after a few miles of rolling gravel and
coarse ruts.
The ordinary idlers came first, then the more shy townspeople, and then
a number of strange folk, whose exact position I could not make out,
until it was explained that the great singing meeting for that part of
Germany was to be held next day in the town, and so there were 600
visitors, all men of some means and intelligence, who were collected
from a wide country round about.
The town was in gala for this meeting of song. The inns were full, but
still the good landlord of the "Poste" by the bridge gave me an
excellent room, and the canoe was duly borne aloft in procession to the
coachhouse.
What a din these tenors and basses did make at the table d'hôte!
Everything about the boat had to be told a dozen times over to them,
while my driver had a separate lecture-room on the subject below.
The town was well worth inspection next day, for it was in a violent fit
of decoration. Every house was tidied up, and all the streets were
swept clean. From the humbler windows hung green boughs and garlands,
rugs, quilts, and blankets; while banners, Venetian streamers, arches,
mottoes, and wreaths of flowers announced the wealthier houses. Crowds
of gaping peasants paraded the streets and jostled against bands
drumming and tromboning (if there be such a word), and marching in a
somewhat ricketty manner over the undoubtedly rough pavement. Every now
and then the bustle had a fresh paroxysm when four horses rattled along,
bringing in new visitors from some distant choir. They are coming you
see in a long four-wheeled cart, covered with evergreens and bearing
four pine trees in it erect among sacks which are used as seats--only
the inmates do not sit but stand up in the cart, and shout, and sing,
and wave banners aloft, while the hundreds of on-lookers roar out the
"Hoch," the German Hurrah! with only one note.
As every window had its ornament or device, I made one for mine also,
and my sails were festooned (rather tastefully, I flatter myself) to
support the little blue silk English jack of the canoe. This
complimentary display was speedily recognized by the Germans, who
greeted it with cheers, and sung glees below, and improvised verses
about England, and then sang round the boat itself, laughing, shouting,
and hurraing boisterously with the vigour of youthful lungs. Never tell
me again that the Germans are phlegmatic!
[Illustration: Singers' Waggon.]
They had a "banket" in the evening at the Museum. It was "free for all,"
and so 400 came on these cheap terms, and all drank beer from long
glass cylinders at a penny a glass, all smoked cigars at a farthing a
piece, and all talked and all sang, though a splendid brass band was
playing beside them, and whenever it stopped a glee or chorus commenced.
The whole affair was a scene of bewildering excitement, very curious to
contemplate for one sitting in the midst. Next me I found a young
bookseller who had sold me a French book in the morning. He said I must
take a ticket for the Sunday concert; but I told him I was an
Englishman, and had learned in my country that it was God's will and for
man's good to keep Sunday for far better things, which are too much
forgotten when one day in seven is not saved from the business,
excitement, and giddiness of every-day life.
And is there not a feeling of dull sameness about time in those
countries and places where the week is not steadied and centred round a
solid day on which lofty and deep things, pure and lasting things may
have at least some hours of our attention?
So I left the merry singers to bang their drums and hoch! at each other
in the great hall provided for their use by the Prince of Furstemburg.
He had reared this near his stables, in which are many good horses, some
of the best being English, and named on their stalls "Miss," "Pet,"
"Lady," or "Tom," &c.
An English gentleman whom I met afterwards had been travelling through
Germany with a four-in-hand drag, and he came to Donaueschingen, where
the Prince soon heard of his arrival. Next day His Serene Highness was
at his stables, and seeing an English visitor there, he politely
conducted the stranger over the whole establishment, explaining every
item with minute care. He found out afterwards that this visitor was not
the English gentleman, but only his groom!
The intelligence, activity, and good temper of most of the German
waiters in hotels will surely be observed by travellers whose daily
enjoyment depends so much on that class. Here, for instance, is a little
waiter at the Poste Inn. He is the size of a boy, but looks twenty years
older. His face is flat, and broad, and brown, and so is his jacket. His
shoulders are high, and he reminds you of those four everlasting German
juveniles, with thick comforters about their necks, who stand in London
streets blowing brass music, with their cheeks puffed out, and their
cold grey eyes turning on all the passing objects while the music, or at
any rate a noise, blurts out as if mechanically from the big, unpolished
instruments held by red benumbed fingers.
This waiter lad then is all the day at the beck of all, and never gets a
night undisturbed, yet he is as obliging at ten o'clock in the dark as
for the early coffee at sunrise, and he quite agrees with each guest, in
the belief that _his_ particular cutlet or cognac is the most important
feature of the hour.
I honour this sort of man. He fills a hard place well, and Bismarck or
Mussurus cannot do more.
Then again, there is Ulric, the other waiter, hired only for to-day as
an "extra," to meet the crush of hungry vocalists who will soon fill the
_saal_. He is timid yet, being young, and only used to a village inn
where "The Poste at Donaueschingen" is looked up to with solemn
admiration as the pink of fashion. He was learning French too, and was
sentimental, so I gave him a very matter-of-fact book, and then he asked
me to let him sit in the canoe while I was to paddle it down the river
to his home! The naïve simplicity of this request was truly refreshing,
and if we had been sure of shallow water all the way, and yet not too
shallow, it would perhaps have been amusing to admit such a passenger.
The actual source of the Danube is by no means agreed upon any more than
the source of the Nile. I had a day's exploration of the country, after
seeking exact information on this point from the townspeople in vain.
The land round Donaueschingen is a spongy soil, with numerous rivulets
and a few large streams. I went along one of these, the Brege, which
rises twenty miles away, near St. Martin, and investigated about ten
miles of another, the Brigach, a brook rising near St. Georgen, about a
mile from the source of the Neckar, which river runs to the Rhine. These
streams join near Donaueschingen, but in the town there bubbles up a
clear spring of water in the gardens of the Prince near the church, and
this, the infant Danube, runs into the other water already wide enough
for a boat, but which then for the first time has the name of Donau.
The name, it is said, is never given to either of the two larger
rivulets, because sometimes both have been known to fail in dry summers,
while the bubbling spring has been perennial for ages.
The Brege and another confluent are caused to fill an artificial pond
close by the Brigach. This lake is wooded round, and has a pretty
island, and swans, and gold fish. A waterwheel (in vain covered for
concealment) pumps up water to flow from an inverted horn amid a group
of statuary in this romantic pond, and the stream flowing from it also
joins the others, now the Danube.[VII.]
[VII.] The old Roman Ister. The name Donau is pronounced
"Doanou." Hilpert says, "Dönau allied to Dón and Düna (a river)." In
Celtic _Dune_ means "river," and _Don_ means "brown," while "_au_" in
German is "island" (like the English "eyot").
The other three rivers mentioned above, and depicted in the plan on the
map with this book, seem to preserve traces of their Roman names. Thus
the "Brigach" is the stream coming from the north where "Alt Breisach"
now represents the Roman "Mons Brisiacus," while the "Brege" may be
referred to "Brigantii," the people about the "Brigantinus Lacus," now
the "Boden See" (Lake Constance), where also Bregentz now represents the
Roman "Brigantius." The river Neckar was "Nicer" of old, and the Black
Forest was "Hercynia Silva."
The reader being now sufficiently confused about the source of the
Danube and its name, let us leave the Latin in the quagmire and jump
nimbly into our canoe.
That there might be no mistake however in this matter about the various
rivulets, I went up each stream until it would not float a canoe. Then
from near the little bridge, on August 28, while the singers _sol-faed_
excessively at the boat, and shouted "hocks" and farewells to the
English "flagge," and the landlord bowed (his bill of thirteen francs
for three full days being duly paid), and the populace stared, the Rob
Roy shot off like an arrow on a river delightfully new.