Читать книгу One Year Abroad - Blanche Willis Howard - Страница 7

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Baden is a little paradise. It seems like a garden with the freshness of May on every flower and leaf. The long lines of chestnut-trees are rich with bright, pink blossoms,—solid pink, not pink-and-white like ours at home. You walk beneath them through shady avenues, where the young grass is like velvet, and every imaginable shade of refreshing green lies before your eyes. There is the tender May-leaf green of the shrubs, another of the soft lawns, that of the different trees, of the more distant hill-slopes, and, beyond all, the deepest intensified green of the Black Forest rising nobly everywhere around. A hideous little bright-green cottage, prominent on one of the hills, irritates us considerably, not harmonizing with its deep background of pines, and we long at first to ruthlessly erase it from the picture; but finally remembering the ugly little thing is actually somebody's home, our better nature triumphs, and we feel we can allow it to remain, and can only hope the dwellers within think it prettier than we do.

There are already many visitors here, though it is as yet too early and cool for the great throng of strangers to be expected, and the vast numbers of people come no more who used to frequent the place before the gaming was abolished by the emperor a few years ago, through Bismarck's especial exertions, it is said; from which it is to be inferred that Baden's pure loveliness is less attractive to the world at large than the fascination of the gaming-tables. We hear everywhere around regrets for the lost charm, for the gayety, excitement, brilliancy; and it is impossible to avoid wishing, not certainly that play were not abolished, but at least that we could have come when it was at its height to see for ourselves the strange phases of humanity that were here exhibited, and just how naughty it all was. Now the waiters shake their heads mournfully, as if a glory and a grace were departed, and say, “No, it isn't what it used to be,—nothing like it!” and there seems to be a “banquet-hall-deserted” atmosphere pervading the rooms in the Conversation House. To be sure there is music there evenings, and a fashionable assembly walking about; and there is music, too, in the kiosk, and a goodly number of gay people chatting, eating, and drinking at the little tables in the open air; and people gather in the early mornings to drink the waters, as they always have done, but, after all, the tribute of a memory and a regret seems to be universally paid to the vanquished god of play, who is helping poor mortals cheat somewhere else.

The Empress of Germany is here, and, after long-continued effort, we have seen her. How madly we have striven to accomplish this feat; how we have questioned servants and shopkeepers; how we have haunted the Lichtenthal Allee, that long, lovely, shady walk where her Majesty is said to promenade regularly every day; how often we have had our garments, but not our ardor, dampened for her sake; how she would never come; and how finally, in desperation, we seated ourselves at a table under a tree near her hotel, devoured eagerly with our eyes all its windows, saw imperial dogs and imperial handmaidens in the garden, and couriers galloping away with despatches, saw the coachmen and footmen and retainers, but for a long time no empress,—all this shall never be revealed, because self-respect imposes strict silence in regard to such conduct.

We must have looked somewhat like a picture in an old Harper's Magazine where two hungry newsboys stand by the area railing as dinner is served, and when the different dishes are carried past the windows one regales himself with the savory scents, while the other says something to this effect: “I don't mind the meats, but just tell me when the pudding comes and I'll take a sniff.”

“Augusta, please, dear Augusta, come out!” entreated we; but she came not. When a carriage rolled round to the door, we were in ecstasies of expectation, convinced she was going out to drive, but instead came a gentleman, servants, and travelling-bags.

“Why, it's Weimar,—our Weimar!” said we with pride and ownership, because you see the Prince of Weimar lives in Stuttgart, and so do we. And as he drives off, out on the balcony among the plants comes her imperial Majesty and waves her handkerchief to her brother in farewell. She wore a black dress, a white head-dress or breakfast-cap, looked like her photographs, and must once have been beautiful. She is an intensely proud woman, it is said, and a rigid upholder of etiquette, and tales are told of slight differences between her and the crown princess on this account.

Baden is one of the enticing places of the earth,—is so lovely that whenever, however, wherever you may look, you always spy some fresh beauty, and the Black Forest legends are hanging all about it, investing it with an endless charm. You can see in the frescoed panels on the front of the new Trinkhalle a picture illustrating some old story of a place near by, and then for your next day's amusement can go to the identical spot where the ghost or demon or goblin used to be.

To Yburg, whose young knight met the beautiful, unearthly maiden by the old heathen temple in the full moonshine, as he was returning from the castle of his lady-love to his own, and who transferred his affections—as adroitly as our young knights do the same thing nowadays—from her to the misty figure, and met the latter, night after night, was watched by his faithful servant, and was found dead on the ground one bright morning.

Or to Lauf, where the ghost-wedding was, or almost was, but not quite, because the knight who was to be married to the very attractive ghost of a young woman grew so frightened when he saw all the glassy eyes of the ghostly witnesses staring at him that he couldn't say yes when the sepulchral voice of the ghost of a bishop asked him if he would have this woman to his wedded wife; and all the ghosts were deeply offended and made a great uproar, and the knight fell down as if dead, and he too was found lying on the ground in the morning; but him, I believe, they were able to revive.

And you can go to the Convent of Lichtenthal, from which the nuns, upon the approach of the enemy, in 1689 fled in terror, leaving their keys in the keeping of the Virgin Mary, who came down from her picture and stood in the doorway, so that the French soldiers shrank back aghast, and all was left unharmed.

We went there, and saw a number of Marys in blue and red gowns, but could not quite tell which was the one who came down from her frame to guard the convent.

In the chapel eight or ten children mumbled their prayers in unison, while we stood far behind, examining the old stained-glass windows, with the peculiar blue tint in them that cannot now be reproduced, and the queer old stone knights in effigy; and I don't imagine the Lord heard the children any the less because they were very absurd, and bobbed about in every direction, and constantly turned one laughing face quickly round to look at us, then back again, then another and another, while all the time the praying went mechanically on. There was a little girl, nine years old perhaps, who came to meet us by the old well here, and stood smiling at us with great, brown, expressive eyes. Her face was so brilliant and sweet we were charmed with her; but when we spoke she upturned that rare little face of hers and answered not a word. I took her hand in mine, but before she gave it she kissed it, and to each of the party, who afterwards took her hand, she gave the same graceful greeting. Not an airy kiss thrown at one, after the fashion of children in general, but a quiet little one deposited upon her hand before it was honored by the touch of the stranger. The pretty action, together with the exquisite face, calm and clear as a cherub, and ideally childlike, made a deep impression on us; and in some way, what we afterwards learned—that she was completely deaf and dumb—did not occur to us. We thought that she would not speak, not that she could not.

On a height overlooking the town stands a memorial chapel, built in antique style, of alternate strata of red and white sandstone, by which a very lively effect is produced. It has a gilded dome and a portico supported by four Ionic pillars. In the interior are frescos of the twelve apostles; and upon the high gold partition or screen, which separates the choir from the body of the chapel, are painted scenes from the New Testament. The floor is of marble in two colors.

We visited it fortunately during service, and saw for the first time the Greek ritual. The singing was fine, the boys' voices sweet and clear, but many of the forms unintelligible to a stranger. For instance, we could only imagine what was meant when one priest in scarlet and gold would go behind a golden door and lock it, and another one would stand before it intoning the strangest words in the strangest sing-song, until at last they would open the door and let him in. The service in the Greek churches is either in the Greek or old Sclavonic language. Here we inferred that we were listening to the old Sclavonic, as the chapel belongs to a Roumanian prince; but only this can we say positively,—that two words (Alleluia and Amen) were absolutely all that we understood.

The robes were rich; incense was burned; there were a few worshippers, all standing, the Greek Church allowing no seats; but in some places crutches are used to lean upon when the service is long, as on great festal days. There are no sermons except on special occasions, the ordinary ritual consisting of chants between the deacons and chorister boys, readings from certain portions of the Scripture, prayers, legends, the creed, etc. They all turn towards the east during prayer, and instrumental music is forbidden.

In this little chapel the morning service which we witnessed was brief, and, of its kind, simple. We noticed particularly among the worshippers one old gentleman who seemed to be very devout. He crossed himself frequently,—by the way, not as Roman Catholics do,—and at certain times knelt, and even actually prostrated himself, upon the marble pavement. He was a fine old man, and looked like a Russian. He was earnest and attentive, but he made us all exceedingly nervous, for his boots were stiff and his limbs far from supple, and when he went down we feared he never would be able to come up again without assistance; and we were incessantly and painfully on the alert, prepared to help him recover his equilibrium should he entirely lose it, which often seemed more than probable. This was a Roumanian prince, Stourdza,—who lives winters in Paris and summers in Baden,—and who erected the chapel in memory of his son, who died at seventeen in Paris from excessive study. A statue of the boy, bearing the name of the sculptor, Rinaldo Rinaldi, Roma, 1866,—life-size, on a high pedestal,—is on one side of the interior. He sits by a table covered with books,—Bossuet, Greek, and Latin,—while an angel standing beside him rests one hand on his shoulder, and with the other beckons him away from his work. His Virgil lies open to the lines,—

“Si qua fata aspera rumpas

Tu Marcellus eris.”

If the boy was in reality so beautiful as the marble and as the portrait of him which hangs at the left of the entrance, he must have looked as lofty and tender and pure as an archangel.

Opposite him are the statues of the father and mother, who are yet living, and between them a symbolical figure,—Faith, I presume. A curtain conceals this group, beneath which the parents will one day lie.

Paintings of them also hang by the entrance, with a portrait of the boy and one of the sister, “Chère consolation de ses parents,” as she is called. The faces are all fine, but that of the young student the noblest, and the statue of the lovely boy called away from his books seemed a happy way of telling his brief story. In the vaults below where he lies are always fresh flowers, and a light continually burning.

It is impossible to enumerate all the sights in and about Baden. If it is any satisfaction to you, you can look at the villas of the great as much as you please; but to know that Queen Victoria lived here, and Clara Schumann there, and yonder is the Turgenieff Villa, with extensive grounds, does not seem productive of any especial enjoyment. It is much more exhilarating to leave the haunts of men and walk off briskly through the woods to some golden milestone of the past,—the old Jäger Haus, for instance, whose windows look upon a wide, rich prospect, and where the holy Hubartus, the patron of the chase, is painted on the ceiling, with the stag bearing the crucifix upon his antlers; and within whose octagonal walls there must have been much revelry by night in the good old times.

To the old castle where the Markgrafen of Hohenbaden—the border lords—used to live we went one day, and anything funnier than that particular combination of the romantic and ridiculous never was known. Riding “in the boyhood of the year” through lovely woods, by mosses mixed with violet, hearing the song of birds, breathing the purest, balmiest air, who could help wondering if Launcelot and Guinevere themselves found lovelier forest deeps; and who could help feeling very sentimental indeed, and quoting all available poetry, and imagining long trains of stately knights riding over the same path, and so on ad infinitum! While indulging these romantic fancies we discovered that our donkey also was often lost in similar reveries, from which he was recalled by the donkey-boy, who by a sudden blow would cause him to madly plunge, then to stop short and exhibit all the peculiarly pleasing donkey tricks which we had read about, but never before experienced. And to ride a very small and wicked donkey and to read about it are two altogether different things, let me assure you.

Three donkeys galloping like mad up a mountain, three persons bouncing, jolting, shrieking with laughter, a jolly boy running behind with a long stick,—such was the experience that effectually dispelled our fine fancies.

The view at the castle is far extended and beautiful; you see something of the Rhine in the distance, the little Oosbach, and the peaceful valley between. Baden scenery, from whatever point you look at it, has the same friendly, serene aspect,—little villages dotted here and there on the soft hill-slopes, and in the background the bold, beautiful line of the pine-covered mountains. The castle must have been once a fine, grand place. Those clever old feudal fellows knew well where to build their nests, and like eagles chose bold, wild heights for their rocky eyries. “Heir liegen sie die stolzen Fürstentrümer,” quoted a German, wandering about the ruins.

Up to the Yburg Castle we went also; and the “up” should be italicized, for the mountain seemed as high and steep as the Hill of Science, and we felt that the summit of one was as unattainable as that of the other. But the woods were beautiful, and their whisperings and murmurings and words were not in a strange language, for the tall dark pines sang the selfsame song that they sing in the dear old New England woods, the wildflowers and birds were a constant delight, the air fresh and cool, and at last we reached the top, and found another castle and another view.

Here there was little castle and much view. Really a magnificent prospect, but so fierce and chilling a wind that we could with difficulty remain long enough on the old turrets to fix the landscape in our memory, and we were glad to seek shelter in the little house, where a man and his wife live all the year round; and frightfully cold and lonely must it be there in winter, when even in May our teeth were chattering gayly.

The visitors' book there was rather amusing.

One American girl writes, with her name and the date,—

“No moon to-night, which is of course

The driver's fault, not ours.”

“Mr. H. C.”—Black, we will call him—“walked up from Baden the 10th of August, 1875”; and half the people who go to Yburg walk. As we had walked and never dreamed of being elated by our prowess, Mr. Black's manner of chronicling his feat seemed comical.

You look down from the mountain into the Affenthaler Valley, where the wine of that name “grows.” It is a good, light wine, and healthful, but a young person—we decided she must be a countrywoman, because she expresses her opinion so freely—writes in regard to it,—

“Affenthaler. The drink sold under that honorable name at this restaurant is the beastliest and most poisonous of drinks, not absolutely undrinkable or immediately destructive of life. Traveller, take care. Avoid the abominable stuff. Beware!”

Immediately following, in German, with the gentleman's name and address, is,—

“I have drunk of the Affenthaler which this unknown English person condemns, and pronounce it a good and excellent wine.”

That Yburg by moonlight might be conducive to softness can easily be imagined. Here is a sweet couplet:—

“Let our eyes meet, and you will see

That I love you and you love me.”

But best of all in its simplicity and strength was “Agnes Mary Taylor, widow,” written clearly in ink, and some wag had underscored in pencil the last expressive word.

Does the lady go over the hill and dale signing her name always in this way? On the Yburg mountain-top it had the effect of a great and memorable saying, like “Veni, vidi, vici,” or “Après nous le déluge.” Agnes Mary Taylor, widow. Could anything be more terse, more deliciously suggestive?

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