On Old-World Highways
by Thos. D. Murphy · English · Gutenberg #45567 · 546,864 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: On Old-World Highways
Author: Thos. D. Murphy
Release date: May 2, 2014 [eBook #45567]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
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Transcriber's Notes:
When italics were used in the original book, the corresponding text has
been surrounded by _underscores_.
Some presumed printer's errors have been corrected. In particular,
punctuation has been normalized and entries in the List of Illustrations
and in the Index were altered to match the main text. Further, a single
entry in the original List of Illustrations which referred to two
distinct maps was split into two entries (SCOTLAND and ENGLAND AND
WALES).
Other corrections are listed below with the original text (top) and the
replacement text (bottom):
p. 40 many quaint timbered house
many quaint timbered houses
p. 95 employe
employee
p. 249 Wordsworh
Wordsworth
p. 212 Fort Williams
Fort William
p. 311 appoach
approach
p. 350 July 5, 1585
July 5, 1685
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ON OLD-WORLD
HIGHWAYS
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_By the Same Author_
British Highways and Byways from a
Motor Car
THIRD IMPRESSION
WITH FORTY-EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS AND TWO MAPS
Sixteen Reproductions in Color, and Thirty-two Duogravures
320 Pages, 8vo, Decorated Cloth
Price (Boxed), $3.00
-------
In Unfamiliar England With a Motor Car
SECOND IMPRESSION
WITH SIXTY-FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS AND TWO MAPS
Sixteen Reproductions in Color and Forty-eight Duogravures
400 Pages, 8vo, Decorated Cloth
Price (Boxed), $3.00
-------
Three Wonderlands of the American West
SECOND IMPRESSION
WITH FORTY-EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS AND TWO MAPS
Sixteen Reproductions in Color and Thirty-two Duogravures
180 Pages, Tall 8vo, Decorated Cloth
Price (Boxed) $3.00 Net
-------
L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
BOSTON
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: THE MOUNTAIN MEADOWS, BAVARIAN TYROL
From original painting by the late John MacWhirter, R. A.]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ON OLD-WORLD HIGHWAYS
A Book of Motor Rambles in France and Germany and
the Record of a Pilgrimage from Land's End
to John O'Groats in Britain.
BY THOS. D. MURPHY
AUTHOR OF "THREE WONDERLANDS OF THE AMERICAN WEST,"
"BRITISH HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS FROM A MOTOR CAR"
AND "IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND WITH A MOTOR CAR."
WITH SIXTEEN REPRODUCTIONS IN COLORS FROM ORIGINAL
PAINTINGS BY EMINENT ARTISTS AND FORTY DUOGRAVURES
FROM PHOTOGRAPHS. ALSO MAPS
SHOWING ROUTES OF AUTHOR.
[Illustration]
BOSTON
L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
MDCCCCXIV
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_Copyright, 1914_
BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
(INCORPORATED)
-------
_All rights reserved_
-------
First Impression, January, 1914
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Preface
I know that of making books of travel there is no limit--they come from
the press in a never-ending stream; but no one can say that any one of
these is superfluous if it finds appreciative readers, even though they
be but few.
My chief excuse for the present volume is the success of my previous
books of motor travel, which have run through several fair-sized
editions. I have had many warmly appreciative letters concerning these
from native Englishmen and the books were commended by the Royal
Automobile Club Journal as accurate and readable. So I take it that my
point of view from the wheel of a motor car interests some people, and I
shall feel justified in writing such books so long as this is the case.
I know that in some instances I have had to deal with hackneyed
subjects; but I have striven for a different viewpoint and I hope I have
contributed something worth while in describing even well-known places.
On the other hand, I know that I have discovered many delightful nooks
and corners in Britain that even the guide-books have overlooked.
Besides, I am sure that books of travel have ample justification in the
fact that travel itself is one of the greatest of educators and
civilizers. It teaches us that we are not the only people--that wisdom
shall not die with us alone. It shows us that in some things other
people may do better than we are doing and it may enable us to avoid
mistakes that others make. In short, it widens our horizon and tones
down our self-conceit--or it should do all of this if we keep ears and
eyes open when abroad.
I make no apology for the fact that the greater bulk of the present
volume deals with the Motherland, even if its title does not so
indicate. Her romantic charm is as limitless as the sea that encircles
her. Even now, after our long journeyings in every corner of the Island,
I would not undertake to say to what extent we might still carry our
exploration in historic and picturesque Britain. Should one delight in
ivy-covered castles, rambling old manors, ruined abbeys, romantic
country-seats, haunted houses, great cathedrals and storied churches
past numbering, I know not where the limit may be. But I do know that
the little party upon whose experiences this book is founded is still
far from being satisfied after nearly twenty thousand miles of motoring
in the Kingdom, and if I fail to make plain why we still think of the
highways and byways of Britain with an undiminished longing, the fault
is mine rather than that of my subject.
In this book, as in my previous ones, the illustrations play a principal
part. The color plates are from originals by distinguished artists and
the photographs have been carefully selected and perfectly reproduced.
The maps will also be of assistance in following the text. I hope that
these valuable adjuncts may make amends for the many literary
shortcomings of my text.
THOMAS D. MURPHY
Red Oak, Iowa, January 1, 1914.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
Page
I BOULOGNE TO ROUEN 1
II THE CHATEAU DISTRICT 29
III ORLEANS TO THE GERMAN BORDER 45
IV COLMAR TO OBERAMMERGAU 59
V BAVARIA AND THE RHINE 77
VI THE CAPTAIN'S STORY 104
VII A FLIGHT THROUGH THE NORTH 125
VIII THE MOTHERLAND ONCE MORE 145
IX OLD WHITBY 157
X SCOTT COUNTRY AND HEART OF HIGHLANDS 173
XI IN SUTHERLAND AND CAITHNESS 191
XII DOWN THE GREAT GLEN 210
XIII ALONG THE WEST COAST 224
XIV ODD CORNERS OF LAKELAND 246
XV WE DISCOVER DENBIGH 262
XVI CONWAY 279
XVII THE HARDY COUNTRY AND BERRY POMEROY 298
XVIII POLPERRO AND THE SOUTH CORNISH COAST 320
XIX LAND'S END TO LONDON 336
XX THE ENGLISH AND THEIR INSTITUTIONS 355
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
COLOR PLATES
Page
THE MOUNTAIN MEADOWS, BAVARIAN TYROL Frontispiece
SUNSET IN TOURAINE 1
WOODS IN BRITTANY 26
PIER LANE, WHITBY 164
HARVEST TIME, STRATHTAY 180
A HIGHLAND LOCH 188
ACKERGILL HARBOUR, CAITHNESS 204
GLEN AFFRICK, NEAR INVERNESS 208
THE GREAT GLEN, SUNSET 210
"THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT" 236
THE FALLEN GIANT--A HIGHLAND STUDY 240
CONWAY CASTLE, NORTH WALES 280
"THE NEW ARRIVAL" 282
KYNANCE COVE, CORNWALL 334
SUNSET NEAR LAND'S END, CORNWALL 336
"A DISTANT VIEW OF THE TOWERS OF WINDSOR" 355
DUOGRAVURES
ST. LO FROM THE RIVER 18
A STREET IN ST. MALO 24
CHENONCEAUX--THE ORIENTAL FRONT 32
AMBOISE FROM ACROSS THE LOIRE 34
GRAND STAIRWAY OF FRANCIS I. AT BLOIS 36
PORT DU CROUX--A MEDIEVAL WATCHTOWER AT NEVERS 46
CASTLE AT FUSSEN 66
OBERAMMERGAU 70
ULM AND THE CATHEDRAL 82
GOETHE'S HOUSE--FRANKFORT 86
BINGEN ON THE RHINE 88
CASTLE RHEINSTEIN 90
EHRENFELS ON THE RHINE 92
RUINS OF CASTLE RHEINFELS 94
LUXEMBURG--GENERAL VIEW 102
ST. WULFRAM'S CHURCH--GRANTHAM 150
OLD PEEL TOWER AT DARNICK, NEAR ABBOTSFORD 178
HOTEL, JOHN O'GROATS 200
URQUHART CASTLE, LOCH NESS 214
THE MACDONALD MONUMENT, GLENCOE 220
"McCAIG'S FOLLY," OBAN 224
GLENLUCE ABBEY 242
SWEETHEART ABBEY 244
WORDSWORTH'S BIRTHPLACE--COCKERMOUTH 250
CALDER ABBEY, CUMBERLAND 252
KENDAL CASTLE 258
KENDAL PARISH CHURCH 260
DENBIGH CASTLE--THE ENTRANCE AND KEEP 266
ST. HILARY'S CHURCH, DENBIGH 272
GATE TOWERS RHUDDLAN CASTLE, NORTH WALES 276
PLAS MAWR, CONWAY, HOME OF ROYAL CAMBRIAN ACADEMY 284
INNER COURT, PLAS MAWR, CONWAY 286
CONWAY CASTLE--THE OUTER WALL 292
BERRY POMEROY CASTLE, ENTRANCE TOWERS 312
BERRY POMEROY CASTLE--WALL OF INNER COURT 316
A STREET IN EAST LOOE--CORNWALL 322
POLPERRO, CORNWALL--LOOKING TOWARD THE SEA 324
LANSALLOS CHURCH, POLPERRO 326
A STREET IN FOWEY--CORNWALL 330
PROBUS CHURCH TOWER, CORNWALL 332
MAPS
FRANCE AND GERMANY 380
SCOTLAND 388
ENGLAND AND WALES 388
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Through Summer France
and
The Fatherland
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: SUNSET IN TOURAINE
From original painting by Leon Richet]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
On Old-World Highways
I
BOULOGNE TO ROUEN
Our three summer pilgrimages in Britain have left few unexplored corners
in the tight little island--we are thinking of new worlds to conquer.
Beyond the narrow channel the green hills of France offer the nearest
and most attractive field. Certainly it is the most accessible of
foreign countries for the motorist in England and every year increasing
numbers of English-speaking tourists are seen in the neighboring
republic. The service of the Royal Automobile Club, with its usual
enterprise and thoroughness, leaves little to be desired in arranging
the details of a trip and supplies complete information as to route. An
associate membership was accorded me on behalf of the Automobile Club of
America, whose card I presented and which serves an American many useful
ends in European motordom. Mr. Maroney, the genial touring secretary, at
once interested himself in our proposed tour. He undertook to outline a
route, to arrange for transportation of our car across the Channel, to
provide for duties and licenses and, lastly, to secure a courier-guide
familiar with the countries we proposed to invade and proficient in the
French and German languages. The necessary guide-books and road-maps are
carried in stock by the club and the only charge made is for these. Our
proposed route was traced on the map, a typewritten list of towns and
distances was made and a day or two later I was advised that a guide had
been engaged. Mr Maroney expressed regret that the young men who serve
the club regularly in this capacity were already employed, but he had
investigated the man secured for us and found him competent and
reliable.
"Still," said Mr. Maroney with characteristic British caution, "we would
feel better satisfied with one of our own men on the job; but it is the
best we can do for you under the circumstances."
We learned that our guide was a young Englishman of good family, at
present in somewhat straitened circumstances, which made him willing to
accept any position for which his talents might fit him. He had
previously piloted motor parties through France and Italy and spoke four
languages with perfect fluency. He had done a lot of knocking about,
having recently been in a shipwreck off the coast of South America and
having held a captain's commission in the South African War. We
therefore called him "the Captain," and I may as well adopt that
designation in referring to him in these pages, since his real name
would interest no one. He was able to drive the car and declared
willingness to do a chauffeur's part in caring for it. The only doubt
expressed by Mr. Maroney was that the Captain might "forget his
place"--that of a servant--and before long consider himself a member of
our party, and with characteristic frankness the touring secretary
cautioned our guide in my presence against any such presumption.
It is a fine May afternoon when we drive from London to Folkestone to be
on hand in time to attend to the formalities for crossing the Channel on
the following day. Police traps, we are warned, abound along the road
and we proceed quite soberly, taking some four hours for the
seventy-five miles including the slow work of getting out of London. The
Royal Pavilion Hotel on low ground near the docks is strictly
first-class and its rates prove more moderate than we found at its
competitors on the cliff.
Our car is left at the dock, arrangements for its transport having been
made beforehand by the Royal Automobile Club; but we saunter down in the
morning to see it loaded. We need not worry about this, for it goes "at
the company's risk," a provision which costs us ten shillings extra. It
is pushed upon a large platform and a steam crane soon swings it high in
the air preparatory to depositing it on the steamer deck.
"She's an airship now," said an old salt as the car reached its highest
point. "We did fetch over a sure-enough airship last week--belonged to
that fellow Paulhan and he's a decentish chap, too; you'd never think he
was a Frenchman!"--which would seem to indicate that the entente
cordiale had not entirely cleared away prejudice from the mind of our
sailor-friend.
Our crossing was as comfortable as any Channel crossing could be--which
in our case is not saying much, for that green, rushing streak of salt
water, the English Channel, always gives us a squeamish feeling, no
matter how "smooth" it may be. We are only too glad to get on terra
firma in Boulogne and to see our car almost immediately swung to the
dock.
I had read in a recently published book by a motor tourist of the
dreadful ordeal he underwent in securing his license to drive; a stern
official sat beside him and put him through all his paces to ascertain
if he was competent to pilot a car in France. I was expecting to be
compelled to give a similar exhibit, when the Captain came out of the
station with driving licenses for both himself and me and announced that
we would be ready to proceed as soon as he attached a pair of very
indistinct number plates.
"But the examination 'pour competence,'" I said.
"O," he replied, "I just explained to his nobs that we were in a great
hurry and couldn't wait for an examination--and a five-franc piece did
the rest." A piece of diplomacy which no doubt left the honest official
feeling happier than if I had given him a joy-ride over the cobbles of
Boulogne.
Filling our tank with "essence," which we learn, after translating some
jargon concerning "litres" and "francs," will cost about thirty-five
cents per gallon--we strike out on the road to Montreuil. It proves a
typical French highway and our first impressions are confirmed later on.
The road is broad, with perfect contour and easy grades, running
straight away for miles--or should I say kilometers?--and showing every
evidence of engineering skill and careful construction. But it is
old-fashioned macadam without any binding material. The motor car has
torn up the surface and scattered it in loose dust which rises in clouds
from our wheels or has been swept away by the wind, leaving the roadbed
bare but rough and jagged--a perfect grindstone on rubber tires. The
same description applies to nearly all the roads we traversed in France,
and no doubt the vast preponderance of them are still in the same state
or worse. A movement for re-surfacing the main highways is now in
progress and in a few years France will again be at the front, though at
this time she is far behind England in the matter of modern automobile
roads. The long straight stretches and the absence of police traps in
the country make fast time possible--if one is willing to pay the tire
bill. Thirty miles an hour is an easy jog and though we left Boulogne
after three, we find we have covered one hundred and ten miles at
nightfall, including a stop for luncheon. At Montreuil we strike the
first and only serious grade, a long, steep hill up which winds the
cobble-paved main street of the town--our first experience with the
cobble pavement of the provincial towns, of which more anon.
A few miles beyond Montreuil the Captain steers us into a narrow byroad
which leads into the quaint little fisher town of Berck-sur-Mer and,
indeed, the much-abused "quaint" is not misapplied here. The old
buildings straggle along the single street, quite devoid of any touch of
the picturesque and thronged by people of all degrees. We see many queer
four-wheeled vehicles--not much larger than toy wagons--drawn by ponies
and donkeys, the drivers lying at full length on their backs, staring at
the sky or asleep, their motive power wandering along at its own sweet
will. It is indeed ridiculous to see full-grown men riding in such a
primitive fashion, but the sight is not unusual. We meet a troop of
prawn fishers coming in from the sea--as miserable specimens of humanity
as we ever beheld--ragged, bedraggled, bare-headed and bare-footed
creatures; many old women among them, prancing along like animated
rag-bags.
Swinging back into the main highway, we soon reach Abbeville, whose
roughly paved streets wind between bare, unattractive buildings. In
places malodorous streams run along the streets--practically open
sewers, if the smell is any indication. Abbeville affords an example of
the terrible cobblestone pavement that we found in nearly all French
cities of the second class. The round, uneven stones--in the States we
call them "niggerheads"--have probably lain undisturbed for centuries.
Besides the natural roughness of such a pavement, there are numerous
chuck-holes. No matter how slowly we drive, we bounce and jump over
these stones, which strike the tires with sledge-hammer force, sending a
series of shivers throughout the car. It is no wonder that such
pavements and the grindstone roads often limit the life of tires to a
few hundred miles.
Out of Abbeville we "hit up" pretty strongly, for it is nearly dark and
we plan to reach Rouen for the night. The straight fine road offers
temptation to speed, under the circumstances, and our odometer does not
vary much from forty miles--when we are suddenly treated to a surprise
that makes us more cautious about speeding on French roads at dusk. In a
little hollow we strike a ditch six inches deep by two or three feet in
width--a "canivau," as they designate it in France--with a terrific jolt
which almost threatens the car with destruction. The frame strikes the
axles with fearful force; it seems impossible that nothing should be
broken. A careful search fails to reveal any apparent damage, though a
fractured axle-rod a short time later is undoubtedly a result of the
violent blow. It seems strange that an important main road should have
such a dangerous defect, though we find many similar cases later; but as
we travel no more after dusk, and generally at much more moderate speed,
we have no further mishap of the kind. We light our lamps and proceed at
a more sober pace to Neufchatel, where we decide to stop for the night
at the rather unattractive-looking Lion d'Or. We have reason to
congratulate ourselves, for the wayside inn is really preferable to the
Angleterre at Rouen and the rates are scarcely half so much. It is a
rambling old house, partly surrounding a stable-yard court where the
motor is stored for the night. The regular meal time is past, but a
plain supper is prepared for us. We are tired enough not to be too
critical of our accommodations and the rooms and beds are clean and
fairly comfortable. We have breakfast at a long table where the guests
all sit together and the fare, while plain, is good.
There is nothing of interest in Neufchatel, though its cheese has given
it a world-wide fame. It is a market town of four or five thousand
people, depending largely on the prosperous country surrounding it.
We are early away for Rouen and in course of an hour we come in sight of
the cathedral spire, the highest in all France, rising nearly five
hundred feet and overtopping Salisbury, the loftiest in England, by
almost one hundred feet. At the Captain's recommendation we seek the
Hotel Angleterre--which means the Hotel England--a bid, no doubt, for
the patronage of the numerous English-speaking tourists who visit the
city. There is a deal of dickering before we get settled, for the rates
are unreasonably high; but after considerable parley a bargain is made.
We enter the diminutive "lift," which holds two persons by a little
crowding, but after the first trip we use the stairway to save time.
One could not "do" Rouen in the guide-book sense in less than a
week--but such is not the object of our present tour. If one brings a
motor to France he can hardly afford to let it stand idle to spend
several days in any city. We shall see what we can of Rouen in a day and
take the road again in the morning.
Our first thought is of Jeanne d'Arc and her martyrdom in the old city
and our second of the cathedral, in some respects one of the most
remarkable in Europe. It is but a stone's throw from our hotel and is
consequently our first attraction. The facade is imposing despite its
incongruous architectural details and has a world of intricate carving
and sculpture, partly concealed by scaffolding, for the church is being
restored. The towers flanking the facade are unfinished, both lacking
the tall Gothic spire originally planned and, indeed, necessary to give
a harmonious effect to the whole. A spire of open iron-work nearly five
hundred feet in height replaces the original wooden structure burned by
lightning in 1822 and is severely criticised as being out of keeping
with the elaborate stone building which it surmounts.
Once inside we are overwhelmed by a sense of vastness--the great church
is nearly five hundred feet in length, while the transept is a third as
wide. The arches of the nave seem almost lost in the dim, softly toned
light that streams in from the richly colored windows, some of which
date from the twelfth century. If the exterior is incongruous, the
interior is indeed a symphony in stone, despite a few jarring notes in
the decorations of some of the private chapels. There are many beautiful
monuments, mainly to French church dignitaries whom we never heard of
and care little about, but the battered gigantic limestone effigy
discovered in 1838 is full of fascinating interest, for it represents
Richard the Lion-Hearted--the Richard of "Ivanhoe"--whose heart,
enclosed in a triple casket of lead, wood and silver, is buried beneath.
The figure is nearly seven feet in length and we wonder if this is a
true representation of the stature of our childhood's hero, who,
"starred with idle glory, came
Bearing from leaguered Ascalon
The barren splendour of his fame,
And, vanquished by an unknown bow,
Lies vainly great at Fontevraud."
For Richard's body was interred at Fontevraud, near Orleans, with other
members of English royalty. Henry II. is also buried in Rouen
Cathedral--all indicative that there was a day when English kings
regarded Normandy as their home!
Another memorial which interests us is dedicated to LaSalle, the great
explorer, who was born in Rouen. He was buried, as every schoolboy
knows, in the great river which he discovered, but his memory is
cherished by his native city as the man who gave the empire of Louisiana
to France.
Rouen has at least two other churches of first magnitude--St. Ouen and
St. Maclou--but we shall have to content ourselves with a cursory glance
at their magnificence. The former is declared to be "one of the most
beautiful Gothic churches in existence, surpassing the cathedral both in
extent and excellence of style." Such is the pronouncement of that final
authority on such matters, Herr Baedeker!
But, after all, is not Rouen best known to the world because of its
connection with the strange figure of Jeanne d'Arc? Indeed, her career
savors of myth and legend--not the sober fact of history--and it is hard
to conceive of the scene that took place around the fatal spot in the
Vieux-Marche, now marked with a large stone bearing the inscription,
"Jeanne d'Arc, 30 Mar. 1431." Here a tender young woman whose only crime
was an implicit belief that she was divinely inspired, was burned at the
stake by order of a reverend bishop who, surrounded by his satellites,
approvingly looked on the dreadful scene. And these men were not painted
savages, but high dignitaries of Christendom. Much of old Rouen stands
to-day as it stood then, but what a vast change has been wrought in
humankind! Only a single ruinous tower remains of the castle where the
Maid was confined. While imprisoned here she was intimidated by being
shown the instruments of torture; but she withstood the callous
brutality of her persecutors with fortitude and heroism that baffled
them, though it only enraged them the more.
We acknowledge the hopelessness of getting any adequate idea of a city
of such antiquity and importance in a day and the Captain says we may as
well quit trying. He suggests that we take the tram for Bonsecours,
situated on the steep hill towering high over the town from the right
bank of the river. Here is a modern Catholic cemetery with many handsome
tombs and monuments and, in the center, a recently erected memorial to
Joan of Arc. This consists of three little temples in the Renaissance
style, the central chapel enclosing a marble statue of the Maid. There
is a modern church near by whose interior--a solid mass of bright green,
red and gold--is the most gorgeous we have seen. The specialty of this
church is "votive tablets"--the walls are covered with little marble
placards telling what some particular saint has done for the donor in
response to a vow. A round charge, the Captain says, is made for each
tablet, so that the income of Bonsecours Church must be a good one.
But one will not visit Bonsecours to see the church or the memorial,
though both are interesting in their way, but for the unmatched view of
the city and the Seine Valley, which good authorities pronounce one of
the finest panoramas in Europe. From the memorial the whole city lies
spread out like a map--so far beneath that the five-hundred-foot spire
of Notre Dame is below the level of our vision. The city, with its
splendid spires rising amidst the wilderness of streets and house-roofs,
fills the valley near at hand and the broad, shining folds of the Seine,
with its old bridges and wooded shores, lends a glorious variety to the
scene. The view up and down the river is quite unobstructed, covering a
beautiful and prosperous valley bounded on either side by the verdant
hills of Normandy. This view alone well repays a visit to Bonsecours,
whether one's stay in Rouen be short or long.
In leaving Rouen we cross the Seine and follow the fine straight road
which runs through Pont Audemer to Honfleur on the coast. This was not
our prearranged route, but the Captain apparently gravitates toward the
sea whenever possible, and he is responsible for the diversion. From
Honfleur we follow the narrow road along the coast--its sharp turns,
devious windings, short steep hills and the hedgerows which border it in
places recalling the byways of Devon and Cornwall. We again come out on
the shore at Trouville-sur-Mer, a watering place with an array of
imposing hotels. It is not yet the "season" and many of the hotels are
closed, but the Belvue, one of the largest, is doing business and we
have an elaborate luncheon here which costs more than we like to pay.
Out of Trouville our road still pursues the coast, running through a
series of resorts and fishing villages until it swings inland for
Caen--a quaint, irregular old place which, next to Rouen, declares
Baedeker, is the most interesting city in Normandy. We are sorry that
many of its show-places are closed to us, for it is Sunday and the
churches are not open to tourist inspection. In St. Stephen's we might
have seen the tomb of William the Conqueror, though his remains no
longer rest beneath it, having been disinterred and scattered by the
Huguenots in 1562. Caen has two other great churches--St. Peter's and
Trinity, which we can view only from the outside.
It is Pentecost Sunday and the streets are thronged with young girls in
white who have taken part in confirmation services; we have seen others
at many places during the day. It is about the only thing to remind us
that it is Sunday, for the shops are open, work is going on in the
fields, and road-making is in progress; we note little suspension of
week-day activities. The peasants whom we see by the roadside and in the
little villages are generally very dirty but seem happy and content. The
farm houses are usually unattractive, often with filthy
surroundings--muck-heaps in front of the doors--not unlike what we saw
in some parts of Ireland.
The road from Caen to Bayeux runs as straight as an arrow's flight,
broad, level and bordered--as most main roads are in France--by rows of
stately trees. We give the motor full rein and the green sunny fields
flit joyously past us. What a relief to "open her up" without thought of
a policeman behind every bush! Is it any wonder that the oft-trapped
Englishman considers France a motorist's paradise?
The spires of Bayeux Cathedral soon rise before us and we must content
ourselves with the exterior of this magnificent church. Not so with the
museum which contains the Bayeux Tapestry, for the lady member of our
party is determined to see this famous piece of needlework, willy nilly.
The custodian is finally located and we are admitted to view the relic.
It is a strip of linen cloth eighteen inches wide and two hundred thirty
feet long, embroidered in colored thread with scenes representing the
Conquest of England by William of Normandy. It is claimed that the work
was done by Queen Matilda and her maidens, though this is disputed by
some authorities; but its importance as a contemporary representation of
historic events of the time of William I. far outweighs its artistic
significance.
The main road from Bayeux to St. Lo is one of the most glorious highways
in France. It runs through an almost unbroken forest of giant trees for
a good part of the distance--a little more than twenty miles--and the
sunset sky gleaming through the stately trunks relieves the otherwise
somber effect.
By happy accident we reach St. Lo at nightfall and turn into the
courtyard of the Hotel de Univers, a comfortable-looking old house
invitingly close to the roadside. I say by happy accident, for we never
planned to stop at St. Lo and but for chance might have remained in
ignorance of one of the most charming little cathedral towns in France.
Indeed, we feel that St. Lo is ours by right of discovery, for we find
but scant mention of it in the guide-books. After an excellent though
unpretentious dinner, we sally forth from our inn to view our
surroundings in the deepening twilight. The town is situated on the
margin of a still little river which wonderfully reflects the ancient
vine-covered houses that climb the sharply sloping hillside. The huge
bulk of the cathedral looms mysteriously over the town and its soaring
twin spires are sharply outlined against the dim moonlit sky. The towers
are not exact duplicates, as they appear from a distance, but both
exhibit the same general characteristics of Gothic style. The whole
scene is one of enchanting beauty; the dull glow of the river, the
houses massed on the hillside, with lighted windows gleaming here and
there and and crowning all the vast sentinellike form of the
cathedral--a scene that would lose half its charm if viewed by the
flaunting light of day. And we secretly resolve that we shall have no
such disenchantment; we shall steal quietly out of St. Lo in the early
morning with never a backward glance. We do not, therefore, see the
interior of the church, which has several features of peculiar interest,
and we may be pardoned for adopting the description of an English
writer:
"Notre Dame de Saint-Lo has a very unusual and original plan, widening
towards the east and adding another aisle to the north and south
ambulatories. On the north side is its chief curiosity, an out-door
pulpit, built at the end of the fifteenth century and probably used by
Huguenot preachers, to whom a sermon was a sermon, whether preached
under a vaulted roof or the open sky. What strikes one most about the
interior of the church is its want of light. The nave is absolutely
unlighted, having neither tri-forium nor clerestory, and the aisles have
only one tier of large windows, whose glass is old and very fine, though
in most cases pieced together; the nave piers are massive, with a
cluster of three shafts; those of the choir are quite simple, and have
one noticeable feature, the absence of capitals, the vault mouldings
dying away into the pier."
[Illustration: ST. LO FROM THE RIVER]
We shall remember our hotel as the best type of the small-town French
inn--a simple, old-fashioned house where we had attentive service and a
studied effort to please was made by all connected with the place. And
not the least of its merits are its moderate charges--less than half we
paid at many of the larger places, often for less satisfactory
accommodations.
Twenty miles westward from St. Lo we come to Coutances, which boasts of
a cathedral church of the first magnitude and one of the oldest in
Normandy, dating almost in entirety from the thirteenth century. Leaving
the main highway a little beyond Coutances, we follow the narrow byroad
running about a mile from the coast through Granville, a well-known
seaside resort, to Avranches. This road is scarcely more than a winding
lane with many sharp little hills, hedge-bordered in places and often
overarched by trees--a little like the roads of Southern England, a type
not very common in France. South of Granville it closely follows the
shore for a few miles, then swings inland for a mile or two, affording
only occasional glimpses of the sea. Avranches, from its commanding site
on a lofty hill, soon breaks into view, and the Captain suggests
luncheon at the Grand Hotel de France et de Londres, which he says is
famous in this section. Besides, it is well worth while to ascend the
hill for the panorama of St. Michel's Bay, with its cathedral-crowned
islet, which may be seen to the best advantage from the town. It is a
stiff, winding climb to the summit, but we reach the cobble-paved,
vine-embowered court of the hotel just in time for dinner. I suppose the
"Londres" was added to the name of the inn with a view of catching the
English-speaking trade, which is considerable in Avranches, since the
town is the stopping-place of many tourists who visit Mont St. Michel.
From the courtyard we are ushered into the dining-room where, after the
fashion of country inns in France, a single long table serves all the
guests. At the head sits the proprietor, a suave, gray-bearded gentleman
who graciously does the courtesies of the table. The meal is quite an
elaborate one and there is plenty of old port wine for the bibulously
inclined. I might say here that this inclusion of wines without extra
charge is a common but not universal practice with the French country
inns; generally these liquors are of the cheapest quality, little better
than vinegar, and one trial will make the average tourist a teetotaler
unless he wishes to order a better grade as an "extra." After the meal
our host comes out to wish us "bon voyage" as we depart and we are at a
loss to understand his intention when he picks up a small ladder and
begins climbing up the wall. We see, however, that a rose-vine bearing a
few beautiful blossoms clings to the stones above a window. The old
gentleman cuts some of the choicest flowers and presents them, with a
gracious bow, to the lady of our party.
The new causeway makes Mont St. Michel easily accessible to motorists
and affords a splendid view as one approaches the towered and pinnacled
rock and the little town that climbs its steep sides. Formerly the tide
covered the rough road that led to the mount, much the same as it still
covers the approach to the Cornish St. Michael; but the new grade is
above high-tide level and the abbey may be reached at any time of the
day. It is a wearisome climb to the summit--for the car cannot enter the
narrow streets of the town--and for some time we wait the pleasure of
the guide, who, being a government official, does not permit himself to
be unduly hurried. He speaks only French and but for the Captain's
services we should know little of his story. To our half-serious remark
that a lift would save visitors some hard work he replies with a shrug,
"A lift in Mont St. Michel? It wouldn't be Mont St. Michel any
longer!"--a hint of how carefully the atmosphere of mediaevalism is
preserved here.
The abbey as it stands to-day is largely the result of an extensive
restoration begun by the government in 1863. This accounts for the
surprisingly perfect condition of much of the building, and it also
confirms the wisdom of the undertaking by which a great service has been
rendered to architecture. Previous to the restoration the abbey was used
as a prison, but it is now chiefly a show-place, though services are
regularly conducted in the chapel. Especially noteworthy are the
cloisters, a thirteenth-century reproduction, with two hundred and
twenty columns of polished granite embedded in the wall and ranged in
double arcades, the graceful vaults decorated with exquisite carving and
a beautiful frieze. The most notable apartment is the Hall of the
Chevaliers, likewise a thirteenth-century replica. The vaulting of solid
stone is supported by a triple row of massive columns running the full
length of nearly one hundred feet--like ranks of giant tree trunks.
There is a beautiful chapel and dungeons and crypts galore, the names of
which we made no attempt to remember. Likewise we gave little attention
to the historic episodes of the mount, which are not of great
importance. The interest of the tourist centers in the remarkably
striking effect of the great group of Gothic buildings crowning the rock
and in the artistic beauty of the architectural details. Many wonderful
views of the sea and of the hills and towns around the bay may be seen
to splendid advantage from the terraces and battlements. There are a
number of pleasant little tea gardens where one may order light
refreshments and in the meanwhile enjoy a most inspiring view of the sea
and distant landscape. The little town at the foot of the rock is a
quaint old-world place with a single street but a few feet wide. The
small population subsists on tourist trade--restaurants and souvenir
shops making up the village. Little is doing to-day, as we are in
advance of the liveliest season. The greatest number of visitors come on
Sunday--a gala day at Mont St. Michel in summer.
A rough, stony road takes us to St. Malo and adds considerable wearisome
tire trouble to an already strenuous day. We are glad to stop at the
Hotel de Univers, even though it is not prepossessing from without.
[Illustration: A STREET IN ST. MALO]
St. Malo's antiquity and quaintness are its stock in trade, and these,
together with its position on a peninsula, with the sea on every hand,
make it one of the most popular resorts in France. Steamers from
Southampton bring numbers of English visitors--we find no interpreter
needed at the hotel. The town is encircled by walls, the greater part
recently restored. They are none the less picturesque and the mighty
towers at the entrance gateways savor strongly indeed of mediaevalism.
In the older part of the town the streets are so narrow and crooked as
to exclude motors, the widest not exceeding twenty feet, and there are
seldom walks on either side. The houses bordering them show every
evidence of age--St. Malo is best described by the often overworked
term, "old-world." The huge church--formerly a cathedral--is so hedged
in by buildings that it is impossible to get a good view of the exterior
or to take a satisfactory photograph. As a result of such crowding it is
poorly lighted inside, though it really has an impressive interior. A
walk round the walls or ramparts of St. Malo affords a wonderful view of
the sea and surrounding country and also many interesting glimpses of
queer nooks and corners in the town itself. The bay is finest at full
tide, which rises here to the astonishing height of forty-nine feet
above low water. There are numerous fortified islands and it is possible
to reach some of these on foot when the tide is out. St. Malo was
besieged many times during the endless wars between England and France,
but owing to its remarkable fortifications was never taken.
There is more rough, badly worn road between St. Malo and Rennes, though
in the main it is broad and level. Its effect on tires is indeed
disheartening--we have run less than a thousand miles since landing and
new envelopes are showing signs of dissolution. Part of the game, no
doubt, but it is hard to be cheerful losers in such a game, to say the
least.
Rennes, we find, has other claims to fame than the Dreyfus trial, which
is the first distinction that comes to mind. Its public museum and
galleries contain one of the best provincial collections in France, and
there is an imposing modern cathedral. We have an excellent lunch at the
Grand Hotel, though it is a dingy-looking place that would hardly invite
a lengthy stop if appearances should be considered. It is not Baedeker's
number one and there is doubtless a better hotel in Rennes.
The road which we follow in leaving the town is the best we have yet
traversed in France; it is broad, straight and newly surfaced, and the
thirty or more miles to Chateaubriant are rapidly covered. Here we find
an ancient town of a few thousand people, and an enormous old castle
partly in ruins, a fit match for Conway or Harlech in Britain. Its
square-topped, crenelated towers and long embrasured battlements are
quite different from the pointed Gothic style of the usual French
chateau.
Beyond Chateaubriant the road runs broad and straight for miles through
a beautiful and prosperous country. Evidently the land is immensely
fertile and tilled with the thoroughness that characterizes French
agriculture. The small village is the only discordant note. We pass
through several all alike, bare, dirty and uninteresting, quite
different from the trim, flower-decked beauty of the English village.
And they grow steadily more repulsive as we progress farther inland
until, as we near the German border--but the subject is not pleasant
enough to anticipate!
[Illustration: WOODS IN BRITTANY
From original painting by Leon Richet]
Angers is a cathedral town of eighty thousand people on the River Maine,
two or three miles above its confluence with the Loire. It is of ancient
origin, but the French passion for making everything new (according to
an English critic) has swept away most of its old-time landmarks save
the castle and cathedral. The former was one of the most extensive
mediaeval fortresses in all France and is still imposing, despite the
fact that several of its original seventeen towers have been razed and
its great moat filled up. It is now more massive than picturesque. "It
has no beauty, no grace, no detail, nothing to charm or detain you; it
is simply very old and very big and it takes its place in your
recollections as a perfect specimen of a superannuated feudal
stronghold." The huge bastions, girded with iron bands, and the high
perpendicular walls springing out of the dark waters of the moat must
have made the castle impregnable against any method of assault before
the days of artillery. The castle is easily the most distinctive feature
of Angers and the one every visitor should see, though I must confess we
failed to visit it. We should also have seen the cathedral and museum,
but museums consume time and time is the first consideration on a motor
tour.
Our Hotel, the Grand, though old, is cleanly and pleasant, with high
ceilings and broad corridors which have immense full-length mirrors at
every turn. The prices for all this magnificence are quite
moderate--largely due, no doubt, to the Captain's prearrangement with
the manager. The service, however, is a little slack, especially at the
table.
At Angers we are in the edge of the Chateau District, and as my chapter
has already run to considerable length, I shall avail myself of this
logical stopping place. The story of the French chateaus has filled many
a good-sized volume and may well occupy a separate chapter in this
rather hurried record.
II
THE CHATEAU DISTRICT
For more than two hundred miles after leaving Angers we follow a road
that may justly be described as one of the most unique and picturesque
in France. It seldom takes us out of sight of the shining Loire and most
of the way it runs on an embankment directly overlooking the river,
affording a panoramic view of the fertile valley which stretches to
green hills on either side. The embankment is primarily to confine the
waters during freshets, but its broad level top makes an excellent
roadbed, which is generally in good condition. A few miles out of Angers
we get our first view of the Loire, a majestic river three or four
hundred yards in width and in full flow at the present time. Occasional
islets add to the beauty of the scene and the landscape on either hand
is studded with splendid trees. It is an opulent-looking country and we
pass miles of green fields interspersed at times with unbroken stretches
of forest. There are several towns and villages on both sides of the
river and they are cleaner and better in appearance than those we passed
yesterday. Near Tours the country becomes more broken and the hillsides
are covered with endless vineyards. In places the clifflike hills rise
close to the roadside and these are honeycombed with caves; some are
occupied as dwellings by the peasants, but the greater number serve as
storage cellars for wine, which is produced in large quantities in this
vicinity. These modern "cliff-dwellers" are not so poor as their homes
would indicate; there are many well-to-do peasants among them. In fact,
the very poor are scarce in rural France; the universal habits of
industry and economy have spread prosperity among all classes of people;
rough attire and squalid surroundings are seldom indicative of real
poverty, as in England. Everybody is engaged in some useful
occupation--old women may be seen herding a cow, donkey or geese by the
roadside and knitting industriously the while.
Tours is one of the most beautiful of the older French provincial
cities. We have a fine view of the town from across the Loire as we
approach, for it lies on the south side of the river. It is a famous
tourist center--perhaps the first objective, after Paris, of the
majority of Americans and English, and it has several pretentious
hotels. We choose the newest, the Metropole, which proves very
satisfactory. Here the Captain's wiles fail to reduce the first-named
tariff, for the hotel is full, and we can only guess what the charge
might have been if not agreed upon in advance. In defense of his
bargaining the Captain tells a story of a previous trip he made with an
American party in Italy. English was spoken at a hotel where one of the
party asked the rates and the proprietor, assuming that his prospective
guests did not understand the language of the country, had a little
by-talk with a henchman as to charges and remarked that the tourists,
being Americans, would probably stand three or four times the regular
rates, which the inn-keeper proceeded to ask. He was greatly chagrinned
when the Captain repeated the substance of the conversation he had heard
and told the would-be robber that the party would seek accommodations
elsewhere.
I will let this little digression take the place of descriptive remarks
concerning Tours, which has probably been written about more than any
other city in France excepting Paris. The cathedral everyone will see;
it is especially noteworthy for the facade, which is the best and most
ornate example of the so-called Flamboyant style in existence. The great
Renaissance towers are comparatively modern and to our mind lack the
grace and fitness of the pointed Gothic style.
The country about Tours has more to attract the tourist than the city
itself, for within a few miles are the famous chateaus which have been
exploited by literary travelers of all degrees. But it has lost none of
its charm on that account and perhaps every writer has presented to some
extent a different viewpoint of its beauty and romance. Touraine is
quite unlike any other part of France; its vistas of grayish-green
levels, diversified with slim shimmering poplars and flashes of its
broad lazy rivers, are quite unique and characteristic. And when such a
landscape is dotted with an array of splendid historic palaces such as
Blois, Amboise, Chinon, Chaumont and Chenonceaux, it assuredly reaches
the height of romantic interest. All of these, it is true, are not
within the exact political limits of Touraine, but all are within easy
reach of Tours.
We make Chenonceaux our objective for the afternoon. It lies a little
more than twenty miles east of Tours and the road follows the course of
the Cher almost the whole distance. The palace stands directly above the
river, supported on massive arches which rest on piles in the bed of the
stream. A narrow drawbridge at either end cuts the entrances from the
shore, though these bridges were never intended as a means of defense.
Chenonceaux was in no sense a military fortress--its memories are of
love and jealousy and not of war or assassination. It was built early in
the sixteenth century by a receiver of taxes to King Francis, but so
much of the public funds went into the work that its projector died in
disgrace and his son atoned as best he could by turning the chateau over
to the king.
[Illustration: CHENONCEAUX--THE ORIENTAL FRONT]
And here, in the heart of old France, we come upon another memory of
Mary Stuart, for here, with Francis II., she spent her honeymoon--if,
indeed, we may style her short loveless marriage a honeymoon--coming
direct from Amboise, where she had unwillingly witnessed the awful
scenes of the massacre of the Huguenots. What must have been the
reveries of the girl-queen at Chenonceaux! In a foreign land, surrounded
by a wicked, intriguing court, with scenes of bloodshed and death on
every hand and wedded to a hopeless imbecile, foredoomed to early
death--surely even the strange beauty of the river palace could not have
driven these terrible ghosts from her mind.
Chenonceaux has many memories of love and intrigue, for here in 1546
Francis I. and his mistress, the famous Diane of Poitiers, gave a great
hunting party; but the heir-apparent, Prince Henry, soon gained the
affections of the fair Diane and on his accession to the throne
presented her with the chateau, to which she had taken a great fancy.
She it was who built the bridgelike hall connecting the castle with the
south bank of the river and she otherwise improved the palace and
grounds; but on the death of the king, twelve years later, the
queen--the terrible Catherine de Medici--compelled Diane to give up
Chenonceaux and to betake herself to the older and less attractive
Chaumont. The chateau escaped serious injury during the fiery period of
the Revolution, but the insurrectionists compelled the then owner,
Madame Dupin, to surrender her securities, furniture, priceless
paintings and objects of art--the collection of nearly three
centuries--and all were destroyed in a bonfire.
Chenonceaux is now the property of a wealthy Cuban who has spent a
fortune in its restoration and improving the grounds, which accounts for
the trim, new appearance of the place. The great avenue leading from the
public entrance passes through formal gardens brilliant with flowers and
beautified with rare shrubbery and majestic trees. It is a pleasant and
romantic place and the considerateness of the owner in opening it to
visitors for a trifling fee deserves commendation.
[Illustration: AMBOISE FROM ACROSS THE LOIRE]
Quite different are the memories of Amboise, the vast, acropolislike
pile which towers over the Loire some dozen miles beyond Tours and which
we reach early the next day after a delightful run along the broad
river. We have kept to the north bank and cross the river into the
little village, from which a steep ascent leads to the chateau. The
present structure is largely the result of modern restoration, the huge
round tower being about all that remains of the ancient castle. This
contains a circular inclined plane, up which Emperor Charles V. of the
Holy Roman Empire rode on horseback when he visited Francis I. in 1539,
and it is possible for a medium-sized automobile to make the ascent
to-day.
Amboise is chiefly remembered for the awful deeds of Catherine de
Medici, who from the balcony overlooking the town watched the massacre,
which she personally directed, of twelve hundred Huguenots. With her
were the young king, Francis II., and his bride, Mary Stuart, who were
compelled to witness the series of horrible executions which were
carried out in the presence of the court. The leaders were hung from the
iron balconies and others were murdered in the courtyard. They met their
fate with stern religious enthusiasm, singing, it is recorded, until
death silenced their voices. The direct cause of the massacre was the
discovery of a plot on the part of the Huguenot leaders to abduct the
young king in order to get him from under the evil influence of his
mother.
The chateau contains a tomb that alone should make it the shrine of
innumerable pilgrims, for here is buried that many-sided genius,
Leonardo da Vinci, who died in Amboise in 1519 and whom many authorities
regard as the most remarkable man the human race has yet produced.
But enough of horrors and tombs; we go out on the balcony, where the old
tigress stood in that far-off day, and contemplate the enchanting scene
that lies beneath us. Out beyond the blue river a wide peaceful plain
stretches to the purple hills in the far distance; just below are the
gray roofs of the town and there are glorious vistas up and down the
broad stream. This is the memory we should prefer to carry away with us,
rather than that of the murderous deeds of Catherine de Medici!
On arriving at Blois, twenty miles farther down the river road, thoughts
of belated luncheon first engage our minds and the Hotel de Angleterre
sounds good, looks good, and proves good, indeed. Its dining-room is a
glass-enclosed balcony overhanging the river, which adds a picturesque
view to a very excellent meal. The chateau, a vast quadrangular pile
surrounding a great court, is but a short distance from the hotel. Only
the historic apartments are shown--quite enough, since several hours
would be required to make a complete round of the enormous edifice. The
castle has passed into the hands of the government and is being
carefully restored. It is planned to make it a great museum of art and
history and several rooms already contain an important collection. The
palace was built at different periods, from the thirteenth to the
seventeenth centuries, and was originally a nobleman's home, but later a
residence of the kings of France.
[Illustration: GRAND STAIRWAY OF FRANCIS I. AT BLOIS]
Inside the court our attention is attracted by the elaborate decorations
and carvings of the walls. On one side is a long open gallery supported
by richly wrought columns; but most marvelous is the great winding
stairway projecting from the wall and open on the inner side. Every inch
of this structure--its balconies, its pillars and its huge central
column--is wrought over with beautiful images and strange devices, among
which the salamander of Francis I. is most noticeable. When we have
admired the details of the court to our satisfaction, the guide conducts
us through a labyrinth of gorgeously decorated rooms with many
magnificent fireplaces and mantels but otherwise quite unfurnished. The
apartments of the crafty and cruel Catherine de Medici are especially
noteworthy, one of them--her study--having no fewer than one hundred and
fifty carved panels which conceal secret crypts and hiding-places. These
range from small boxes--evidently for jewels or papers--to a closet
large enough for one to hide in.
The overshadowing tragic event of Blois--there were a host of minor
ones--was the assassination of the Duke of Guise in 1588. Henry III., a
weak and vacillating king, was completely dominated by this powerful
nobleman, whose fanatical religious zeal led him to establish a league
to restore the supremacy of the Catholic religion. The king was forced
to proclaim the duke lieutenant-general of the kingdom and to pledge
himself to extirpate the heretics; but despite his outward compliance
Henry was resolved on vengeance. According to the ideas of the times an
objectionable courtier could best be removed by assassination and this
the king determined upon. He piously ordered two court priests to pray
for the success of his plan and summoned the duke to his presence. Guise
was standing before the fire in the great dining-room and though he
doubtless suspected his royal master's kind intentions toward him,
walked into the next room, where nine of the king's henchmen awaited
him. They offered no immediate violence, but followed him into the
corridor, where they at once drew swords and fell upon him. Even against
such odds the duke, who was a powerful man, made a strong resistance and
though repeatedly stabbed, fought his way to the king's room, where he
fell at the foot of the royal bed. Henry, when assured that his enemy
was really dead, came trembling out of the adjoining room and kicking
the corpse, exclaimed, "How big he is; bigger dead than alive!" The next
morning the duke's brother, the Cardinal of Lorraine, was also murdered
in the castle as he was hastening to obey a summons from the king.
There is little suggestion of such horrors in the polished floors and
gilded walls that surround us today as we hear the Captain translate the
gruesome details from the guide's voluble sentences. We listen only
perfunctorily; it all seems unreasonable and unreal as the sun, breaking
from the clouds that have prevailed much of the day, floods the great
apartments with light. We have not followed this tale of blood and
treachery closely; it is only another reminder that cruelty and
inhumanity were very common a few centuries ago.
There is a minor cathedral in Blois, but the most interesting church is
St. Nicholas, formerly a part of the abbey and dating from 1138. Its
handsome facade with twin towers is the product of recent restoration.
There are also many quaint timbered houses in Blois, dating from the
fifteenth century and later, but we pay little attention to them. I
hardly know why our enthusiasm for old French houses is so limited,
considering how eagerly we sought such bits of antiquity in England.
We pursue the river road the rest of the day, though in places it swings
several miles from the Loire--or does the Loire swing from the road,
which seems arrow-straight everywhere?--and cuts across some lovely
rural country. Fields of grain, just beginning to ripen, predominate and
there are also green meadows and patches of carmine clover. Crimson
poppies and blue cornflowers gleam among the wheat, lending a touch of
brilliant color to the billowy fields.
The village of Beaugency, which we passed about midway between Tours and
Orleans, is one that will arrest the attention of the casual passerby.
It is more reminiscent of the castellated small town of England than one
often finds in France. It is overshadowed by a huge Norman keep with
sheltered, ivy-grown parapets, the sole remaining portion of an
eleventh-century castle. The remainder of the present castle was built
as a stronghold against the English, only to be taken by them shortly
after its completion. The invaders, however, were driven out by the
French army under Joan of Arc in 1429. The bridge at Beaugency is the
oldest on the Loire, having spanned the river since the thirteenth
century. The town has stood several sieges and was the scene of terrible
excesses in the religious wars of the sixteenth century, the abbey
having been burned by the Protestants in 1567.
Towards evening we again come to the river bank and ere long the towers
of Orleans break on our view. Despite its great antiquity the city
appears quite modern, for it has been so rebuilt that but few of its
ancient landmarks remain. Even the cathedral is a modern
restoration--almost in toto--and there is scarcely a complete building
in the town antedating 1500. The main streets are broad and well-paved
and electric trams run on many of them. Our hotel, the Grand Aignan, is
rather old-fashioned and somewhat dingy, but it is clean and comfortable
and its rates are not exorbitant. There is a modern and more fashionable
hotel in the city, but we have learned that second-class inns in cities
of medium size are often good and much easier on one's purse.
Our first thought, when we begin our after-dinner ramble, is that
Orleans should change its name to Jeanne d'Arcville. I know of no other
instance where a city of seventy thousand people is so completely
dominated by a single name. The statues, the streets, the galleries,
museums, churches and shops--all remind one of the immortal Maid who
made her first triumphal entry into Orleans in 1429, when the city was
hard pressed by the English besiegers. Every postcard and souvenir urged
upon the visitor has something to do with the patron saint of the town
and, after a little, one falls in with the spirit of the place,
rejoicing that the memories of Orleans are only of success and triumph
and forgetting Rouen's dark chapter of defeat and death.
In the morning we first go to the cathedral--an ornate and imposing
church, though one that the critics have dealt with rather roughly. It
faces the wide Rue Jeanne d'Arc--again Orleans' charmed name--and it
seems to us that the whole vast structure might well be styled a
memorial to the immortal Maid of France. The facade is remarkable for
its Late-Gothic towers, nearly three hundred feet high, while between
them to the rear rises the central spire, some fifty feet higher. There
are three great portals beneath massive arches, rising perhaps
one-fourth the height of the towers, and above each of these is an
immense rose window. Perhaps the design as a whole is not according to
the best architectural tenets, but the cathedral seems grand to such
unsophisticated critics as ourselves. Being a rather late restoration,
it does not show the wear and tear of the ages, like so many of its
ancient rivals, and perhaps loses a little charm on this account. The
vast vaultlike interior is quite free from obstructions to one's vision
and is lighted by windows of beautifully toned modern glass. These
depict scenes in the life of Joan of Arc, beginning with the appearance
of her heavenly monitors and ending with her martyrdom at the stake. The
designing is of remarkably high order and the color toning is much more
effective than one often finds in modern glass. There are a number of
paintings and images, many of them referring to the career of the now
venerated Maid. The usual gaudy chapels and altars of French cathedrals
are in evidence, though none are especially interesting.
Orleans has several other churches and all pay some tribute to the
heroine of the town. A small part of St. Peter's dates from the ninth
century, one of the few relics of antiquity to be found in Orleans. The
Hotel de Ville, built about 1530, has a beautiful marble figure of Joan
in the court, and an equestrian statue of the Maid is in the Grand Salon
of the building, representing her horse in the act of trampling a
mortally wounded Englishman. Both of these statues are the work of
Princess Marie of Orleans--a scion of the old royal family of France.
The Hotel de Ville also recalls a memory of Mary Stuart; here in 1560
her boy-husband, Francis II., expired in the arms of his wife, and her
career was soon transferred from the French court to its no less
troubled and cruel contemporary in Scotland. The town possesses an
unusually good museum, which includes a large historical collection, and
the gallery contains a number of paintings and sculptures of real merit.
Of course one will wish to see the house where the patron saint of the
town lodged, and this may be found at No. 37 Rue de Tabour. There is
also on the same street the Musee Jeanne d'Arc, which contains a number
of relics and paintings relating to the heroine and her times.
But for all the worship of Joan of Arc in Orleans, she was not a native
of the place and actually spent only a short time within the walls of
the old city. The Maid was born in the little village of Domremy in
Lorraine, some two hundred miles eastward, where her humble birthplace
may still be seen and which we hope to visit when we make our next
incursion into France.
III
ORLEANS TO THE GERMAN BORDER
We have no more delightful run in France than our easy jaunt from
Orleans to Nevers. We still follow the Loire Valley, though the road
only occasionally brings us in sight of the somewhat diminished river.
The distance is but ninety-six miles over the most perfect of roads and
we proceed leisurely, often pausing to admire the landscapes--beautiful
beyond any ability of mine to adequately describe. The roadside
resembles a well-kept lawn; it is bordered by endless rows of majestic
trees and on either hand are fertile fields which show every evidence of
the careful work of the farmer. The silken sheen of bearded wheat and
rye is dotted with crimson poppies and starred with pale-blue
cornflowers. At times the poppies have gained the mastery and burn like
a spot of flame amidst the emerald-green of the fields. Patches of
dark-red clover lend another color variation, and here and there are
dashes of bright yellow or gleaming white of buttercups and daisies.
With such surroundings and on such a clear, exhilarating day our
preconceived ideals of the beauty of Summer France suffer no
disenchantment.
Cosne is an old river town now rather dominated by manufactories and
here Pope Pius VII. sojourned when he came to France upon the neighborly
invitation of Napoleon I. He stopped at the Hotel du Cerf, but we try
the Moderne for luncheon, which proves unusually good.
About three o'clock we reach Nevers and a sudden thunder shower
determines us to stop for the night at the Hotel de France. Outside it
is quite unpretending, though queer ornamental panels between the
windows and a roof of moss-green tiles redeem it somewhat from the
commonplace. We have no reason to repent our decision, for the rambling
old inn is scrupulously clean and the service has the personal touch
that indicates the watchful eye of a managing proprietor. We are
somewhat surprised to see a white-clad chef very much in evidence about
the hotel and even taking a lively interest in guests who have suffered
a break-down and are wrestling with their car in the stable-yard garage.
We learn that this chef is the proprietor, and his wife, an English
woman, is the manageress. The combination is an effective one;
English-speaking guests are made very much at home and the excellence of
the meals is sufficient proof of the competence of the proprietor-chef.
[Illustration: PORT DU CROUX--A MEDIEVAL WATCHTOWER AT NEVERS]
Nevers has a cathedral dating in part from the twelfth century, though
the elaborate tower with its host of sculptured prophets, apostles and
saints was built some three hundred years later. The most notable relic
of mediaevalism in the town is the queer old Port du Croux, a
fourteenth-century watch-tower which one time formed part of the
fortifications. It is a noble example of mediaeval defense--a tall
gateway tower with long lancet openings and two pointed turrets flanking
the steep, tile-covered roof. The ducal palace and the Hotel de Ville
are also interesting old-time structures, though neither is of great
historic importance. The history of Nevers is in sharp contrast with the
checkered career of its neighbor, Orleans, being quite uneventful and
prosaic. It is a quiet place to-day, its chief industry being the
potteries, which have been in existence some centuries.
The next day, thirty miles on the road to Autun, we experience our first
break-down in eighteen thousand miles of motoring in Europe--that is, a
break-down that means we must abandon the car for the time. Near the
little village of Tamnay-Chatillon an axle-rod breaks and a new one must
be made before we can proceed. Our objective point, Dijon, is the
nearest place where we will be likely to find facilities for repair and
we resolve to go thither by train. We have been so delayed that
train-time is past and we shall have to pass the night at the village
inn. It is extremely annoying at the time, though in retrospect we are
glad of our experience with at least one very small country road-house
in France. The inn people spare no effort to make us as comfortable as
possible and we have had many worse meals in good-sized cities than is
served to us this evening. Our beds, though apparently clean, are not
very restful, but we are too weary to be excessively critical. The next
morning, leaving the crippled car in the stable-yard, we take the train
for Dijon. The Captain carries the broken axle-rod as a pattern and soon
after our arrival a workman is shaping a new one from a steel bar. And
in this connection I might remark that we found the average French
mechanic quick and intelligent, with almost an intuitive understanding
of a piece of machinery. Our job proves slower than we anticipated; the
work can be done by only one man at a time and it is not completed
before midnight of the following day.
In the meanwhile we have established ourselves at the Grand Hotel de la
Cloche, a pretentious--and, as it proves, a very expensive
stopping-place. We have large, well-furnished rooms which afford an
outlook upon a small park fronting the hotel. Our enforced leisure
allows us considerably more time to look about Dijon than we have been
giving to such towns and we endeavor to make the most of it. The town is
one of the military centers of France, being defended by no fewer than
eight detached forts, and we see numerous companies of soldiers on the
streets.
The museum, we are assured, is the greatest "object of interest" in the
city and, indeed, it comes up to the claims made for it. The municipal
art gallery contains possibly the best provincial collection of
paintings in France--an endless array of pictures of priceless value,
representing the greatest names of French art. There is also a splendid
showing of sculpture, occupying five separate rooms. The marble tombs of
Philip the Brave and John the Fearless, old-time dukes of Burgundy, are
wonderful creations. They were originally in the Church of Chartreuse,
destroyed in 1793, when the tombs were removed to the cathedral in a
somewhat damaged condition. They were later placed in the museum and
restored as nearly as possible to their original state. Both have a
multitude of marble statuettes, every one a distinct artistic
study--some representing mourners for the deceased--and each little face
has some peculiar and characteristic expression of grief. The strong
contrast of white and black marbles is relieved by judicious gilding
and, altogether, we count these the most elaborate and artistic
mediaeval tombs we have seen, if we except the Percy monument at Beverly
in England. The museum also has an important archaeological collection,
including a number of historical relics found in the vicinity, for the
city dates back to Roman times. The showing of coins, gems, vases,
ivory, cabinets and jewelry would do credit to any metropolitan museum.
And all this in a town of but seventy-five thousand people--which shows
how far the French municipalities have advanced in such matters. Dijon
is no exception in this regard, though other cities of the class may not
quite equal this collection, which I have described in merest outline.
Dijon has several churches of the first order, though none of them has
any notable distinguishing feature. The Cathedral of St. Benigne is the
oldest, dating in its present form from about 1280, though there are
portions which go back still farther. It was originally built as an
abbey church, but the remainder of the abbatial buildings have
disappeared. St. Michael's Church is some four hundred years later than
the cathedral, and has, according to the guide-books, a Renaissance
facade, though it seems to us to be better described as a Moorish
adaptation of the Gothic style. At any rate, it is an inartistic and
unattractive structure and illustrates the poor results often attained
in too great an effort after the unusual. Notre Dame is about the same
date as the cathedral, though it has been so extensively restored as to
have quite a new appearance. Its most remarkable feature is its queer
statuettes--nearly a hundred little figures contorted into endless
expressions and attitudes--which serve as gargoyles. The churches of
Dijon are not particularly noteworthy for their interiors and none has
especially good windows. Our extended sojourn in the city enables us to
visit a number of shops, for which we have heretofore found little time.
These are well-stocked and attractive and quite in keeping with a city
of the size of Dijon. According to Herr Baedeker, the town is famous
"for wine and corn, and its mustard and gingerbread enjoy a wide
reputation."
The Captain and myself take an early train for Tamnay-Chatillon and have
the satisfaction of finding the new axle-rod a perfect fit. We enjoy the
open car and the fine road more than ever after our enforced experience
with the railway train. The country between Tamnay and Dijon is rolling
and the road often winds up or down a great hill for two or three miles
at a stretch, always with even and well-engineered gradients that insure
an easy climb or a long exhilarating coast. There are many glorious
panoramas from the hill-crests--wide reaches of hill and valley, with
groves and vineyards and red-tiled villages nestling in wooded vales or
lying on the sunny slopes. Most of the towns remain unknown to us by
name, but the Captain points out Chateau Chinon clinging to a rather
steep hillside and overshadowed by the vast ruined castle which once
defended it. A portion of the old wall with three watch-towers still
stands--the whole effect being very grim and ancient. Near the town of
Pommard the hills are literally "vine-clad,"--vineyards everywhere
running up to the very edge of the town.
The Hotel St. Louis et de la Poste at Autun does not present a very
attractive exterior, but it proves a pleasant surprise and we are hungry
enough to do justice to an excellent luncheon, having breakfasted in
Dijon at five o'clock. Autun has an unusual cathedral--"a curious
building of the transition period"--some parts of which go back as far
as the tenth century. The beautiful Gothic spire--the first object to
greet our eyes when approaching the town--was built about 1470. Portions
of the old fortifications still remain. St. Andrew's Gate, partly a
restoration, is an imposing portal pierced by four archways and forms
one of the main entrances. There is also the usual museum and Hotel de
Ville to be found in all enterprising provincial towns of France.
Beyond Autun the character of the country changes again; we come into a
less prosperous section, intersected by stone fences which cut the rocky
hillsides into small irregular fields. We pass an occasional
bare-looking village and one or two ruined chateaus and we remark on the
scarcity of ruins in France, so far as we have seen it, as compared with
England. A more fertile and thriving country surrounds Dijon, which we
reach in the late afternoon.
We have had quite enough of Dijon, but we shall remain until morning; an
early start should carry us well toward the German frontier before
night. We find some terribly rough roads to Gray and Vesoul--macadam
which has begun to disintegrate. The country grows quite hilly and
while, in the words of the old hymn, "every prospect pleases," we are
indeed tempted to add that "only man is vile." For the filthiness of
some of the villages and people can only be designated as unspeakable;
if I should describe in plain language the conditions we behold, my book
might be excluded from the mails! The houses of these miserable little
hamlets stretch in single file along both sides of the broad highway. In
one end of the house lives the family and in the other the domestic
animals--pigs, cows and donkeys. Along the road on each side the
muck-piles are almost continuous and reach to the windows of the
cottages. Recent rains have flooded the streets with seepage, which
covers the road to a depth of two or three inches, and the odors may be
imagined--if one feels adequate to such a task. The muck is drained into
pools and cisterns from which huge wooden or iron pumps tower above the
street. By means of these the malodorous liquid is elevated into
wagon-tanks to be hauled away to the fields. And this work is usually
done by the women! In fact, women are accorded equal privileges with a
vengeance in this part of rural France--they outnumber the men in the
fields and no occupation appears too heavy or degraded for them to
engage in. We see many of the older ones herding domestic animals--or
even geese and ducks--by the roadside. Sometimes it is only a single
animal--a cow, donkey, goat or pig--that engages the old crone, who is
usually knitting as well. The pigs, no doubt because of their headstrong
proclivities, are usually confined by a cord held by their keepers, and
with one of these we have an amusing adventure. The pig becomes unruly,
heading straight for our car, and only a vigorous application of the
brakes prevents disaster to the obstreperous brute. But the guardian of
his hogship--who has been hauled around pretty roughly while hanging to
the cord--is in a towering rage and screams no end of scathing language
at us. "You, too, are pigs," is one of her compliments which the Captain
translates, and he says it is just as well to let some of her remarks
stand in the original!
As we approach Remiremont, where we propose to stop for the night, we
enter the great range of hills which form the boundary between France
and Germany and which afford many fine vistas. Endless pine forests
clothe the hillsides and deep narrow valleys slope away from the road
which winds upward along the edges of the hills. Remiremont is a
pleasant old frontier town lying along the Moselle River at the base of
a fortified hill two thousand feet in height. It is cleaner than the
average French town of ten thousand and clear streams of mountain water
run alongside many of its streets. The Hotel du Cheval de Bronze seems a
solid, comfortable old inn and we turn into the courtyard for our
nightly stop. The courtyard immediately adjoins the hotel apartments on
the rear and is not entirely free from objectionable odors--our only
complaint against the Cheval de Bronze. Our rooms front on the street,
the noise being decidedly preferable to the assortment of smells in the
rear. The town has nothing to detain one, and is rather unattractive,
despite its pleasing appearance from a distance. On the main street near
our hotel are the arcades, which have a considerable resemblance to the
famous rows of Chester.
We are awakened early in the morning by the tramp of a large company of
soldiers along the street, for Remiremont, being so near the frontier,
is heavily garrisoned. These French soldiers we have seen everywhere, in
the towns and on the roads, enough of them to remind us that the country
is really a vast military camp. They are rather undersized, as a rule,
and their attire is often slouchy and worse for wear. Their bearing
seems to us anything but soldierly as they shuffle along the streets.
Perhaps we remember this the more because of the contrast we see in
Germany a little later. A good authority, however, tells us that the
French army is in a fine state of preparedness and would give a good
account of itself if called into action.
We are early away from Remiremont on a fine road winding among the
pine-clad hills. Some sixteen miles out of the town we find a splendid
hotel at Gerardmer on a beautiful little lake of the same name in the
Vosges Forest, where we should no doubt have had quite different service
from the Cheval de Bronze. We have no regrets, however, since Remiremont
is worth seeing as a typical small frontier town. At Gerardmer we begin
the long climb over the mountain pass which crosses the German border;
there are several miles of the ascent and in some places the grades are
steep enough to seriously heat the motor. We stop many times on the way
and there is a clear little stream by the roadside from which we
replenish the water in the heated engine. The air grows cooler and more
bracing as we ascend and though it is a fine June day, we see banks of
snow along the road. On either side are great pine trees, through which
we catch occasional glimpses of wooded hills and verdant valleys lying
far beneath us. Despite the cool air, flowers bloom along the road and
the ascent, though rather strenuous, is a delightful one.
At the summit we come to the customs offices of the two countries, a few
yards apart. Here we bid farewell to France and slip across the border
into the Fatherland, as its natives so love to call it. A wonderful old
official, who seems to embody all the dignity and power of the empire he
serves, comes out of the customs house. His flowing gray beard is a full
yard long and the stem of his mighty porcelain pipe is still longer. He
is clad in a faultless uniform and wears a military cap bespangled with
appropriate emblems--altogether, a marvel of that official glory in
which the Germans so delight. His functions, however, do not correspond
with his personal splendor, for he only officially countersigns our
Royal Automobile Club passport, delivers us a pair of number plates and,
lastly, collects a fee of some fifteen marks. He gives us a certificate
showing that we are now entitled to travel the highways of the empire
for two weeks, and should we remain longer we shall have to pay an
additional fee on leaving the country. The Captain waves an approved
military adieu, to which the official solemnly responds and we set out
in search of adventure in the land of the Kaiser.
IV
COLMAR TO OBERAMMERGAU
Had we crossed a sea instead of an imaginary dividing line we could
hardly have found a more abrupt change in the characteristics of people
and country than we discover when we descend into the broad green valley
of the Rhine. We have a series of fine views as we glide down the easy
grades and around the sweeping curves of the splendid road that leads
from the crest to the wide plain along the river--glimpses of towns and
villages lying far beneath, beyond long stretches of wooded hills. On
our way we meet peasants driving teams of huge horses hitched to heavy
logging wagons. The horses go into a panic at the sight of the car and
the drivers seem even more panicky than the brutes; it is quite apparent
that the motor is not so common in Germany as in England and France.
The province of Alsace, by which we enter Germany, was held by France
from the time of Napoleon until 1871, but it never entirely lost its
German peculiarities during the French occupation. Its villages and
farmhouses are distinctly Teutonic, though the larger towns show more
traces of French influence. Colmar, some twenty miles from the border,
is the first city--a place of about forty thousand people and
interesting to Americans as the birthplace of the sculptor, Bartholdi,
who designed the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor. It is a
substantially built town with an enormous Gothic church and its museum
has a famous collection of pictures by early German masters.
A few miles from Colmar we come to the Rhine, so famed in German song
and story, a green, rushing flood that seems momentarily to threaten the
destruction of the pontoon bridge which bears us across. Beyond the
river the level but poorly surfaced road leads to Freiburg, a handsome
city of about seventy-five thousand people. It is a noted manufacturing
town and has an ancient university with about two thousand students. Its
cathedral is one of the finest Gothic structures in Germany, the great
tower, three hundred and eighty feet in height, being the earliest and
most perfect of its kind. The windows of fourteenth-century glass are
particularly fine and there are many remarkable paintings of a little
later date. The city has other important churches and many beautiful
public buildings and monuments. Indeed, Freiburg is a good example of
the neatness, cleanliness and civic pride that prevails in most of the
larger German cities. It has many excellent hotels and we have a
well-served luncheon at the Victoria. We should stop for the day at
Freiburg were it not for our unexpected delay at Dijon; we must hasten
if we are to reach Oberammergau in time for our reservations. In the
three remaining daylight hours we make a swift run to Tuttlingen, some
sixty miles eastward, passing several small villages and two good-sized
towns, Neustadt and Donaueschingen, on the way. The latter is near the
head waters of the Danube, and from here we follow the river to
Tuttlingen. We pass through a beautifully wooded country and several
inns along the way indicate that this section is a frequented pleasure
resort. There are many charming panoramas from the road, which in places
swings around the hillsides some distance above the river.
Had we known the fate in store for us at Tuttlingen, we should surely
have stopped at one of the hotels which we hastily passed in our dash
for that town. But we reach it just at dusk--a place of about fifteen
thousand people--and turn in rather dubiously at the unattractive Post
Hotel. If the Post is a fair sample of the country inns of Germany, the
tourist should keep clear of country inns when possible. On entering we
meet an assortment of odors not especially conducive to good appetite
for the evening meal, and this proves of the kind that requires a good
appetite. We are hungry, but not hungry enough to eat the Post's fare
with anything like relish and we are haunted by considerable misgivings
about the little we do consume. The Post, however, does not lack
patronage, though it seems to come mainly from German commercial men who
are seeking trade in the thriving town.
We are away early in the morning, following a rough, neglected road some
dozen miles to Ludwigshaven at the head of Lake Constance, or the Boden
See, as the Germans style it. A new highway leading down to the lake
shore is not yet open, though nearly ready, and we descend over a
temporary road which winds among tree stumps and drops down twenty per
cent grades for a couple of miles. We are thankful that we have only the
descent to make; I doubt whether our forty-horse engine would ever have
pulled us up the "bank," as a Yorkshire man would describe it.
But having reached the level of the lake, we find a splendid road
closely following the shore for forty miles and affording views of some
of the finest and most famous scenery in Europe. In all our journeyings
we have had few more glorious runs. The clear balmy June day floods
everything with light and color. The lake lies still and blue as the
heavens above, and beyond its shining expanse rise the snow-capped forms
of the Swiss Alps, their rugged ranks standing sharply against the
silvery horizon. At their feet stretches the green line of the shore and
above it the dense shadows of the pines that cover the slopes to the
snow line. It is a scene of inspiring beauty that one sees to best
advantage from the open road. Near at hand green fields stretch to the
hills, no great distance away, and the belated fruit-tree blossoms load
the air with perfume. Hay-making is in progress in the little
fields--women swing the scythes or handle the rakes and pitchforks while
staid old cows draw the heavy, awkward carts. There are several pleasant
little towns along the shore, rather neater and cleaner than the average
German village, though even these are not free from occasional touches
of filthiness. Near the center of the lake is Friedrichshafen, a popular
resort with numerous hotels. There is a beautiful drive along the lake,
bordered with shrubs and trees, and fronting on this is the
comfortable-looking Deutsches Haus, surrounded by gardens which extend
to the shore. We remember the Deutsches Haus particularly, since on its
glass-enclosed veranda we are served with an excellent luncheon. As we
resume our journey, feeling at peace with the world, and open up a
little on the smooth lakeside road, the Captain exclaims:
"If I had all the money I could possibly want, do you know what I'd do?
I'd just buy a motor, don't you know, and do nothing on earth but tour
about Europe!"
And we all agree that under such conditions and on such a day his
proposed vocation seems an ideal one.
Friedrichshafen, I should have said, was the home of Count Zeppelin of
airship fame, and as we passed through the town his immense craft was
being made ready for an experimental trip. It was then attracting much
attention in Germany and was the precourser of the only line of
commercial airships now in existence.
Lindau, a small resort built on an island about three hundred yards from
the shore, marks the point of our departure from Lake Constance. We
enter the town over a narrow causeway which connects it with the main
road, but find little to detain us. We climb the steep winding road
leading out of the valley and for the remainder of the day our course
wends among the foothills of the Bavarian Alps. It proves a delightful
run; we witness constantly changing displays of color and glorious
effects of light and shadow. Thunder storms are raging in the mountains
and at intervals they sweep down and envelop our road in a dash of
summer rain. Above us tower the majestic Alps; in places the dazzling
whiteness of the snow still lies against the barren rocks or amidst the
dense green of the pines, while above the summits roll blue-gray cumulus
clouds glowing with vivid lightning or brilliant with occasional bursts
of sunshine. Near at hand stretch green meadows of the foothills,
variegated with great splashes of blue or yellow flowers as though some
giant painter had swept his brush across the landscape. The effect is
shown with striking fidelity in the picture by the late John MacWhirter
R. A. which I have reproduced, though it is quite impossible on so small
a scale to give an adequate idea of the original canvas--much less of
the enchanting scene itself.
Among the foothills and often well up the mountainsides are the
characteristic chalets of Tyrol and an occasional ruined castle crowns
some seemingly inaccessible rock. We pass several quaint little towns
and many isolated houses, all very different from any we have seen
elsewhere. The houses are mostly of plaster and often ornamented with
queer designs and pictures in brilliant colors. The people are
picturesque, too; the women and girls dress in the peculiar costume of
the country; the men wear knitted jackets and knee pants with silver
buckles and their peaked hats are often decorated with a feather or two.
Our road averages fair, though a few short stretches are desperately
bad--this unevenness we have noted in German roads generally. In one
place where the rain has been especially heavy we plunge through a
veritable quagmire, and we find spots so rough and stony as to make very
uncomfortable going. We finally strike the fine highway which follows
the River Lech and brings us into the mountain town of Fussen. It is a
snug little place of some five thousand people, nestling in a narrow
valley through which rushes a swift, emerald-green river. The
Bayerischer-Hof proves a pleasant surprise; one of the cleanest,
brightest and best-conducted inns we have found anywhere. Our large,
well-lighted rooms afford a magnificent view of the snow-capped
mountains, which seem only a little distance away. The landlord, a
fine-looking, full-bearded native who speaks English fluently, gives the
touch of personal attention that one so much appreciates in the often
monotonous round of hotel life. To the rear of the hotel is a
beer-garden where brilliant lights and good music in the evening attract
the guests and townspeople in considerable numbers. Several other
American motor parties stop at the hotel and we especially notice one
French car because it carries nine people--and it is not a large car,
either! The Bayerischer-Hof is first-class in every particular, and we
find when we come to depart that the charges are first-class, too. The
Captain is exasperated when we are asked sixty cents per gallon for
"benzin" and says we will chance doing better on the way--a decision
which, as it happens, causes us no little grief and some expense.
Fussen has an impressive Gothic castle--a vast, turreted, towered,
battlemented affair with gray walls and red-tiled roof which looms over
the town from the slope above the river. I fear, though, that the castle
is a good deal of a sham, for there are spots where the stucco has
fallen from the walls, revealing wooden lath beneath, and while in
Fussen they call it a "thirteenth-century" building, Baedeker gives its
date as two or three hundred years later. It was never intended as a
defensive structure, being originally built as the residence of the
Bishop of Augsburg. It is now occupied by the district court and the
interior is hardly worth a visit.
[Illustration: CASTLE AT FUSSEN]
Oberammergau lies over the mountain to the east of Fussen, scarcely ten
miles away in a direct line, but to reach it we are compelled to go by
the way of Schongau, about four times as far. We pursue a narrow,
sinuous mountain road, very muddy in places. We have been warned of one
exceptionally bad hill--a twenty-five per cent grade, according to the
Royal Automobile Club itinerary--but we give the matter little thought.
It proves a straight incline of half a mile and about midway the sharp
ascent our motor gasps and comes to a sudden stop. We soon ascertain
that the angle is too great for the gasoline to flow from the nearly
empty tank, and we regret the Captain's economy at Fussen. A number of
peasants gather about us to stare at our predicament, but they show
nothing of the amusement that an American crowd would find in such a
situation. A woman engages the Captain in conversation and informs us
that she is the owner of a good team of horses, which will be the best
solution of our difficulties. "Wie viel?" Seventy-five marks, or about
eighteen dollars, looks right to her and she sticks to her price, too.
Her only response to the Captain's indignant protests is that she keeps
a road-house at the top of the hill, where he can find her if he decides
we need her services. And she departs in the lordly manner of one who
has delivered an ultimatum from which there is no appeal. A peasant
tells us that the woman makes a good income fleecing stranded motorists
and that the German automobile clubs have published warnings against
her. He says that a farmer near by will help us out for the modest sum
of ten marks and offers to bring him to the scene; he also consoles us
by telling us that five cars besides our own have stalled on the hill
during the day. The farmer arrives before long with a spanking big team,
which gives us the needed lift, and the grade soon permits the motor to
get in its work.
We reach Oberammergau about two o'clock, only to find another instance
where the Captain's economical tendency has worked to our disadvantage.
He had declined to pay the price asked by Cook's agency in London for
reservation of rooms and seats for the Passion Play and had arranged for
these with a German firm, Shenker & Co. at Freiburg. On inquiring at the
office of the concern in the village we find no record of our
reservations and no tickets to be had. "Shenker is surely a 'rotter,'"
says the Captain, immensely disgusted, and it requires no small effort
to find quarters, but we at last secure tiny rooms in a peasant's
cottage in the outskirts of the village. Tickets we finally obtain by an
earnest appeal at Cook's offices, though at considerable premium.
Our quarters are almost primitive in their plainness, but they are
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]
The fifty or sixty miles between Mayence and Coblenz comprise the most
picturesque section of the Rhine, so famous in song and legend, and our
road closely follows the river for the whole distance. The really
impressive scenery begins at Bingen, ten miles west of Mayence, where we
enter the Rhine Gorge. On either side of the river rise the clifflike
hills--literally vine-covered, for the steep slopes have been terraced
and planted with vineyards to the very tops. Our road keeps to the north
of the river and is often overhung by rocky walls, while far above we
catch glimpses of ivy-clad ruins surmounting the beetling crags. The
highway is an excellent one, much above the German average. In places it
is bordered by fruit-trees--a common practice in Germany--and we pass
men who are picking the luscious cherries. So strong is law and order in
the Fatherland, we are told, that these public fruit-trees are never
molested and the proceeds are used for road improvement. The day is
showery, which to some extent obscures the scenery, though the changeful
moods of light and color are not without charm. The great hills with
their castles and vineyards are alternately cloud-swept and flooded with
sunlight--or, more rarely, hidden by a dashing summer shower.
Bingen has gained a wide fame from the old ballad whose melancholy lilt
comes quickly to one's mind--though we do not find the simple country
village we had imagined. It has about ten thousand people and lies in a
little valley on both sides of the Nahe, a small river which joins the
Rhine at this point. It is an ancient place, its history running back to
Roman times. Slight remains of a Roman fortress still exist, though the
site is now occupied by Klopp Castle, which was restored from complete
ruin a half century ago. This castle is open to visitors and from its
tower one may look down on the town with its gray roofs and huge
churches.
From Bingen to Coblenz, a distance of about forty miles, the gorge of
the Rhine is continuous and we are never out of sight of the
vine-covered hills and frequent ruins. Nearly all the ruined castles of
Germany center here and we see fit matches for Caerphilly, Richmond or
Kenilworth in Britain. In this hurried chronicle I cannot even mention
all of these picturesque and often imposing ruins, though a few may be
chosen as typical.
[Illustration: CASTLE RHEINSTEIN]
A short distance from Bingen is Rheinstein, originally built about 1270
and recently restored by Prince Henry as one of his summer residences,
though he has visited it, the custodian tells us, but once in two years.
A wearisome climb is necessary to reach the castle, which is some two
hundred and fifty feet above the road where we leave our car. The
mediaeval architecture and furnishings are carried out as closely as
possible in the restoration, giving a good idea of the life and state of
the old-time barons. There is also an important collection of armor and
antiquities relating to German history.
In this same vicinity is Ehrenfels, which has stood in ruin nearly three
hundred years. Its towers still stand, proud and threatening, though the
residential portions are much shattered. Opposite this ruin, on a small
island in the river, is the curious "Mouse Tower," where, legend
asserts, a cruel archbishop was once besieged and finally devoured by an
army of mice and rats, a judgment for causing a number of poor people to
be burned in order to get rid of them during a famine. But as the bishop
lived about 915 and the tower was built some three hundred years later,
his connection with it is certainly mythical and let us hope the rest of
the story has no better foundation. The old name, Mausturm (arsenal), no
doubt suggested the fiction to some early chronicler.
The castles of Sonneck and Falkenburg, dating from the eleventh century,
surmount the heights a little farther on our way. These were strongholds
of robber-barons who in the middle ages preyed upon the river-borne
traffic--their exploits forming the burden of many a ballad and tale.
These gentry came to their just deserts about 1300 at the hands of
Prince Rudolph, who consigned them to the gallows and destroyed their
castles. Sonneck is still in ruins, but Falkenburg has been restored and
is now private property.
Almost every foot of the Rhine Gorge boasts of some supernatural or
heroic tale--as myth-makers the Germans were not behind their
contemporaries. We pass the Devil's Ladder, where the fiend once aided
an ancient knight--no doubt on the score of personal friendship--to
scale the perpendicular cliff to gain the hand of a "ladye fair." A
little farther are the Lorelei Rocks, where the sirens enticed the
sailors to destruction in the rapids just below. Quite as unfortunate
were the seven virgins of Schonburg, who for their prudery were
transformed into seven rocky pinnacles not far from the Lorelei--and so
on ad infinitum.
[Illustration: EHRENFELS ON THE RHINE]
A volume would not catalog the legends and superstitions of the Rhine
Gorge. At least the Captain so declares and adds that he knows a strange
story of the Rhine that an old German once told him in Bingen. At our
solicitation he repeats it as we glide slowly along the river road and I
have thought it worth recasting for my book. There will be no harm done
if it is skipped by the reader who has no taste for such things. It is a
little after the style of several German legends of ancient gentry, who
sold themselves to the Evil One to gain some greatly desired
point--though I always thought these stories reflected on the business
sagacity of the Devil in making him pay for something he was bound to
get in the end without cost. The story, I find, is long enough to
require a chapter of itself and it may appropriately follow this.
There are endless small towns along the road, but they are quite free
from the untoward conditions I have described in the more retired
villages off the track of tourist travel. Boppard, St. Goar Oberwesel
and Bornhofen are among the number and each has its storied ruin. Near
the last-named are the twin castles of The Brothers, with their legend
of love and war which the painstaking Baedeker duly chronicles. Above
St. Goar towers the vast straggling ruin of Rheinfels, said to be the
most extensive in Germany, which has stood in decay since its capture by
the French in 1797. It crowns a barren and almost inaccessible rock
which rises nearly four hundred feet above the river. Near Boppard is
Marxburg, the only old-time castle which has never been in ruin. It has
passed through many vicissitudes and at present serves as a museum of
ancient weapons and warlike costumes.
As we approach Coblenz we come in sight of the battlemented towers of
Stolzenfels rising above the dense forests that cover the great hill on
which it stands. The castle is three hundred and ten feet above the
river, but the plain square tower rises one hundred and ten feet higher,
affording a magnificent outlook. The present structure is modern, having
been built in 1842 by the crown prince on the site of an old castle
destroyed by the French. It now belongs to the emperor, who opens it to
visitors when he is not in residence. It is a splendid edifice and gives
some idea of the former magnificence of the ruins we have seen to-day.
[Illustration: RUINS OF CASTLE RHEINFELS]
Coblenz, at the junction of the Moselle and Rhine, appeals to us as a
stopping-place and we turn in at the Monopol--just why I do not know.
There are certainly much better hotels in Coblenz than this
old-fashioned and rather slack place, though it has the redeeming
feature of very moderate charges. The Captain is in very ill humor; he
has quarreled with an employee at the garage and as nearly as I can
learn, tried to drive the car over him. I feared the outraged Teuton
might drop a wrench in our gear-box as a revenge for the rating the
Captain gave him--though, fortunately, we experience no such misfortune.
Coblenz has about fifty thousand people and while it is a very old
city--its name indicating Roman origin--it has little to detain the
tourist. An hour's drive about the place will suffice and we especially
remember the colossal bronze statue of Emperor William I., which stands
on the point of land where the two rivers join--a memorial which
Baedeker declares "one of the most impressive personal monuments in the
world." The equestrian figure is forty-six feet high and dominates the
landscape in all directions, being especially imposing when seen from
the river. Just opposite Coblenz is the fortress of Ehrenbreitstein,
about four hundred feet above the river. A finely engineered road leads
to the fort, where a large garrison of soldiers is stationed. Visitors
are admitted provided they can satisfy the officials that they are not
foreign military men who might spy out the defenses.
Our route as planned by the Royal Automobile Club was to take us from
Coblenz to Treves by way of the Moselle Valley, but our desire to see
the cathedral leads us to follow the Rhine road to Cologne. Mr. Maroney
of the Club afterwards told me that we made a mistake, since the scenery
and storied ruins of Moselle Valley are quite equal to the Rhine Gorge
itself. Cologne one can see any time, but the chance to follow the
Moselle by motor does not come every day. We are disappointed in the
trip to Cologne, since there is little of the picturesqueness and
romantic charm that delighted us on the previous day. The castle of
Drachenfels, on a mighty hill rising a thousand feet above the river, is
the most famous ruin, but we do not undertake the rather difficult
ascent. The far-reaching view from the summit was celebrated by Byron in
"Childe Harold."
Just opposite is the ruin of Rolandseck, with its pathetic legend of
unrequited love and constancy. This castle, tradition says, was built by
Roland, a crusader, who returned to find that his affianced bride had
given him up as dead and entered a convent. He thereupon built this
retreat whence he could look down upon the convent that imprisoned the
fair Hildegund. When after some years he heard of her death he never
spoke again, but pined away until death overtook him also a short time
afterwards.
Midway we pass through Bonn, the university town, a clean, modern city
of sixty thousand people. The university was founded a century ago and
has some three thousand students. Beethoven was born in Bonn in 1770, in
a house which now contains a museum relating to the great composer.
Our road keeps to the right of the river, which is swollen and dirty
yellow from recent rains. We pass many villages with miserable
streets--the road in no wise compares with the one we followed yesterday
through the Gorge. Altogether, the fifty miles between Coblenz and
Cologne has little to make the run worth while.
We find ourselves in the narrow, crooked streets of Cologne well before
noon and are stopped by--it seems to us--a very officious policeman who
tells us we may proceed if we will be careful. This seems ridiculous and
the Captain cites it as an example of the itching of every German
functionary to show his authority, but later we learn that motors are
not allowed on certain streets of Cologne between eleven and two
o'clock. Our friend the officer was really showing us a favor on account
of our ignorance in permitting us to proceed. We direct our course
towards the cathedral, which overshadows everything else in Cologne, and
the Savoy Hotel, just opposite, seems the logical place to stop. It
proves very satisfactory, though it ranks well down in Baedeker's list.
Cologne Cathedral is conceded to be the most magnificent church in the
world and a lengthy description would be little but useless repetition
of well-known data. We find, however, that to really appreciate the
vastness and grandeur of the great edifice one must ascend the towers
and view the various details at close range. It is not easy to climb
five hundred feet of winding stairs, especially if one is inclined to be
a little short-winded, but the effort will be rewarded by a better
conception of the building and a magnificent view covering a wide scope
of country. We are unfortunate today since a gray mist obscures much of
the city beneath us and quite shuts out the more distant landscape. The
great twin towers, which rise more than five hundred feet into the sky,
were completed only a few years ago. In the period between 1842 and 1880
about five million dollars was expended in carrying out the original
plans--almost precisely as they were drawn by the architects nearly
seven hundred years ago. The corner-stone was laid in 1248 and
construction was carried forward at intervals during the period of seven
centuries.
Inside, the cathedral is no less impressive than from the exterior. The
vaulting, which rises over two hundred feet from the floor, is carried
by fifty-six great pillars and the plan is such that one's vision may
cover almost the whole interior from a single viewpoint. It is lighted
by softly toned windows--mostly modern, though a few date from the
fourteenth and fifteenth centuries and, altogether, the effect is hardly
matched by any other church in Christendom.
We make no attempt to see the show-places of Cologne during our stay--it
would require a week to do this and we shall have to come again. An
afternoon about the city gives us some idea of its monuments and notable
buildings as well as glimpses of the narrow and often quaint streets of
the old town. The next day we are away for Treves and Luxemburg before
the "verboten" hour for motor cars.
If we missed much fine scenery in the Moselle Valley by coming to
Cologne, the loss is partly atoned for by the country we see to-day and
the unusually excellent roads. Our route as far as Treves runs a little
west of south and diverges some seventy-five miles from the Rhine. It is
through a high, rolling country, often somewhat sterile, but we have
many glorious views from the upland roads. There are long stretches of
hills interspersed with wooded valleys and fields bright with yellow
gorse or crimson poppies. There are many grain-fields, though not so
opulent-looking as those we saw in the Rhine Valley, and we pass through
tracts of fragrant pine forest, which often crowd up to the very
roadside. There are many long though usually easy climbs, and again we
may glide downward a mile or more with closed throttle and disengaged
gears. Much of the way the roadside is bordered with trees and the
landscapes remind us more of France than any we have so far seen in
Germany. We pass but two or three villages in the one hundred and ten
miles between Cologne and Treves; there are numerous isolated
farmhouses, rather cleaner and better than we have seen previously. We
stop at a country inn in the village of Prun for luncheon, which proves
excellent--a pleasant surprise, for the inn is anything but
prepossessing in appearance. The guests sit at one long table with the
host at the head and evidently the majority are people of the village.
Beer and wine are served free with the meal and some of the patrons
imbibe an astonishing quantity. This seems to be the universal custom in
the smaller inns; in the city hotels wine comes as an extra--no doubt
somewhat of a deterrent on its free use.
Treves--German Trier--is said to be the oldest town in Germany. The
records show that Christianity was introduced here as early as 314 and
the place was important in ecclesiastical circles throughout the middle
ages. We have a splendid view of the town from the hills as we approach;
it lies in the wide plain of the Moselle and its red sandstone walls and
numerous towers present a very striking appearance. The cathedral,
though not especially imposing, is one of the oldest of German
churches--portions of it dating from 528 and the basilica now used as a
Protestant church is a restored Roman structure dating from 306. But for
all its antiquity Treves seems a pleasant, up-to-date town with
well-paved streets--a point which never escapes the notice of the
motorist. The surrounding hills are covered with vineyards and the wine
trade forms one of the principal enterprises of the place.
A few miles from Treves we enter the Grand Duchy of Luxemburg, an
independent country, though part of the German Zollverein, which no
doubt makes our touring license and number-plates pass current here. It
is a tiny state of no more than a thousand square miles, though it has a
quarter million people. Luxemburg, where we decide to stop for the
night, is the capital. The Grand Hotel Brasseur looks good, though the
service proves rather slack and the "cuisine" anything but first-class.
Luxemburg is a delight--partly due to its peculiar and picturesque
situation, but still more to the quaint buildings and crooked, narrow
streets of the older parts and the shattered walls and watchtowers that
still encircle it. The more modern portion of the town--which has but
twenty thousand inhabitants--is perched on a rocky tableland, three
sides of which drop almost precipitously for about two hundred feet to
small rivers beneath. The hotels and principal business houses are on
the plateau, but the older parts of the town are wedged in the narrow
valleys. These are spanned by several high bridges, from one of which we
have a delightful viewpoint. It is twilight and the gray houses are
merging into the shadows, but the stern towers and broken walls on the
heights fling their rugged forms more clearly than ever against the wide
band of the sunset horizon. These are the remnants of the fortifications
which were condemned to destruction by the Treaty of London in 1876,
which guaranteed the neutrality of the Grand Duchy. Only the obsolete
portions of the defenses were permitted to stand and these add
wonderfully to the romantic beauty of the town. Indeed, the wide
panoramas of valley and mountain, of bare, beetling rock and trim park
and garden, groups of old trees, huge arched viaducts and the ancient
fortifications, form one of the most striking scenes we have witnessed
on the Continent. It evidently so impressed the poet Goethe, about one
hundred years ago, for a graphic description of Luxemburg may be found
in his writings. So charming is the scene that we linger until darkness
quite obliterates it and return to our inn feeling that Luxemburg has
more of real attractiveness than many of the tourist-thronged cities.
[Illustration: LUXEMBURG--GENERAL VIEW]
VI
THE CAPTAIN'S STORY
Friedrich Reinmuth had always been an unsettled and discontented youth;
if his days were sad he complained because they were so and if they were
prosperous he still found fault. It was not strange that, being of such
a nature, he should already have tried many vocations, although yet a
young man. At the time of my story he had become a soldier, and while he
often fretted and chafed under the rigor of military discipline, he did
not find it easy to shift from its shackles as had been his wont in
other occupations.
By chance he formed a friendship with an old and grizzled comrade, who,
although he had served almost two score years in the army, was still
hale and strong. The old man had been in the midst of numberless
desperate engagements but had always come out of the fray unscathed.
Queer stories were whispered about him among his soldier companions, but
only whispered, for it was believed, and with reason, that he would take
summary vengeance on anyone who crossed his path. He had murdered his
own brother in a fit of fury, and to him was also imputed the
assassination of the Baron of Reynold, who rebuked the fiery-tempered
man on some trifling point; but he had never been brought to justice for
any of his crimes. There was a vague rumor that Gottfried Winstedt had
sold himself to the devil in return for the power to resist all mortal
weapons and to escape all human justice--this it was that made him
invulnerable in battle and shielded him from the wrath of the law.
But Friedrich in his association with this man for the space of two
months had noted little extraordinary about him. He never guessed why
the veteran broke an habitual reserve to become his companion until one
night when they were conversing on the eve of battle. As they sat
moodily together by a waning camp-fire the older man, who had been even
more morose than usual during the day, broke the silence. In a
melancholy voice he said:
"I have somewhat to tell you now, for before the set of tomorrow's sun I
will be--God in Heaven, where will I be?--but let it pass; I dare not
think of it. My life has been one of unparalleled wickedness; I have
committed crimes the very recital of which would appall the most
hardened criminal in the Kingdom, but I would not recite them to you if
I could, for what would avail the monotonous story of vice and bloodshed
for which there is no repentance? You have heard the rumors that these
accursed fools have whispered of me--I will not say whether they be true
or no. But long foreseeing--yes, foreknowing my fate--I have sought for
someone in whom I might confide. I was drawn toward you--I hardly know
why--yet I dare not wholly trust in you. Upon one condition,
nevertheless, I will commit to you something of vast and curious
importance."
Friedrich in his amazement was silent and the veteran brought forth from
the folds of his faded cloak a small sandalwood box, which he held
toward the young man.
"I would have you swear," he said, "by all you hold sacred that you will
never open this casket except on one condition; it is that you should so
desire some earthly thing--wealth, fame, love--that you are willing to
barter your eternal welfare to secure it."
Something in the old man's manner as well as his words aroused in
Friedrich a feeling akin to fear. He took the required oath, mentally
resolving that he would throw the mysterious casket in the river on the
first opportunity.
"Now leave me instantly; I shall never see you again in this world and
even I am not so fiendish as to wish to see you in my next--but hark ye,
if you ever break the seal out of idle curiosity I will return from the
grave to avenge myself on you."
Startled by the old man's vehemence, Friedrich hastened to his quarters
and strove to sleep. But the strange event of the evening and thoughts
of the morrow's conflict, with its danger and perhaps death, drove
slumber from his eyes. He tossed about his barrack until the long roll
summoned his regiment to the field of battle. The fight raged fiercely
and long, and toward evening Friedrich fell, seriously wounded.
It was many weeks before he was able to be on his feet again and finding
himself totally unfitted by his wound for the profession of arms--and,
in fact, for any active occupation--he sadly returned to his native town
on the Rhine. Here it chanced there was an old portrait painter of some
little renown who took a liking to the unfortunate young soldier and
proposed that he study the art; and Friedrich applied himself with such
diligence in his new vocation that before long he far excelled his
master. Things went prosperously with him. His fame spread beyond the
borders of his native town and came to the ears of many of the noble
families of the vicinity. He had the good fortune to be patronized by
some of these and he transferred the beauty of many a haughty dame and
fair damsel to his canvas with unvarying success. Indeed, it is said
that more than one of his fair clients looked languishingly at the young
artist, whose skill and fame made much amends for humble birth.
But Friedrich boasted that he gazed upon the fairest of them unmoved.
Ambitious and free-hearted, he thought himself impervious to the wiles
of love--a frame of mind he declared indispensible to his art. His
success brought him gold as well as fame and but one achievement was
needed to complete his triumphs--the patronage of the Herwehes, the
noblest and wealthiest of all the great families within leagues of the
town. True, the baron and his son were away at present, engaged in the
war that still distracted the land, but the lady and her daughter were
at home in the magnificent castle which surmounted an eminence far above
the Rhine, in full view against the sky from the window of the artist's
studio. The fact that the Herwehes withheld their countenance from him
was a sore obstacle in the way of Friedrich's ambitions; their influence
extended to every class, and many lesser lights, professedly imitators
of the noble family, followed their example even in trivial matters.
Great was the young artist's satisfaction when one afternoon two ladies
descended from a coach (bearing the Herwehe coat-of-arms) which paused
in the street before his studio. Both were veiled, but Friedrich had no
doubt that his visitors were the baroness and her daughter, whose
patronage he so earnestly desired. When both were seated the elder
woman, throwing aside her veil, revealed a face that had lost little of
its youthful charm, and with a tone of haughty condescension said:
"I have seen some of your portraits, Master Reinmuth, and was pleased
with them. I wish you, regardless of time and cost, to paint my
daughter."
By this time Friedrich had to some extent overcome his trepidation and
with a profound courtesy replied,
"I shall be happy to serve you, My Lady, if you will be good enough to
indicate the time and place for the sittings."
"Elsa, dearest, what are your wishes?" asked the mother, and in a voice
whose tremulous sweetness thrilled the painter, the young woman replied:
"Let it be at the castle, my dear mother, tomorrow at this time. I would
rather not come to the studio, for I dread the ride over the rough
mountain road."
"I will be at your service, My Lady," answered Friedrich, and his
visitors departed without delay.
Friedrich marveled that his thoughts for the remainder of the day--and
much of the night--should revert to the demure little figure whose voice
had so moved him. Fame bespoke her the fairest of the fair, but it never
entered his imaginings that he, a humble portrait painter, could think
of the daughter of such an illustrious line but as one of a different
order of beings from himself. He had never thought seriously of love;
his mistress, he averred, had been fame. True, he had in idle moments
dreamed of a being that he might madly adore--and, alas for him, his
fancy had become embodied in human form. But why had this maiden so
affected him? She had not lifted her veil and had spoken but once, and
if her bearing were dignified and her form graceful, he had seen many
others no less charming in these respects nor thought of them a second
time. If he had analyzed his feelings he would probably have said that
the unusual impression was due to the recognition of his talent by the
Herwehes.
The appointed hour on the morrow found him following the footpath which
led to the castle gate--a much shorter though steeper way than the coach
road. Intent as he was on his mission, he could not but pause
occasionally to view the wonderful scene that spread out beneath him.
The cliff on which the many-towered old castle stood almost overhung the
blue waters of the Rhine, which here run between rocks of stupendous
height. A little farther down the valley, but in full view from his
splendid vantage-point, were vineyard-terraced hills interspersed with
wooded ravines and luxuriant meadows. The magic touch of early autumn
was over it all--a scene of enchanting beauty. On the opposite cliff was
an ancient ruin (now entirely vanished) and Friedrich recalled more than
one horrible tale about this abandoned place that had blanched his
youthful cheeks. At his feet lay the gray roofs and church spires of his
native town and perhaps a shadow of a thought of the renown he would one
day bring to it flitted through his mind--for on such an errand and such
a day what could limit his ambitious musings?
He soon found himself at the castle gate and was admitted by the keeper,
who knew of his coming. He was ushered into a magnificent apartment and
told to await the Lady Elsa's arrival--and the servant added that the
baroness was absent, having gone that morning to Coblenz to join her
husband.
Friedrich, in the few moments he waited, endeavored to compose himself,
though feelings of anxiety and curiosity strove with his efforts at
indifference; but when the oaken door swung softly open and his fair
client stood before him, he started as though he had seen an apparition.
Indeed, it flashed on him at once that all the perfection he had
imagined, all the beauty of which he had dreamed, stood before him in
the warm tints of life, though to his heated fancy she seemed more than
a being of flesh and blood. In truth, the kindly eyes, the expressive
and delicately moulded face, the flood of dark hair that fell over
shapely shoulders, the slender yet gracefully rounded form, and, more
than all, that certain nameless and indescribable something that makes a
woman beautiful--did not all these proclaim her almost more than mortal
to the over-wrought imagination of the young visionary?
"Are you ill?" were her first words when her quick eye caught the
ghastly pallor of the artist's face and the bewildered look that
possessed it.
At the sound of her voice he strove desperately to regain his composure.
"No, not ill," he said. "I still suffer from a wound I received in the
army and the climb up the mountainside somewhat overtaxed my strength."
"I am sorry," she replied. "Had I known, I would gladly have come to the
studio."
The look of sympathetic interest with which she accompanied her words
was a poor sedative to the already overmastering passions of the artist,
but by a supreme effort he recovered himself to say:
"No, no; it is better that I do not pass so much of my time there. I
have applied myself too closely of late. Are you ready, lady, for the
sitting?"
"Yes," said she. "I have been preparing for you. Follow me." She led the
way through several magnificent apartments to one even more splendid
than the rest. "In this room," she continued, "I would have the portrait
painted, and as a setting can you not paint a portion of the room
itself?"
Friedrich assented in an absent manner and taking up his palette was
about to give his fair subject directions to seat herself to the best
advantage when he saw she had already done so, with a pose and
expression that might have delighted even a dispassionate artist's
eye--if, indeed, any eye could gaze dispassionately on the Lady Elsa
Herwehe. She had arranged the drapery of her dull-red silken robe so as
to display to the best advantage--and yet not ostentatiously--the
outlines of her graceful figure, and her dark hair fell in a shadowy
mass over her shoulders. Her face bore a listless and far-away
expression--was it natural, or only assumed for artistic effect?
Friedrich knew not, but it made her seem superhuman. The artist took up
his brush but his brain reeled and his hand trembled.
"You are surely ill," exclaimed Lady Elsa and would have called a
servant, but a gesture from Friedrich detained her.
"No, lady, I am not ill"--and losing all control of himself he went
madly on--"but I cannot paint the features of an angel. O, Lady Elsa, if
it were the last words I should utter I must declare that I love you.
The moment I saw you a tenfold fury seized my soul. I never loved before
and I cannot stem the torrent now. O, lady, the difference between our
stations in life is wide--but, after all, it may soon be otherwise; I
have talent and the world will give me fame. This love in a day has
become my life and what is mere breath without life? If you scorn me my
life is gone"--
The Lady Elsa, who was at first overcome by astonishment, recovered
herself to interrupt him. "Peace, you foolish babbler," cried she. "You
came to paint my likeness, not to make love to me. If you cannot do your
task, cease your useless vaporings and depart. Think you the daughter of
an historic line that stretches back to Hengist could throw herself away
on a poor portrait painter, the son of an ignorant peasant? Take you to
your business or leave me."
To Friedrich every word was a dagger-thrust. He seemed about to reply
when--as awakening from a dreadful dream--he rushed from the apartment
and fled in wild haste down the stony path to the town. Locking himself
in his studio he threw himself on the couch in an ecstacy of despair and
passed the greater part of the night in sleepless agony. From sheer
exhaustion he fell into a troubled slumber towards morning--if such a
hideous semi-conscious state may be called slumber. In his dream he saw
a host of demons and in their midst a veiled figure at the sight of
which his heart leaped, for it seemed the Lady Elsa. She approached and
offered him her hand, veiled beneath the folds of her robe; when he had
clasped it he stood face to face, not with the lady of his love, but
with the sin-hardened and sardonic features of Gottfried Winstedt, the
old soldier-comrade whose dreadful fate he had forgotten! With a wild
start he awoke and his thoughts immediately flashed to the strange
casket the old man had given him. The words of that anomaly of a man
came to him with an awful significance: "When thou shalt so desire some
earthly thing that thou wouldst barter thine eternal welfare to secure
it, thou mayest open this casket."
Fearing that his curiosity might some time overcome him and dreading the
threat of old Gottfried, he had buried the casket in a lonely spot and
quite forgotten it. His dream recalled it to his memory at a time when
no price would be too great to pay for the love of Elsa Herwehe. He
sprang from his couch and hastened to the secluded corner of his
father's garden, where he had buried the mysterious casket in a wrapping
of coarse sack-cloth. Returning to his room and carefully barring the
doors he opened the box with little difficulty. It contained a roll of
manuscript and a single sheet of yellow parchment. Friedrich unrolled
this and a small scrap of paper fell at his feet. It bore these words in
faded red letters:
"Thou who art willing to bear the consequence, read; the incantation on
the parchment, if repeated in a solitary spot at midnight, will bring
the presence of the Prince of Evil, though thou canst not know the
meaning of the words. He will give thee thy desire at the price of thy
soul. But beware--thou hast yet the power to recede."
Friedrich read these words with a strange fascination, nor did the
solemn warning in the slightest degree alter his purpose to seek a
conference with the enemy. The parchment bore but a single verse in a
strange language, and the artist thrust it in his bosom with a feeling
of triumph. A glance at the manuscript showed it the story of Gottfried
Winstedt's life, which he contemptuously flung into the grate, saying:
"What care I for the doings of the brutal old fool? To-night I will seek
the old ruin across the Rhine which stands opposite the Herwehe
estate--my future estate, perchance; no one will interrupt my business
there!" And he laughed a mirthless laugh that startled even himself, for
a hoarse echo seemed to follow it; was it the Fiend or the ghost of
Gottfried Winstedt who mocked him?
Meanwhile, the Lady Elsa sat in her chamber overcome with surprise at
the actions of the artist; annoyed and angry, yet half pitying him, for
he was a gallant young fellow, sure to gain the world's applause--and
what woman ever found it in her heart to wholly condemn the man who
truly loves her? She ordered a servant to restore to Friedrich his
painting utensils which he had left in his precipitate flight, but the
man returned saying he could not gain admittance to the studio and had
left his charge at the door.
The following day--the same on which Friedrich had recovered the fatal
casket--the baroness returned from Coblenz, accompanied by her eldest
son. She inquired as to the progress of the portrait and Elsa in a half
careless, yet melancholy tone told her all and even expressed pity for
the poor artist. But the haughty noblewoman was highly incensed at the
presumption of the young painter and Heinrich, the son, who was present,
flew into an uncontrollable fury and swore by all he considered holy
that the knave's impudence should be punished. Snatching his sword he
left the castle in a great rage. Elsa called to him to desist, but her
words were unheeded. She then appealed to her mother: "Will you permit
the rash boy to leave in such a passion? You know his fiery temper and
he may do that which will cause him grave trouble."
"I will not hinder him," replied the baroness. "Let him chastise the
churl for his presumption; if we do not make an example of someone, the
village tanner will next seek your hand."
"And if he did, would I need hear his suit? Why give farther pain to the
poor artist, who is already in deepest distress?"
"I shall half believe you heard his suit with favor if you urge more in
his defense," said the mother petulantly, and Elsa, who knew her moods,
sighed and was silent.
Meanwhile the wrathful young nobleman pressed on towards the town. The
sun had already far declined and flung his low rays on the broad river
till it seemed a stream of molten gold. The red and yellow hues of early
autumn took on a brighter glow and the town, the distant vineyards and
the wooded vales lay in hazy quietude. But little of this beauty engaged
the mind of Heinrich Herwehe as he bounded down the mountain path. As he
brooded over the insult to his sister his anger, instead of cooling,
increased until the fury of his passion was beyond his control. In this
mood he came to the outskirts of the town where, to his intense
satisfaction, he saw the artist approaching. Friedrich was hastening
toward the river and would have taken no notice of the young baron, whom
he quite failed to recognize. But he was startled by a fierce oath from
Heinrich, who exclaimed:
"Ha, you paltry paint-dauber, draw and defend yourself or I will stab
you where you stand."
"Fool," replied the astonished artist, "who are you that thus accosts me
on the highroad?"
"That matters not; defend yourself or die." And with these words the
impetuous young nobleman rushed upon the object of his wrath. But
Friedrich was no insignificant antagonist; he had served in the army and
had acquired the tricks of sword-play, and for a contest that required a
cool indifference to life or death, his mood was far the better of the
two. Little caring what his fate might be and without further words he
coolly met the onslaught of his unknown enemy. Such was Heinrich's fury
that he quite disregarded caution in his desire to overcome an opponent
whom he despised. Such a contest could not be of long duration. In a
violent lunge which the artist avoided, the nobleman's foot slipped on
the sward and he was transfixed by his adversary's rapier. With scarce a
groan he expired and Friedrich, hardly looking at his prostrate foe,
exclaimed:
"You fool, you have brought your fate upon yourself!" and, as he
sheathed his sword, added, "Who you were and why you did so set upon me
I cannot conceive, but it matters not; I doubt not that the confessor to
whom I go will readily absolve me from this deed."
He pursued his lonely way to the river's edge, where he stepped into a
small boat and as he moved from the shore he muttered, "O, Elsa, Elsa,
he who would give an earthly life for love might be counted a madman;
what then of one who seeks to barter eternity for thee?" He soon reached
the opposite bank of the river and began the steep ascent to the ruined
castle. He beheld, in the gathering twilight, the same romantic scenes
that had so thrilled him but two days ago and could scarce believe
himself the same man. Darkness was rapidly gathering and by the time he
reached the ruin the last glow of sunset had faded from the sky. He
crossed the tottering bridge over the empty moat and entered the
desolate courtyard. Here, in the uncertain gloom of the lonely ruin, he
must wait the coming of midnight and wear away as best he could the
ghostly monotony of the passing hours. But his purpose was fixed; his
desperation had been only increased by the events of the day, and
seating himself on a fragment of the wall he determined to endure
whatever came. He heard the great cathedral bell of the distant town
toll hour after hour and when midnight drew near he unfalteringly
entered the vast deserted hall of state. Here he lighted his small lamp,
whose feeble beams struggled fitfully with the shadows of the huge
apartment. He drew forth the parchment--he had not mustered courage to
look at it since morning--and as the last stroke of the great bell died
in the gloom, he muttered the strange language of the incantation.
Suddenly there came a rushing sound as of a gust of wind, which
extinguished his lamp, and, forgetting that he must repeat the fatal
words, he let the parchment fall. The wind whiffed it he knew not
whither. No visible shape came before him, but in a moment he felt the
awful presence and a voice sepulchral and stony came out of the
darkness:
"Mortal, who art thou that dost thus summon me? What wilt thou?"
Sick with terror and yet determined even to death, Friedrich answered:
"And knowest thou not? Men speak thee omniscient. But I can tell thee of
my hopeless love--"
"Nay, I know all," continued the voice. "Relight thy lamp and I will
tell thee how thou mayst gain thy desire."
Trembling, Friedrich obeyed and looked wildly about, expecting the
visible form of the Fiend, but he saw nothing. Yet he felt the horrid
presence and knew that his awful visitant was near at hand.
From out of the darkness a heavy iron-clasped book fell at his feet and
the voice continued: "Open a vein and sign thy name in the book with
blood."
Friedrich with changeless determination obeyed and the book disappeared.
"Take this gold," said his dreadful monitor, and a heavy bag fell at the
artist's feet with a crash, "and I will give thee graces to win the fair
one's heart. Repeat the incantation that I may depart."
For the first time since it had disappeared Friedrich thought of the
fatal parchment and in an agony of horror remembered that it was gone.
He would have rushed from the castle but the power of the presence held
him immovable.
"Fiend," he shrieked, "where is the parchment? Thou knowest; tell me, in
God's name!"
"Fool, tenfold fool, dost thou call on my archenemy to adjure me? The
parchment is naught to me; it was thy business to guard it. I can wait
till day-break when I must depart, and with me thou must go."
"Fiend," he shrieked, "where is the parchment? I adjure thee"--but the
voice was silent and the mighty power still chained its victim to the
spot. It were useless to follow the blasphemous ravings of the
unfortunate youth, who cursed God and humankind as well as the enemy
until the first ray of the rising sun darted through the crumbling
arches, when the inexorable power smote him dead and doubtless carried
his spirit to the region of the damned.
Herwehe Castle--and, indeed, the whole town and countryside--was in a
wild uproar on the following morning. The young nobleman had been found
murdered, sword in hand, and all knew from the wailing mother the
mission on which he had set out the evening before. Friedrich was
missing and was instantly accused as the murderer. Companies of furious
retainers and villagers scoured the countryside until at last a party
searching the old ruin found the object of their wrath. He lay dead upon
the floor of the ancient hall of state with only an extinguished lamp
near him and, to their amazement, a bag of gold.
Various theories were advanced concerning him and his death. The
commonly accepted one was that he had stolen the gold and murdered the
young nobleman and, being struck with remorse, had ended his life with
some subtle poison. But none ever knew the real fate of the poor artist
save his old father, who guessed it from reading the manuscript of
Gottfried Winstedt, which he found unconsumed in the grate of his son's
studio.
VII
A FLIGHT THROUGH THE NORTH
Twenty miles from Luxemburg we come to the French border, where we must
pay another fee to the German official who occupies a little house by
the roadside and who takes over the number-plates which we received on
entering Germany. The French officer, a little farther on, questions us
perfunctorily as to whether we have anything dutiable; we have purchased
only a few souvenirs and trinkets in Germany and feel free to declare
that we have nothing. We suppose our troubles with the customs ended and
the Captain, who purchased several bottles of perfume in Cologne--the
French are strongly prejudiced against German perfumes--rests easier.
But in Longwy, a small town four or five miles from the border, another
official professing to represent the customs stops us and is much more
insistent than the former, though after opening a hand-bag or two and
prying about the car awhile, he reluctantly permits us to proceed. And
this is not all, for at the next town a blue-uniformed dignitary holds
us up and declares he must go through our baggage in search of
contraband articles. A lengthy war of words ensues between this new
interloper and the Captain, who finally turns to us and says:
"This fellow insists that if we do not give him a list of our purchases
in Germany and pay duty, our baggage will be examined in the next town
and if we are smuggling anything we'll have to go to jail."
This is cheerful news, but our temper is roused by this time and we
flatly refuse to give any information to our questioner or to permit him
to examine our baggage. He leaves us--with no very complimentary
remarks, the Captain says--and we make as quick a "get-away" as
possible. We keep a sharp look-out in the next two or three villages,
but are not again troubled by the minions of the law. We begin to
suspect that the officers were simply local policemen who were trying to
frighten us into paying a fee, and we are still of this opinion.
After crossing the border we follow a splendid road leading through a
rather uninteresting country and a succession of miserable villages, a
description of which would be no very pleasant reading. Suffice it to
say that their characteristics are the same as those of similar villages
we have already written about--if anything, they are dirtier and uglier.
They are all small and unimportant, Montmedy, the largest, having only
two thousand inhabitants and a considerable garrison. This section was
the scene of some of the great events of the war of 1870-71. About noon
we come to Sedan, which gave its name to the memorable battle if,
indeed, such a one-sided conflict can be called a battle. The Germans
simply corralled the French army here with about as much ease as if it
were a flock of sheep--but the Captain insists they would have no such
"walk-away" to-day. The ancient inn--bearing the pretentious name of
Hotel de la Croix d'Or--where we have lunch, endeavors to charge one
franc "exchange" on an English sovereign, thereby arousing the Captain's
ire, not so much on account of the extortion as for the presumption in
questioning an English gold-piece, which ought to pass current wherever
the sun shines. He indignantly seeks a bank and tells down French coin
to the landlord, along with his compliments delivered in no very
conciliatory tone. Sedan is an old and untidy town of about twenty
thousand people and aside from its connection with the famous battle has
little to interest the tourist.
Our route along the river Meuse between Sedan and Mezieres takes us over
much of the battlefield, but there is little to-day to remind one of the
struggle. Out of Sedan the road is better--a wide, straight, level
highway which enables us to make the longest day's run of our entire
tour. The country improves in appearance and becomes more like the
France of Orleans and Touraine. The day, which began dull and hazy, has
cleared away beautifully and the flood of June sunshine shows Summer
France at its best. From the upland roads there are far-reaching views,
through ranks of stately trees, of green landscapes, flaming here and
there with poppy-fields or glowing with patches of yellow gorse. The
country is trim and apparently well-tilled; the villages are better and
cleaner and the road a very dream for the motorist. At Guise there is a
ruined castle of vast extent, its ancient walls still encircling much of
the town. Guise was burned by the English under John of Hanehault in
1339, but the redoubtable John could not force the surrender of the
castle, which was defended by his own daughter, the wife of a French
nobleman then absent.
So swift is our progress over the fine straight road that we find
ourselves in the streets of St. Quentin while the sun is yet high, but a
glance at our odometer tells us we have gone far enough and we turn in
at the Hotel de France et d'Angleterre. It is evidently an old house and
every nook and corner is cumbered with tawdry bric-a-brac--china,
statuettes, candlesticks and a thousand and one articles of the sort.
Our apartments are spacious, with much antique furniture, and the
high-posted beds prove more comfortable than they look. Mirrors with
massive gilt frames stare at us from the walls and heavy chandeliers
hang from the ceilings. The price for all this magnificence is quite
low, for St. Quentin is in no sense a tourist town and hotel rates have
not yet been adjusted for the infrequent motorist. The hotel is
well-patronized, apparently by commercial men, who make it a rather
lively place. The meals are good and the servants prompt and
attentive--superior in this respect to many of the pretentious
tourist-thronged hotels.
There is nothing to keep us in St. Quentin; in the morning we start out
to drive about the town, but the narrow, crooked streets and miserable
cobble pavements soon change our determination and we inquire the route
to Amiens. It chances that the direct road, running straight as an arrow
between the towns, is undergoing repairs and we are advised to take
another route. I cannot now trace it on the map, but I am sure the
Captain for once became badly mixed and we have a good many miles of the
roughest going we found in Europe.
We strike a stretch of the cobblestone "pave" which is still encountered
in France and ten miles per hour is about the limit. These roads are
probably more than a hundred years old. They are practically abandoned
except by occasional peasants' carts and their roughness is simply
indescribable. As it chances, we have a dozen miles of this "pave"
before we reach the main road and we are too occupied with our troubles
to look at the country or note the name of the one wretched village we
pass.
Once in the broad main highway, however, we are delighted with the
beauty and color of the country. We pass through wide, unfenced fields
of grain, interspersed with the ever-present poppies and blue
cornflowers and from the hills we catch glimpses of the distant river.
Long before we come to Amiens--shall I say before we come in sight of
the city?--we descry the vast bulk of the cathedral rising from the
plain below. The surrounding city seems but a soft gray blur, but the
noble structure towers above and dominates everything else until we
quite forget that there is anything in Amiens but the cathedral. We soon
enter an ancient-looking city of some ninety thousand people and make
the mistake of choosing the Great Hotel d'la Univers, for, despite its
pretentious name, it is dingy and ill-arranged and the service is
decidedly slack.
Amiens Cathedral is one of the greatest churches of Europe, though the
low and inharmonious towers of the facade detract much from the dignity
of the exterior. Nor does the high and extremely slender central spire
accord well with the general style of the building. The body of the
cathedral, divested of spire and towers, would make a fit match for
Cologne, which it resembles in plan and dimensions, but it has a more
ancient appearance, having undergone little change in six centuries. The
delicate sculptures and carvings are stained and weather-worn, but they
present that delightful color toning that age alone can give. Inside, a
recent writer declares, it is "one vast blaze of light and color coming
not only from the clerestory but from the glazed triforium also, the
magnificent blue glass typifying the splendor of the heavens"--a
pleasing effect, on the whole, though the flood of softly toned light
brings out to disadvantage the gaudy ornaments and trinkets of the
private chapels so common in French cathedrals. Ruskin advises the
visitor, no matter how short his time may be, to devote it, not to the
contemplation of arches and piers and colored glass, but to the woodwork
of the chancel, which he considers the most beautiful carpenter work of
the so-called Flamboyant period. There is also a multitude of sculptured
images, some meritorious wall frescoes, and several stained-glass
windows dating from the thirteenth century. At the rear is a statue of
Peter the Hermit, for the monk who started the great crusading movement
of the middle ages was a native of Amiens.
All of these things we note in a cursory manner; we recognize that the
student might spend hours, if not days, in studying the details of such
a mighty structure. But such is not our mood; the truth is, we are a
little tired of cathedrals and are not sorry that Amiens is the last for
the present. What an array we have seen in our month's tour: Rouen,
Orleans, Tours, Dijon, Nevers, Ulm, Mayence, Cologne, Amiens--not to
mention a host of lesser lights. We have had a surfeit and we shall
doubtless be able to better appreciate what we have seen after a period
of reflection, which will also bring a better understanding to our aid
should we resume our pilgrimage to these ecclesiastical monuments.
There is little besides the cathedral to detain the tourist in Amiens,
unless, indeed, he should be fortunate enough to be able to go as
leisurely as he likes. Then he would see the Musee, which has a really
good collection of pictures and relics, or the library, which is one of
the best in French provincial towns. There are some quaint old houses
along the river and many odd corners to delight the artistic eye. John
Ruskin found enough to keep him in Amiens many days and to fill several
pages in his writings. But it would take more than all this to delay us
now when we are so near the English shores. If we leave Amiens early
enough we may catch the noon Channel boat--we ought to cover the ninety
miles to Boulogne in three or four hours. But we find the main road to
Abbeville closed and lose our way twice, which, with two deflated tires,
puts our plan out of question. Much of the road is distressingly rough
and there are many "canivaux" to slacken our speed. We soon decide to
take matters easily and cross the Channel on the late afternoon boat.
The picturesque old town of Abbeville was one of John Ruskin's favorite
sketching grounds. We pass the market-place, which is surrounded by
ancient houses with high-pitched gables colored in varied tints of gray,
dull-blue and pale-green. The church is cited by Ruskin as one of the
best examples of Flamboyant style in France, though the different parts
are rather inharmonious and of unequal merit. Abbeville was held by the
English for two hundred years and the last possession, except Calais, to
be surrendered to France. Here in 1514 Louis of Brittany married Mary
Tudor--the beautiful sister of Henry VIII.--only to leave her a widow a
few months later. She returned to England and afterwards became the wife
of the Duke of Suffolk.
It is market-day in Montreuil and the streets are crowded with country
people. We stop in the thronged market-place, where a lively scene is
being enacted. All kinds of garden produce and fruits are offered for
sale and we are importuned to purchase by the enterprising market-women.
We find the fruit excellent and inexpensive, and this, with a number of
other object lessons in the course of our travels, impressed us with the
advantages of the European market plan, which brings fresh produce
direct to the consumer at a moderate price.
We have most of the afternoon about Boulogne. In starting on our tour a
month before we hardly glanced at our landing port, so anxious were we
for the country roads; but as we drive about the city now, we are
delighted with its antiquity and quaintness. It is still enclosed by
walls--much restored, it is true, and so, perhaps, are the unique
gateways. The streets are mostly paved with cobbles, which make
unpleasant driving and after a short round we deliver the car at the
quay. At the Hotel Angleterre we order some strawberries as an "extra"
with our luncheon--these being just in season--and we are cheerfully
presented with a bill for six francs for a quantity that can be bought
in the market-place for ten cents--this in addition to an unusually high
charge for the meal. Evidently Boulogne Bonifaces are not in business
solely for their health. The town is a frequented summer resort, with a
good beach and numerous hotels and lodging-places. It is said to be the
most Anglicized town in France--almost everyone we meet seems familiar
with English. The Captain suggests that we may be interested in seeing
the Casino, one of the licensed gambling-houses allowed in a few French
towns. The government gets a good share of the profits, which are very
large. We do not care to try our luck on the big wheel, but the Captain
has no scruples--winning freely at first, but quitting the loser by a
goodly number of francs--a common experience, I suppose. The small boy
is not allowed to enter the gambling room, from which minors are rigidly
excluded.
We have a glorious evening for crossing to Folkestone--the dreaded
Channel is on its best behavior. A magnificent sunset gilds the vast
expanse of rippling water to the westward and flashes on the white chalk
cliffs of the English shore. As we come nearer and nearer we have an
increasing sense of getting back home--and England has for us an
attractiveness that we did not find in France and Germany.
And yet our impressions of these countries were, on the whole, very
favorable. France, so far as we saw it, was a beautiful, prosperous
country, though there was not for us the romance that so delighted us in
England. We missed the ivied ruins and graceful church-towers that lend
such a charm to the British landscapes. The highways generally were
magnificent, though already showing deterioration in many places. The
roads of France require dustless surfacing--oil or asphaltum, similar to
the methods extensively used in England. Since the time of our tour
steps have been taken in this direction and in time France will have by
far the best road-system in the world. Her highways are already broad
and perfectly engineered and need only surfacing. About Paris much of
the wretched old pave is still in existence, but this will surely be
replaced before long. The roads are remarkably direct, radiating from
the main towns like the spokes of a wheel, usually taking the shortest
cut between two important points.
The squalor and filth of the country villages in many sections is an
unpleasant revelation to the tourist who has seen only the cities, which
are clean and well-improved. But for all this thrift is evident
everywhere; nothing is allowed to go to waste; there are no ragged,
untilled corners in the fields. Every possible force is utilized.
Horses, dogs, oxen, cows, goats and donkeys are all harnessed to loads;
indeed, the Captain says there is a proverb in France to the effect that
"the pig is the only gentleman," for he alone does not work. The women
seem to have more than their share of heavy disagreeable tasks, and this
is no doubt another factor in French prosperity.
Despite the notion to the contrary, France is evidently a very religious
country--in her way. Crucifixes, crosses, shrines, etc. are common along
the country roadsides, and churches are the best and most important
buildings in the towns and cities. Priests are seen everywhere and
apparently have a strong hold on their parishioners. In view of such
strong entrenchment, it seems a wonder that the government was able to
completely disestablish the church and to require taxation of much of
its property.
The country policeman, so omnipresent in England, is rarely seen in
France, and police traps in rural districts are unknown. Even in towns
arrests are seldom made--the rule being to interfere only with motorists
who drive "to the danger of the public." One misses the handy fund of
information which an English policeman can so readily supply; the few
French officials we questioned were apparently neither so intelligent
nor accommodating.
We were astonished to see so few motor cars in France, and many which we
did see were those of touring foreigners. France, for all her lead in
the automobile industry, does not have many cars herself. She prefers to
sell them to the other fellow and keep the money. The number of cars in
France is below the average for each of the states of the Union, and the
majority are in Paris and vicinity. French cars almost dominate the
English market and many of the taxicabs in London are of French make. We
saw a large shipment of these on the wharves at Boulogne. If it were not
for our tariff, we may be sure that France would be a serious competitor
in the motor-car trade of the United States. There is absolutely no
prejudice against the motorist in France and foreigners are warmly
welcomed to spend their money. The Frenchman does not travel
much--France is good enough for him and he looks on the Americans and
Englishmen who throng his country as a financial asset and makes it as
easy for them to come as he possibly can. In fact, under present
conditions it is easier to tour from one European country to another
than it is among our own states--one can arrange with the Royal
Automobile Club for all customs formalities and nothing is required
except signing a few papers at each frontier.
In some respects we noted a strong similarity between France and
Germany. The cities of both countries are clean and up-to-date, with
museums, galleries, splendid churches and fine public buildings. In
both--so far as we saw--the small villages are primitive and filthy in
the extreme and in rural districts the heaviest burdens appear to fall
on the women. In both countries farming is thoroughly done and every
available bit of land is utilized. Each gives intelligent attention to
forestry--there are many forests now in their prime, young trees are
being grown, and the roadsides are planted with trees.
The roads of Germany are far behind those of France; nor does any great
interest seem to be taken in highway improvement. Of course the roads
are fairly well maintained, but there is apparently no effort to create
a system of boulevards such as France possesses. Germany has even fewer
motor cars than her neighbor, a much smaller number of automobile
tourists enter her borders, and there is more hostility towards them on
part of the country people. There are no speed traps, but one is liable
to be arrested for fast driving in many towns and cities.
The German business-man strikes one more favorably than the Frenchman;
he is sturdy, good-looking and alert, and even in a small establishment
shows the characteristics that are so rapidly pushing his country to the
front in a commercial way.
But the greatest difference in favor of Germany--at least so far as
outward appearance goes--is to be seen in her soldiery. Soldiers are
everywhere--always neat and clean, with faultless uniform and shining
accoutrements, marching with a firm, steady, irresistible swing. To the
casual observer it would seem that if an army of these soldiers should
enter France they could march directly on Paris without serious
resistance. But some authorities say that German militarism is a hollow
show and that there is more real manhood in the Frenchman. Let us hope
the question will not have to be settled again on the field of battle.
Perhaps these random impressions which I have been recording are
somewhat superficial, but I shall let them stand for what they are
worth. On our long summer jaunt through these two great countries we
have had many experiences--not all of them pleasant. But we have seen
many things and learned much that would have been quite inaccessible to
us in the old grooves of travel--thanks to our trusty companion of the
wind-shod wheels. And perhaps the best possible proof that we really
enjoyed our pilgrimage is a constantly increasing desire to repeat
it--with variations--should our circumstances again permit.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Odd Corners of Britain
------------------------------------------------------------------------
VIII
THE MOTHERLAND ONCE MORE
Back to England--back to England! Next to setting foot in the homeland
itself, nothing could have been more welcome to us after our month's
exile on the Continent. And I am not saying that we did not enjoy our
Continental rambles; that we did the pages of this book amply testify.
It seemed to us, however, that for motor touring, England surpasses any
other country in many respects. First of all, the roads average vastly
better--we remembered with surprise the stories we had heard of the
greatly superior roads of France--a delusion entertained by many
Englishmen, for that matter. We had also found by personal experience
that the better English inns outclass those on the Continent in service
and cleanliness and never attempt the overcharges and exactions not
uncommon in France and Germany. The second-rate French inn, we are
informed on good authority, is more tolerable than the second-rate inn
of England. An experienced English motorist told us that since expense
was a consideration to him, he generally spent his vacations in France.
He declared that there he could put up comfortably and cheaply at the
less pretentious inns while he would never think of stopping at English
hotels of the same class. I fancy, however, that if one follows
Baedeker--our usual guide in such matters--and selects number one among
the list, he will find every advantage with the English hotels.
And we are sure that the English landscapes are the most beautiful in
the world. Everywhere one sees trim, parklike neatness--vistas of
well-tilled fields interspersed with great country seats, storied ruins
and the ubiquitous church-tower so characteristic of Britain. It is a
distinctive church-tower, rising from green masses of foliage such as
one seldom sees elsewhere. And where else in a civilized country will
one find such trees--splendid, beautifully proportioned trees, standing
in solitary majesty in the fields, stretching in impressive ranks along
the roadside or clustering in towering groups about some country mansion
or village church?
And who could be impervious to the charm of the English village?
Cleanly, pleasantly situated and often embowered in flowers, it appeals
to the artistic sense and affords the sharpest possible contrast to the
filthy and malodorous little hamlets of France and Germany. The cities
and larger towns of these countries do not suffer any such disadvantage
in comparison with places of the same size in England--but we care less
for the cities, often avoiding them. In England, we found ourselves
among people speaking a common language and far more kindly and
considerate towards the stranger within their gates than is common on
the Continent. We can dispense with our courier, too, for though he was
an agreeable fellow, we enjoy it best alone. So, then, we are glad to be
back in Britain and are eager to explore her highways and byways once
more.
We plan a pilgrimage to John O'Groat's house and of course the Royal
Automobile Club is consulted.
"We have just worked out a new route to Edinburgh," said Mr. Maroney,
"which avoids the cities and a large proportion of police traps as well.
You leave the Great North Road at Doncaster and proceed northward by
Boroughbridge, Wilton-le-Wear, Corbridge, Jedburgh and Melrose. You will
also see some new country, as you are already familiar with the
York-Newcastle route."
And so we find ourselves at the Red Lion at Hatfield, about twenty miles
out of London on the beginning of our northern journey. It is a cleanly,
comfortable-looking old house, and though it is well after noon, an
excellent luncheon is promptly served--the roadside inns are adapting
themselves to the irregular hours of the motorist.
Hatfield House--the Salisbury estate--is near the inn, but though we
have passed it several times, we have never hit on one of the "open"
days, and besides, we have lost a good deal of our ambition for doing
palaces; half-forgotten and out-of-the-way places appeal more strongly
now. We are soon away on the splendid highway which glistens from a
heavy summer shower that fell while we were at luncheon. We proceed
soberly, for we have had repeated warnings of police traps along the
road. The country is glorious after the dashing rainfall; fields of
German clover are in bloom, dashes of dark red amidst the prevailing
green; long rows of sweet-scented carmine-flowered beans load the air
with a heavy perfume. A little later, when we pass out of the zone of
the shower we find hay-making in progress and everything is redolent of
the new-mown grasses. Every little while we pass a village and at
Stilton--I have written elsewhere of its famous old inn--a dirty urchin
runs alongside the car howling, "Police traps! Look out for police
traps!" until he receives a copper to reward his solicitude for our
welfare.
Toward evening we come in sight of Grantham's magnificent spire and we
have the pleasantest recollections of the Angel Inn, where we stopped
some years previously--we will close the day's journey here. One would
never get from the Angel's modest, ivy-clad front any idea of the
rambling structure behind it; indeed, I have often wondered how all the
labyrinth of floors, apartments and hallways could be crowded behind
such a modest facade as that of the Red Lion of Banbury, the Swan of
Mansfield or the Angel of Grantham, for example. Such inns are no doubt
a heritage of the days when it was necessary to utilize every available
inch of space within the city walls. In most cases they are conducted
with characteristic English thoroughness and are cleanly and restful,
despite their antiquity and the fact that they are closely hedged in by
other buildings. As a rule part or all of the old inner court which
formerly served as a stable-yard has been adapted as a motor garage.
The Angel is said to have been in existence as a hostelry as early as
1208, but the arched gateway opening on the street may be of still
earlier date, having probably formed a part of some monastic building.
Tradition connects Charles I. with the inn--an English inn of such
antiquity would be poor indeed without a legend of the Wanderer--but the
claims of the Angel to royal associations go back much farther, for King
John is declared to have held his court here in 1213. Richard III. is
also alleged to have stopped here and to have signed the death warrant
of the Duke of Buckingham at the time. There is record of princely
visitors of later dates and it is easy to see that the Angel has had
rare distinction--from the English point of view. We remember it,
however, not so much for its traditions as for the fact that we are
given a private sitting-room in connection with our bed-rooms with no
apparent increase in the bill. Our good luck in this particular may have
been due to the slack business at the time of our arrival and we could
hardly expect to have our accommodations duplicated should we visit the
Angel and Royal again.
Grantham is a town of nearly twenty thousand people, though it does not
so impress the stranger who rambles about its streets. Two or three
large factories are responsible for its size, but these have little
altered its old-time heart. The center of this is marked by St.
Wulfram's Church, one of the noblest parish churches in the Kingdom. Its
spire, a shapely Gothic needle of solid stone, rises nearly three
hundred feet into the heavens, springing from a massive square tower
perhaps half the total height. The building shows nearly all Gothic
styles, though the Decorated and Early English predominate. It dates
from the thirteenth ce
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