From a Terrace in Prague

Not a single apprentice was to be found in Prague: needless to say, they had the enthusiastic support and inspiring company of all the cobblers' errand-boys.

The apprentices kept up the feast for several days until their funds were exhausted; they then stripped the imperial tree of its ornaments and sold them. When they had arrived at the stage known as au sec they passed the time in fighting. Eventually a deputation of masters came out, a conference was held, the "Blue Monday" feast was reinstituted, and the apprentices returned to Prague, carrying, in place of the imperial tree, a maypole—premature, no doubt, but it probably best expressed their feelings.

The very learned will tell us that the maypole custom of the Prague cobblers dates back to much remoter times than those of Emperor Joseph, and may draw attention to the habit prevalent in Saxony and other neighbouring countries with an originally strongly Slav population of displaying a birch-tree at the beginning of May. The learned will then dive down into Slavonic mythology, which process to the dilettante in such matters, is like "going in off the deep end"—you never know when or where you may come up again.

At any rate, it appears that the cobblers' apprentices chose to call their maypole "Fidlovatchka," and that they carried it about on their feast-day, the Wednesday after Easter. Tradition has it that they all smoked in turn, from a giant pipe capable of holding two pounds of tobacco. Here a fastidious chronicler draws the curtain.

The habit of the Prague apprentices in the matter of keeping the feast remains much the same to-day; moreover, it is not their exclusive right or privilege. I know few other places in the world where people are more ready to make merry on the least provocation. I do not know why this is, nor have I analysed the Czech disposition towards festivities; I do know that it is contagious. Perhaps it is due to the fact that the Church of Rome encouraged the converted Hussites to keep things merry and bright on every available saint's day so as to deaden all recollection of Hus's martyrdom, but this is a deeper matter which we will discuss later. The fact is that the Czech is by nature gay and cheerful and an expert merrymaker, as who would not be in a country like Bohemia, with its grand natural beauties, its wealth of music and poetry—and its beer?

The Government has recently abolished all holidays but a few of the very obvious ones, such as New Year's Day, Good Friday, and May Day. I do not think that this paternal decree will make the least difference to the cheery Czech; in fact, only a day or so after the decree was passed into law the event was celebrated by a very hearty tribute, lasting two days, to a national saint, followed by a day's strike organized by those who protest against all such obsolete notions as saints' days. Everyone was satisfied; everyone's opinion had been freely expressed, and everyone had enjoyed three holidays in one week, thus, by the way, exceeding the allowance for the whole year. Oh yes! the Czechs know what they are about when it comes to merrymaking.

Such a day of merriment is March 7th, very much of a feast-day indeed—the birthday of President Masaryk. Were I a Czech or Slovak, I should celebrate right heartily at least once a week the birthday of the present President, for he is one of the few great men among the swarm that arrived at the top as a result of the World War.

CHAPTER III

ET us lift up our eyes unto the hills, the hills on which stands Prague, and if help do not come at once we may at least hope for inspiration; the beauty of the scene alone assures us. Look out from your terrace of a morning, a cloudless morning of early summer, and gainsay it if you can. The town is extending considerably, growing up the distant slopes on the far side of the river and trickling down into the little valleys, but the general outline of Prague is much the same as it has been for centuries; the eternal hills may be scarred and patched by us who have here no "abiding city," but they remain.

I have already mentioned the hills on which Prague was built, and had decided that they are five in number, not seven as is popularly alleged. I have counted those hills several times over, and make their number five, and quite sufficient too; another two hills would mar the composition. At the risk of repeating myself, I maintain that Prague can well afford to be original and forgo any imitation of other cities by insisting on standing on seven hills; a truly great city should not descend to servile flattery. Paris, for example, undoubtedly a great city, is quite content to stand on two hills, Montmartre and Montparnasse, the latter quite worn flat by the levelling tendencies of modern times.

It is now time that we delved down into the history of Bohemia, and in this we gain inspiration from the hills of Prague, the works of man that crown them and the traditions, legends, shreds of history that cling to them. Of these hills that of Vyšehrad is entitled to hold seniority in the history of Prague. It takes a place somewhat akin to that held by the Capitoline Hill of Rome. It was from here that the city started, though this hill has little left of former grandeur and shows nothing to compare with Rome's monuments to a glorious past. A crumbling block of masonry, the story of which is quite unknown, a round chapel dating from the days when Christianity was young among the Slavs and still found ready martyrs in its cause even among princes, and an enceinte of brick fortifications, stone-faced and in Vauban's best style, battered by Frederick the Great's guns, are all that Vyšehrad has to show by way of relics of a stormy past.

Vyšehrad is about the first striking view you obtain of Prague as the train de luxe brings you round a bend before crossing the railway bridge over the Vltava. Travellers seeing Prague for the first time are apt to mistake this hill of Vyšehrad for the castle. I did so myself; my delight, therefore, at the first sight of Prague's crowning glory, the Hradšany, was all the greater.

Seen against the evening sky, Vyšehrad looks very imposing; it is at its best by winter twilight, when the heavy mass is dully reflected on the surface of the frozen river. Then you may gain some idea of what this rugged promontory stands for in the life-history of a race that has passed through great tribulation. Two Gothic spires point to the skies, rising from a church which, despite its newness, seems more in accord with the spirit of Prague than do the copper domes of Jesuit structures; but then this church is built on foundations so ancient as to defy investigation by the most assiduous chroniclers. No doubt those spires are right enough in their way, but they are almost painfully modern and unromantic compared to a square bit of crumbling masonry that clings limpet-like to the crags of Vyšehrad overhanging the river at the feet of the twin church towers. For here, according to legend, is the cradle of the city of Prague. In popular parlance this bit of masonry is called Libuša's bath, and hereby hangs a tale to introduce which we must hark back some fourteen centuries.

Some time in the sixth century—nobody seems to know exactly or to care much when it was—one Czech or Czechus was wandering about this land of Bohemia with a party of friends and relatives, probably a whole tribe of them. Czech seems to have had the country to himself; if he had met any strangers there would have been a fight, and we should have heard about it. It may therefore be assumed that the former occupants, probably lodgers only, had moved on. There was much movement going on in those early centuries of the Christian era, the main tendency being from north-east to south-west, from cold, damp and short-commons to warmth and plenty. Now we have sufficient reason to believe that Thuringians and Rugians abode for a while in Bohemia and parts of Bavaria, and Lombards in Moravia, and that these gentry, hearing of loot to be had in plenty farther south, left their temporary homes, crossed the Danube and made themselves unpopular elsewhere, leaving the lands of Bohemia and Moravia to anyone who cared to take them. This happened some time about the middle of the sixth century, which gives us something more definite to go upon as to Czech's place in time. Anyway, there were Czech, his friends and relations wandering at their own sweet pleasure over the rolling wood-clad landscape of Bohemia. On this excursion Czech espied from afar a peculiar shaped hill (not one of the hills of Prague) to which he promptly gave the appropriate name of Řip. Now this innocent-looking word is, by virtue of the sign placed over the R, pronounced in a peculiar manner; between the initial consonant and the "i" you should insert a sound somewhat like that of the French "j" as in "jamais," for instance. Heaven and the Czechs only know what meaning you would convey did you neglect this euphonious concatenation of consonants and simply say "rip"—probably something to cover the young person with confusion; but rightly pronounced, and with due regard to the soft but insistent sibilant, this mixture of sounds means—toadstool. It is all so simple when once you know: Řip = toadstool,—and there you are. The description tallies too: the hill of Řip does look like a toadstool; I have seen it myself, and am prepared to support Czech's statement on oath. Anyway, Řip stands there still, much the same as when Czech discovered it, but for a chapel dedicated to St. George on its summit, the result of some one else's piety.

You can see Řip for miles round, as it has chosen a fairly level plain out of which to arise much like a mushroom on the lawn after a rainy night. No wonder, then, that Czech made straight for Řip, climbed to the top, looked around him, approved of what he saw, and decided to stay. He did, so did his friends and relatives and those that came after them, and no power on earth was able to shift them. The descendants of Czech are there still. One of these told me that the best and sturdiest type of Czech is bred round about Řip; he was born thereabouts himself, and should know. I am prepared to believe it anyway, as my friend is certainly of the best and sturdiest type of Czech.

That much for Czech and his descendants; we must now skip a century or two which even Cosmas of Prague was unable to fill out with legend, and return to the lady whose bath I have already referred to. Not that I believe the ruined bits of wall to have contained a lady's bathroom; I have tried to imagine Libuša using the place for the morning tub, and have failed to conjure up any picture that would carry conviction. However, I do not wish to prejudice the case; come out to Prague and judge for yourself.

Libuša was one of three sisters, daughters of Krok, Prince of Bohemia, or at least some part of it, for frontiers in those very early days were even more elastic than those drawn by International Commissions. Anyway, there was Krok lording it over as much of Bohemia as he could control, from his fastness of Vyšehrad. Of Libuša's sisters, Kazi and Teta, nothing but their names is known even in legend; they passed into oblivion on Krok's demise, for he ordained that Libuša, his youngest daughter, should succeed him. Libuša, according to legend, was a model of all the virtues, and as in those days there was no ever-ready Press lurking to pounce on historical inaccuracies, we may accept the statement of kindly Saga.

Libuša had a rare gift, one which proved uncomfortable to other ladies of legend similarly endowed, uncomfortable both to themselves and their belongings, the gift of prophecy. She foretold the future greatness of Prague, and undoubtedly spotted a winner. This was not the only occasion either, for she did herself a good turn too by means of her supernatural power. As it happened, despite her possession of all the virtues, she had trouble with her subjects, who declared themselves weary of petticoat government and urged her to look round for a husband. She did, calling to aid her uncanny gift. The discussion with her subjects probably took place in the open, high up on Vyšehrad. Libuša, with that far-away gaze proper to all soothsaying, pointed out over the distant hills, saying, "Behind those hills is a small river called Belna, and on its bank a farm named Stadic. Near that farm is a field, and in that field your future ruler is ploughing with two spotted oxen. His name is Přemysl, and his descendants will rule over you for ever. Take my horse and follow it; you will be led to the place."

The lady was not quite correct about Přemysl and his descendants—they have ceased to rule over the Czechs, and are now replaced by a sovereign people; but she certainly was right in her description of her future husband and his surroundings. The search party, following Libuša's horse, found Přemysl busy at his plough, roped him in and brought him to their Princess. Legend again asserts that Přemysl made a first-class husband and ruler (he probably did exactly as his wife told him) and his descendants reigned with varying fortunes, until the first years of the fourteenth century—a very good innings for the lineage of Přemysl, the sturdy farmer, and that far-seeing lady Libuša, his wife. During those centuries the Czechs had consolidated into an important kingdom; from a misty chaos of heathen Slavonic tribes had grown a people brave and generous, with a culture all its own, and above all with a surpassing gift of expressing itself in music.

It must not be supposed that Libuša rested content with being wife to Přemysl, just keeping house, mending clothes and minding the babies. She continued her activities as directress of her people's fortunes, and is made responsible, among other matters, for choosing the site of the Hradšany, the Castle of Prague, and this is what the chronicler has to say about it.

One day as Libuša looked out from her fastness over the river towards the wooded heights to northward, she was moved by the gift of prophecy to which she was addicted when deeply stirred.

Her own abode, built by her father, hung upon that rocky crag called Vyšehrad, and was probably by no means roomy; Krok, her father, had no doubt found it a convenient spot, being somewhat difficult of access in those days to armed visitors, who were likely to prove a disturbing element. The ancient Slav preferred to build in secluded spots, on heights amid forests for choice, there was so much to guard against in those dark ages, so the wooded heights that Libuša looked out upon must have appealed to her strongly. Anyway, she decided to act, prefacing action by some quite useful sooth-saying. According to the chronicler Cosmas of Prague, who lived three or four centuries after Libuša had passed away, the following impressive scene was enacted: Libuša, standing on a high rock on the Vyšehrad in presence of her husband Přemysl and the elders of the people, incited by the spirit of prophecy, uttered this prediction: "I see a town, the glory of which will reach the stars. There is a spot in the forest, thirty stades from this village which the River Vltava encircles, and which to the north the stream Brusnice secures by its deep valley; and to the south a hill, which from its rocks takes the name Petřin, towers above it. When you have reached this spot you will find a man in the midst of the forest, who is working at a door-sill for a house; even mighty lords bend before a low door. From this you shall call the town which you will build there 'Praha.'" The elders did as they were bid, and so Prague arose. The Czech name is Praha, the derivation possibly from prah= door.

The Hradšany Hill was thus by Princess Libuša indicated as the pinnacle on which should rest for ever the glory of Prague and of Bohemia. Glory is a doubtful gift and costly, and the history of Prague shows clearly that this is true. No doubt work was started at once on a castle to crown the hill. Libuša probably saw to it that there was no time wasted. This would be some time about the middle of the eighth century, but history, as handed down from those days, is wrapped about with mystery and legend from the obscurity of which events gradually detached themselves. It was not till Christianity had got a firm hold of the Czech people that any half-way reliable records were kept.

We will take it for granted that it was Libuša who, with the seer's eye penetrating the future, laid the foundations of that right royal pile, Prague's crown of glory, the Hradšany. We have the authority of Cosmas for this; also Smetana composed an opera all about Libuša, so all our doubts are dispelled. We have noticed the site, and that it is admirably adapted to defence, a rocky eminence rising like a promontory above the broad Vltava, its steep sides falling down to the river on the eastern side, and to deep-cut valleys to north and south. The position offers a wide view over the rolling plains to westward. It was from this side chiefly that the attackers came—Germans in the cause of the Holy Roman Empire, mercenaries of many nations that swelled the imperial hosts arrayed against Protestant Bohemia, marauding armies of Swedes, all these surged up against the walls and towers of Prague's Royal Castle. They broke and passed away like the fleeting cloud shadows you may watch floating across the fields and wooded slopes of Jilové, Černy Kostelec and Zbraslav to the blue hills of Hradešin beyond. But the castle still stands a sentinel over ancient Prague.

It must have been a pleasant post, that of sentry upon a look-out tower of the Castle of Prague. What with the ever-changing beauty of the landscape and the chance of noticing a hostile force approaching with colours flying and spear-heads a-glitter in the sun, with, moreover, a prospect of a fight, a sentry's life should have been a happy one. It would be expected of the sentry that he should not be so held by the fascination of the scene as to omit to report any unusual occurrence. I have known such a thing happen even to an otherwise well-regulated sentry. It was in Mandalay where from a wooden tower in the middle of Fort Dufferin a sentry held watch and ward over the town. One bright afternoon the town caught fire. The sentry was so much impressed by the grandeur of the scene that he quite forgot to report the matter, and a large part of the town was utterly destroyed. That man might have been qualified as an artist, an author or a poet; as a sentry he was disappointing.

There are no records of sentry yarns dating back to the really exciting times in the history of the Hradšany; I have discovered only one, and that of a comparatively recent date. The event narrated happened in the autumn of 1753 at 11 p.m. The sentry was a grenadier; please note the accuracy of detail which should dispel any doubt as to the truth of the story—the grenadier touch is especially convincing. This grenadier, it would seem, was posted in the inner court of the castle, probably at the entrance to what is now the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and Propaganda (places of that kind want a deal of watching). The grenadier was probably as bored as any sentry can be up till midnight sharp, when things began to happen. First of all, the dark mass of the cathedral was suddenly brilliantly illuminated from within. Then from that little side entrance to the cathedral emerged a tall figure all in white. The sentry challenged, as a sentry should. No use. The tall figure strode up to the sentry, halted before him, cast a handful of corn at his feet and stalked back the way it came. Lights out!... The next night at the same hour the programme was repeated before a new sentry, also a grenadier: the former one had probably reported himself sick. On the second night the apparition cast down a handful of silver coin. The grenadier left them all lying on the ground—this is the only part of the story that strikes me as weak. On the third night, the military being represented as before, the tall figure reappeared with commendable punctuality. On this occasion the management had arranged a display of moonlight in order to show up the pallid features, blood-stained clouts and other accessories suitable to a first-class apparition. Moreover, this being positively its last appearance in public, the tall figure spake: "1754 rich harvest, 1755 gold in plenty, 1756 blood in streams." And so it happened. In the year 1754 there was a record harvest in Bohemia, the year 1755 brought considerable wealth into the country (the handful of silver was probably something on account), and in 1756 the Seven Years' War broke out. So the story must be true, all except that little bit about the grenadier leaving all the silver lying on the ground.

We were really still watching the Hradšany grow out of Libuša's prophecy. The chronicler left it to others to find out where the building stood for which the man in the forest was carpentering the door-sill as described by Libuša. That great lady simply said that the work was going on in the forest which surely extended down to the river-bank in those days. This may have encouraged the belief that the first house, built by Libuša herself, of course, stood somewhere below the Castle Hill—it is said on the site of the old posting house, but some one obliterated all trace of it by erecting a church, dedicated to St. Procopius, above it, no doubt as part of the business of stamping out paganism. The Church of St. Procopius is no longer in evidence, and as there have been further additions and improvements to the quarter of Prague in question since the eighth century, it is now quite impossible, even to the liveliest imagination, to fix upon the spot where stood that first house. It does not matter very much either. The Hradšany itself is easily the most imposing and interesting sight which Prague has to offer.

The massive strength of the castle, the Hradšany, holds your gaze from whatever quarter of Prague you may happen to look out. The castle, as we know, has a hill to itself, up the sides of which rise clustering palaces, churches, convents and monasteries, buildings of grey stone and red-tiled roofs, standing amidst terraced gardens. In spring this ancient quarter decks itself with glorious apparel of white of cherry, pear and plum, with here and there the delicate pink of almond blossom; in winter, when the snow lies "smooth and crisp and even," the scene is changed into a fairy network as of delicate lace on a foundation of grey and purple; in all seasons it is beautiful.

The first sight of the Hradšany conveys an impression of sheer strength, much as does Gibraltar; it also suggests a lion couchant but watchful and strong to protect the city at its feet; this effect is particularly noticeable from the Fürstenberg garden. The beauty of this massive pile grows upon you gradually as you see it under the ever-varying atmospheric conditions of Prague. By all the canons of art the long straight lines of the Hradšany should be unlovely. The towers which broke those lines no longer stand out boldly as shown in old prints and engravings, at least on the townward side of the castle. They have been gradually merged into the general mass of the building as time and progress brought greater demands for living room and lessened the need of defensive measures. The straight outlines are still broken here and there by some trace of the ancient building showing through, a mullioned window, an old stack of chimneys, but on the whole, the mass by itself is heavy and uniform. Nevertheless, the general effect is splendid, whether you see this stately pile standing out strong and massive above the mist from the river or rising in tiers out of dimmed silvery greys against an evening sky all gold and emerald, or flushed with sunset scarlet. The crown of all this terraced glory is the great cathedral. A square massive tower stands up out of the body of the church. A purist may find fault with the mixture of styles this tower incorporates. The bulk of its structure is Gothic; at the base of the superstructure appears a nondescript medley of styles (nondescript at least in the eyes of a dilettante) out of which arises a concern of domes and cupolas one above the other, supported at each corner by little pinnacles crowned with onion-shaped tops. The copper coating of these domes and cupolas gives a distinctive touch of colour to the whole edifice of warm grey stone; this note of green you will find repeated elsewhere on the churches and other buildings of Prague, a piquant note but alien to the spirit of Prague both ancient and modern. There has been talk of removing the superstructure from the main tower of the cathedral and replacing it by a Gothic spire such as adorn the towers that flank the west front of the building, spires that gleam like lacework when standing out sunlit against dark banks of cloud. It were best to leave the superstructure of the main tower as it is; it marks an epoch and serves as reminder of a tyranny now overpast. The highest point of the main tower is not adorned with a usual emblem of our faith, a cross or a cock, but flaunts instead the "Lion of Bohemia" in all his rampant pride of a double tail. I shall have more to say about this wonderful heraldic animal on some future occasion; it is significant that this crest swings over the sacred fane where rest the remains of St. Wenceslaus, over the cradle of Bohemia's religious life.

You will remember Libuša's vision of an endless succession of little Přemysls. She overrated Přemysl a bit as a good wife should, for the Přemysl dynasty ended abruptly with the murder of Wenceslaus III in 1306 at the hand of some unknown assassins at Olomouc, by the Germans called Olmütz. Nevertheless, the family had had a good long spell of life and plenty to keep them busy during those six or seven centuries; it produced some very fine rulers; all honour to old farmer Přemysl. The first eleven scions of that line are very faint figures; they are not even dated; only a few of them show more than a shadowy outline in the mist of legend and dawning history. Of these early rulers there is echo of one Mnata, who is said to have built the first stone house on the Hradšany for his wife Strzezislava. I wonder what he called her for short? Strz sounds a bit abrupt, Slava is too general among Slavonic people: perhaps he called her Cissie. Strzezislava is certainly too rich for ordinary household use. Cosmas passes by this point in silence, which is a pity; it is just those intimate little touches that foster pleasant social relations and justify the chronicler's attitude of omniscience; our illustrated Press has reached perfection in that line. Mnata and Strzezislava flit across the stage and pass into oblivion without the benefit of gramophone and cinema. Then emerges one Bořivoj, first of that name, who stands out more distinctly against the background of misty legend, probably by reason of his having embraced Christianity; he also embraced a lady, Ludmilla, who became his wife and one of Bohemia's moat popular saints and patrons. It happened that Bořivoj had occasion to ask his neighbour Svatopluk, Prince of Moravia, for protection, and then he became acquainted with that energetic missionary, St. Methodius. Unhappily we have no precise information concerning date and place of this picturesque event. The chronicler has done his best by giving the following story to fill up the blank. He narrates that Bořivoj was not allowed to sit at table with Svatopluk, but was given a low stool apart, as being unfit to associate with Christian company. This is what the Christian chronicler says, and he made it his business to bear testimony on all occasions. It is, however, quite conceivable that Bořivoj's manners were not up to refined Moravian form. Anyway, Bořivoj allowed himself to be converted, and as there is no mention of his table manners we may assume that he reached the required standard.

After all, manners are a matter of relativity, and not so long ago, somewhere about 1700, the Austrian Court found it necessary to issue a handbook thereon, in which guests bidden to the imperial banquets were requested not to throw their chicken bones under the table, it made so much extra work for the servants. There is quite a modern touch about this.

With all the fervour of a convert, Bořivoj set about the salvation of his people from heathen darkness. I have sought diligently for some records of the beliefs held by this branch of the Slavonic race. There is no evidence of any deities of strong if unpleasant personality, such as that obstinate, one-eyed Wotan, or that destructive bully Thor, whose brutality coloured German mentality down to most recent days, and seems to do so still. Neither seem those Slavs to have been subject to visitations in their homes by such doubtful characters as Hermes, nor was their sense of propriety outraged by the "carryings on" of Zeus. No doubt they had some benign deity, and also a malignant, jealous one, no western creed is complete without the latter at least, if only for the benefit of the priests, but they have left no trace on a people that has suffered so much from the wickedness and stupidity of their human oppressors. The western Slavs in general and the sons of Czech in particular, had their flights of fairies, sprites, pixies and other lovable immortals. They are here still; even I, a stranger, claim to have heard them in "den heiteren Regionen, wo die reinen Formen wohnen," on the sun-kissed snow of the mountains, in the whispering voices of the forest and the song of the burn in the glen. A sight of these benign beings has been denied me—for this I make the heavy cuisine of Bohemia responsible; but their spirit lives on and informs the sons of Czech in the realm of the spirit, in art and poetry, above all in music.

Bořivoj plunged into Christianity with enthusiasm; he is known to have built a church at Levy Hradec, and is said to have laid the foundations of another on the Castle Hill. It appears, however, that the pace he set was rather too hot for his people; they raised a deal of trouble, and Bořivoj had to call in the German King Arnulf to help in restoring order. This step did not bring unmixed blessings; it gave the Germans an excuse for interfering in Bohemian affairs. Now Arnulf was a Carolingian, of bastard blood indeed, but nevertheless under the "Holy Roman Empire" obsession, and therefore convinced of the German right to round up all Christian countries into that Empire. In this action of Bořivoj we see the first instalment of the endless trouble caused by the obsession which originated with Charlemagne as mentioned in the first chapter. Moreover, this German intervention gave to the inhabitants of Bohemia their first experience of religious dissension. Their first contact with Christianity brought them the choice of rival liturgies, the Latin as favoured by the Germans with their "Holy Roman" idea, and the Slavonic which St. Methodius had introduced. So Christianity in Bohemia began with an exhibition of divergent religious views, which may account for a good deal of the suffering brought upon this country for its own salvation and its neighbours' benefit.

Bořivoj's successors, Spytihnev I and Vratislav I, were kept so busy guarding their country against Magyar inroads that it seems they had no time to worry about religious differences. Neighbour Svatopluk's extensive empire had fallen to pieces owing to the quarrels of his sons and under Magyar aggression; this gave Spytihnev the opportunity of freeing himself from the supremacy of Moravia which Bořivoj had accepted in return for assistance rendered him by Svatopluk and the Slavonic liturgy thrown into the bargain. This, again, brought the Germans nearer to Bohemia, as neither Spytihnev nor Vratislav were strong enough to stand alone. As politics and Church worked hand in hand in those days, the Germans imposed the Bishop of Ratisbon, and with him the Latin liturgy, on Bohemia, whereas such Slavs as had taken to Christianity at all were rather inclined to the other version. This must have caused a good deal of trouble, so it is not to be wondered at if the rulers of Bohemia recalled happier, simpler days. There came a certain reaction in the affairs of the Přemysl family. We have noted the saintly lady Ludmilla, wife of Bořivoj, the first Christian Prince of Bohemia. Ludmilla was very pious indeed; you will find frescoes illustrating her good deeds, adorning the walls of Karlov Tyn (Karlstein), a fine old castle of which I will tell you more by and by. It is quite impossible to be so picturesquely good and pious as was Ludmilla, in these days of mail-orders, wholesale departments, banking accounts and cheque-books. There was another lady of the Přemysl family, and she, according to all accounts, was neither good nor pious. She was a reactionary, a thorough-paced pagan, and it was this lady who caused trouble in the household. The lady's name was Dragomira; she had married Bořivoj's second son, and had been left a widow with three sons. This did not have the usual soothing effect upon the lady. Dragomira, as regent during the minority of her sons, had revived paganism, and this brought her into conflict with the German King, Henry the Fowler. Pious Ludmilla, Dragomira's mother-in-law, was much upset about this conflict, for with all her good works she found time to take an active interest in foreign politics. Here were all the elements of a hearty family row; in addition, Dragomira's sons took different sides: Wenceslaus with his grandmother Ludmilla, Boleslav the younger with his pagan mother. The chronicler sides entirely with Ludmilla and Wenceslaus in his narrative of the domestic dissensions of the Přemysl family. He shows no sympathy for the other side, does not realize that Dragomira must have got very weary of her mother-in-law's piety and annoyed at that lady's interference in the education of her sons. There is a great deal to be said for Dragomira's point of view, and it is a pity that her remarks on the rival Christian liturgies, Latin and Slavonic, have not been handed down to us. Dragomira certainly carried matters too far when she strangled Ludmilla with her own veil one evening in chapel; she made the mistake of furnishing the other side with a first-class saint and royal martyr.

Wenceslaus, the pious elder son, was extremely annoyed at this open demonstration of family discord. Dragomira was sent into exile; her name was never mentioned again. The treatment meted out to his mother made of young Boleslav a more determined pagan than he was before; he sat up at night hatching heathen plots against brother Wenceslaus. Boleslav's reincarnation is probably to be found among international financiers of the present day. The result of his machinations must be told in a fresh chapter.

CHAPTER IV

ITH the accession of Wenceslaus, first Přemysl prince of that name, Bohemia passes out of legend into ordered history; its rulers are henceforth properly labelled and dated. This is chiefly due to the spread of Christianity; priests and monks take up the tale of kindly Saga, and keep careful record of events. These chroniclers were not as a rule unbiassed; I cannot see how they could have been otherwise, for not only did they undertake the task of compiling history, they were constantly making propaganda for their own ideals against the paganism which still had a considerable hold on the sons of Czech. I doubt whether any historian can be absolutely unbiassed; a warm-blooded man—and you must be that if you would record the doings of your fellow-men—is bound to feel sympathy with or dislike for one or other actors in the far-off pageant of history. I frankly admit myself biassed in favour of Brother Boleslav the hearty heathen, and somewhat bored by that saintly lady Ludmilla. A night out with Boleslav would have been more amusing, if less edifying, than a country walk with pious Wenceslaus, who would be sure to waste a good deal of time at wayside shrines; a picnic arranged by Dragomira and in that lady's company, would have been at least a material improvement on any little outing with Ludmilla, who would surely have discovered some reason for fasting on that particular day. But then I can afford a bias; am only making observations from "a Terrace in Prague."

Monkish chroniclers sang the praises of Prince Wenceslaus. My spelling of this name is incorrect, but it is more familiar to English eyes than any other, as our Christmas carol "puts it with a 'we.'" I do not suggest that this St. Wenceslaus is identical with the "Good King Wenceslaus" we sing about—in fact, I have discovered another ruler of that name who fits the part much better; but of this more anon. The correct version of this saintly prince's name is Vaclav, pronounced Vatslav. It is as well to get a proper grip of this word, as the show street in the town is named Václavské Náměstí, which being interpreted meaneth Wenceslaus Place; the Germans call it Wenzel's Platz, but this designation is not popular at the moment. It is advisable to acquire the Czech version of the name, as the Václavské Náměstí is in the business and amusement quarter of the town. As to the pronunciation of Václavské Náměstí, it presents no particular difficulties, despite the profusion of accents (the Czechs are very liberal in this respect), they seem to make no noticeable difference with exception of the inverted circumflex, which makes "ye" out of plain "e." This is nothing to what the Czech language can do in the way of tongue-twisters.

The Václavské Náměstí rises gently towards another hill of Prague, Vinohrady. At the top of the rise, looking right down the broad avenue over the old town and beyond it to the Hradšany, is an equestrian statue of St. Wenceslaus. There are other likenesses of the Saint; a number of them adorn his chapel in the Cathedral of St. Vitus, and another statue stands near the castle entrance on the Hradšany, in the latter Wenceslaus is shown looking out over the city, his hand upraised in blessing, which is right and proper and quite what the city expects of him. The equestrian statue is the most recent portrait of the pious prince, and is really quite convincing. We know, or at least I am about to tell you, that Wenceslaus was a man of peace, he is therefore represented carrying a lance; the modern sense of propriety requires of a non-combatant that he should sit for his portrait armed. He need not introduce a bunch of bombs or a pot of poison gas into the composition, a sword will do. Wenceslaus brought his lance much as the up-to-date war-winner girds on a sword when he goes to be photographed. Swords may also be worn at weddings, at funerals, also at christenings I believe; anyway, on all filmable occasions.

As far as I can discover, St. Wenceslaus only had one fight in his life, and then he got killed.

Now that we have arrived at the first of authentically dated rulers over Bohemia, Wenceslaus I, 928-935, we may as well take a look round the Europe of that time. We find first of all that the peoples were capable of getting into just as bad a mess as they are in to-day, and that without the aid of any new diplomacy, League of Nations and International Conferences. England was, so to speak, nowhere in those days; Englishmen did not wander about the Continent making observations from terraces, did not even launch missions and commissions on harmless and unsuspecting countries, in order to impress the inhabitants thereof with our wealth and our good taste in getting rid of it. England was very busy with the Scots, Welsh and Danes, who were also causing a deal of trouble to the broken-up remnants of Charlemagne's Empire. The ideal of the Holy Roman Empire still lived and inspired a host of adventurous Counts of the Marches and other bearers of German culture to inroads into territory inhabited by Slavonic races. The idea seemed to be that as each Slavonic tribe, principality or kingdom adopted Christianity it should come under German domination and be held in trust for Mother Church by German princes as long as the Papacy conformed to their conception of right and wrong. The Papacy itself seems to have had no definite ideas of right and wrong at the time, or at least did not put them into practice; had, in fact, become thoroughly corrupt and ineffective for good. Christendom was in a parlous state, disunited and assailed by hosts of barbarians, Danes, Saracens, Hungarians. The latter had become especially dangerous to the Slavonic peoples. Before Arpad arrived at Pressburg (now called Bratislava, please) in 829, the territory inhabited by Slavonic tribes, mostly in principalities of varying size and importance, had extended with fluctuating frontiers, from Holstein south-eastward through Central Europe to the Adriatic and the Balkan range. Arpad drove a wedge into this Slavonic mass and broke it into two parts; Arpad's descendants still separate northern and southern Slavs. We have seen how the Empire of Moravia went down before the Magyars, and that the Bohemians, no longer able to count on support from that side, were forced to turn to Germany. The intrusion of the Magyars into Central Europe, by dividing the mass of Slavonic races, also weakened the influence of the Eastern Church among the Bohemians and forced those that were inclined towards Christianity into closer communion with Rome via Germanism. German priests were beginning to gain the ascendancy over those of the Eastern persuasion, they objected to services in the Vulgate, and as they knew no language but their own and only sufficient Latin for their clerical duties, their influence began to threaten the Slavonic genius of the Bohemians with extinction. This was undoubtedly their purpose, and it accounts for much of Bohemia's sufferings during the thousand years following the imposition of a German bishop on this country by the German King Arnulf to whom the immediate predecessors of St. Wenceslaus, Spytihnev and Vratislav had appealed for assistance.

Another social institution which was beginning to make its influence felt at the time under discussion was the feudal system. Hitherto, civilized Europe had depended for offensive and defensive operations on large slow-moving armies of foot-folk; these were ineffective against marauding barbarians, Vikings in their sharp-prowed ships, or the light cavalry of Hungarian or Saracen. Moreover, the governmental system organized by Charlemagne had fallen to pieces, and there was no central power to order the movements of a large army. Luckily for the cause of Christendom and western civilization such as it was, the subordinates of Charles's successors hit upon the right tactics to employ against the invaders. The nominal subordinates, Counts of the Marches, burgraves, barons, took a very free hand in those days of decentralized authority and bad lines of communication. Based on impregnable strongholds, they met the swiftly moving hosts of marauders with equally mobile troops of mailed horsemen, raised, trained and paid by themselves, and bound to their feudal lords by the ties of discipline out of which grew the tradition of military servitude. It was these feudal lords and their mailed horsemen who saved Western Europe; they took their own reward out of the lands they saved and out of the neighbours whom they insisted on saving, till they eventually became an unmitigated nuisance from which Bohemia suffered as much as any other country. But for the moment we are concerned with the times of St. Wenceslaus and the first half of the tenth century.

It is a pity that no one had thought of holding an International Conference in the early days of the tenth century; there were a great many things to discuss, and a Conference would have added to the gaiety of nations. There was the question of those Northern Slavonic tribes who had steadfastly refused the blessings of Christianity as purveyed by the Teuton; of course, no one could foresee that the Western Church's activities in those northern regions would eventually produce the modern Prussian. Then the Conference would have to decide whether or no Vikings, Hungarians and Saracens should be admitted to the comity of nations, and if not, how to start doing business with those people all the same. Then the place of the Conference would have to be decided; there was quite a fair choice of suitable localities. Paris was becoming popular, had already been discovered by people from over the seas—by the Vikings, who, in quest of souvenirs, on one occasion sacked the city, on another burnt it down. Aix-la-Chapelle had been popular for some centuries before the Vikings discovered the attractions of Paris; it had the waters to recommend it, and also memories of pious Charlemagne, on which members of the Conference might reflect when not engaged in feasting and providing the Press with fiction. Constantinople would also have been well suited to an International Conference in the tenth century. The Emperor Constantine Porphyrogenitus was rather a dull dog, but he kept a glittering court, and none but the most refined society is good enough for secretaries, bottlewashers and other numerous hangers-on of conferences. Kings and rulers would probably have attended the Conference in person, not being willing to afford the luxury of allowing a Prime Minister to neglect home affairs. It would have been a pretty gathering, Constantine Porphyrogenitus the bookworm probably as president, Æthelstan of England, Charles the Simple of France or as much as his neighbours allowed him, that doughty poacher Henry the Fowler, German King, and Pope Leo not on speaking terms with him, St. Wenceslaus of Bohemia trying to make peace with Henry, and a make-weight of German counts and churchmen, possibly representatives of Vikings, Hungarians and Saracens. The proceedings would have been marked by a "certain liveliness," as we used to say at the front when the fur began to fly. The Conference would have differed from those of the present day, by leading to a definite result if only in the form of a handsome row of corpses; Counts of the Marches, Vikings and others would have attended to that. It would have been interesting to note how monkish reporters would clothe, or rather veil, their account of proceedings in suitable language.

On the accession of Wenceslaus I the relations between his house and the German King were strained. This, we have seen, was due to Dragomira's anti-German foreign policy. Wenceslaus, however, as we know, had occasion to send his mother into exile; she cannot have gone very far, as according to popular belief the earth swallowed her up before she had had time to get clear of the Castle Hill. Later generations put up a chapel over the spot where Dragomira vanished; I consider this conduct lacking in tact.

Anyway, Wenceslaus had to face a guileful, determined and quite unscrupulous adversary, who had even called at Prague with an army; so, being a man of peace, he came to terms with King Henry for a slight consideration, namely, an annual tribute of six hundred silver marks and one hundred and twenty head of cattle. This warded off trouble from the west, but there remained the danger of barbarian invasion from the east and there was every reason for erecting strongholds in Bohemia as in other countries of Europe. I have found no trace of any such work by Wenceslaus. He surely must have done something towards strengthening the Hradšany, Hrad S. Vaclav or something like that, as it seems to have been called at the time. Wenceslaus had built a chapel here in which to house the relic of St. Vitus; I cannot imagine him leaving such a treasure quite unprotected. This precious relic, namely, the arm of St. Vitus, had been presented to Wenceslaus by King Henry which was handsome of him, as he only got a trifling annual contribution of money and cattle out of Bohemia, whereas that country was started off with something of sufficient value to account for that noble fane the Cathedral of St. Vitus. Bohemia did very well in the way of saints and sacred relics; some of her kings were enthusiastic collectors, and we remember that Christianity among the Czechs started with a royal martyr, the saintly Ludmilla, who was shortly to be joined by another, as you will be told later on in this chapter.

We are still trying to find out what Wenceslaus did for his capital and country besides collecting odds and ends of saints and building a chapel here and there, and regretfully state that little record of anything but his piety is handed down to us. Piety, it seems, was no more compatible with statecraft in the early days of Christendom than it is to-day, and as Wenceslaus took the pious line, he gave way too much to the German menace, thus laying up a store of trouble for his successors and the sons of Czech which lasted well up to the present and does not appear to be exhausted yet. In the meantime Wenceslaus, evidently well pleased with himself, continued to set his people a godly ensample. I should like to know whether they appreciated him to the same extent as did some members of his family, Boleslav for instance, who helped Wenceslaus to a crown of celestial glory by the simple process of hitting him over the head. I am rather inclined to think that the piety of Wenceslaus interfered with some of the innocent amusements of his people, among whom paganism was not quite dead yet, as subsequent events show. There was an interesting burial ground lying on the route which Wenceslaus would follow when going from the Hradšany to Vyšehrad, which remained the seat of government for several generations of Přemysls after the pious prince's demise.... This burial ground, a very extensive one, is now covered by the Church of Emaus and its monastic buildings; you can see those twin towers, dark ochre in colour and topped by characteristic steeple and pinnacles, rising from among fruit-trees and red-tiled roofs. Na Morani was the name of this burial ground, after Morana, the goddess of death. It was the correct thing in pagan society to make pilgrimages to this place in spring: a pleasant afternoon in a cemetery was a pastime as popular then as it appears to be to-day. The cachet of Na Morani had been rather spoilt by the erection of a little church some time in the ninth century, perhaps by Wenceslaus himself. Anyway, the pious prince found this church a convenient half-way house between Vyšehrad and Hradšany, and he was wont to put up a prayer or two here before going on to drop a tear on the Hradšany relics. The little church was dedicated to Cosmas (not the chronicler) and Damian, saints of the third and fourth centuries. It is not known why these gentlemen clubbed together to have a day to themselves, but this need not act as deterrent to anyone who wishes to observe their day. Wherever pilgrims visit, there you will find settlements growing up, beginning with booths and shanties of those who sell appropriate commodities, candles, wreaths and such-like. The traffic in these articles continues; it was only last Palm Sunday that I was offered a variety of wreaths to choose from, small wreaths of snowdrops and fir twigs, to be worn on the wrist, to be blessed by the priest and then to be left lying about the sitting-room until fit for the dustbin. I resisted all temptation to deck myself with snowdrops and fir twigs; their subdued tones do not match my aura.

It seems to me that Wenceslaus did nothing in particular for his people; he concentrated on his part as royal saint and martyr, and was already posing for the statues of himself and the frescoes depicting his good deeds, which later ages produced. There was little to show for all this prince's good intentions. Pious, indeed, was Wenceslaus; he spent a great part of the night in prayer when he should have been recuperating for strenuous work on the following day: there was plenty to do for a country threatened on the one hand by marauding Magyars, on the other by insidious German influence. "He was in the habit of himself cutting off the wheat and grapes that the priests required to prepare the holy wafers and the wine for the sacrament"—I quote Count Lützow, but his conception of political economy allowed him to pay a large tribute in exchange for German interference and the remains of a saint. He lavished money on the Church, whereas strongholds were required in defence of Christendom, and finally he adopted the tonsure. This struck home to the family and made Boleslav's cup of bitterness o'erflow; he plotted more persistently than ever against Wenceslaus. Another habit of the pious Prince was that of attending Church dedication festivals and their anniversaries, in every part of his dominion. The Church feast of Cosmas and Damian, much patronized by Wenceslaus at a little town called Boleslav, was due on September 28th. Wenceslaus was invited to attend this function by Brother Boleslav, who resided there. Boleslav, by this time very weary of his pious brother, sat up with a few friends of his own way of thinking, waylaid Wenceslaus, and killed him. This happened in 935, and the 28th of September is still kept sacred to the memory of St. Wenceslaus by those who feel inclined that way.

My sympathy with Boleslav does not blind me to the fact that he did wrong in killing his brother. I am glad to report that Boleslav showed signs of contrition. The town of Boleslav henceforth became distasteful to him, so he quitted it and raised another of the same name. Stara (Old) Boleslav, where Wenceslaus gained his degree of martyrdom, is a sedate little town near the banks of the Labe (known as Elbe in Germany) dozing among orchards and lush meadows and o'ershadowed by tall elm-trees. It is by no means a suitable setting for a sensational fratricide; I have been to see the place for myself and consider that the Wenceslaus-Boleslav, drama requires a different scenario. The newer town, Young Boleslav (Jung Bunzlau in German) is much better suited to the film; it stands up high on a rock and looks a likely habitation for an expert in assassination such as was Boleslav, brother of Wenceslaus.

Despite all Boleslav's efforts, popular opinion has it that Wenceslaus is not dead, but fast asleep inside a mountain, making up for nights spent in prayer no doubt. I do not believe this report.