Passing its portals, one will linger a moment before the tomb of the Dauphin, father of Louis XVI., speculating as to whether he was a stronger character than his son, and as to what effect he would have had, had he worn the crown, though realising that nothing could have prevented that deluge of 1793. A Napoléon in command would have dispersed many of the mobs, spared the world much of the horrible bloodshed, but the Bourbon throne was doomed.
Again, if the king had possessed a modern fire department he could have gained time if not saved his head. There is no mob which can stand against water as applied by a fire-engine. It has been tried and always with success. It would have saved the day at Versailles and the Tuileries and would do so at the present time in Russia—but to return to Sens.
There is another monument not mentioned in the books and one of great beauty. It is to some archbishop whose name I have forgotten. The statue kneels on a black marble sarcophagus and is of white marble. It is not so much in the statue itself that the beauty lies, but in the wonderfully natural arrangement of the robe which flows behind in billowy folds, until one touches it and marvels that it is really marble and not heavy satin.
Thomas à Becket fled to Sens to escape Henry II., and you may still see his robes and mitre in the treasury of this church. You may say your prayers if you desire at the same altar where he knelt, one wonders whether it was in adoration of himself or of God.
In Sens you again encounter the work of Viollet-le-Duc, who has restored wherever he found it possible, but there are bits which escaped his eye if you care to hunt them out. I find myself before one now, off in a quiet corner. It is only a detached head on a column and the eyes gaze into mine in a sidewise fashion as though desirous of telling me its story,—just as the lips of the deserted Buddhas in the forests of Java seem ever quivering to speak. They say you were Jean du Cognot,—but will you pardon a wanderer in these latter days if he asks, who was Jean, and why his head is here all alone on this column? Was there ever any more to him? Did he listen to the booming of these great bells rolling out their summons above us? The eyes gaze downward at me in a sad sort of fashion and seem to follow me reproachfully as I pass outward.
The people are streaming in for High Mass and it would be more respectful to get our car away from the sacred edifice, and so we move off down the streets of the little city and on into the fair land about it.
As we leave Sens her beautiful bells shower a benediction upon all mankind. Their tone is wonderfully soft and mellow and follows us far out over the misty meadows and by the placid river. A light rain sets in and the skies give no hope of a pleasant day, but an hour later the blue patch appears, and when we stop for luncheon, the sun is shining.
This is the main route to Geneva, the highways are superb, and great machines are rushing past us to and from Paris. Later on, speeding moderately, we are approaching a bridge where some boys are standing, when, as we move by, one of them casts a handful of small stones straight in our faces. Fortunately they did not strike our eyes, or there would have been a catastrophe more or less serious. Quickly stopping the car, George rushes after the fleeing culprits, but without success, those remaining on the bridge calmly tell us that we have no right to go so fast, and we reply that another time we shall answer by shooting. We were not going faster than fifteen miles an hour and the bridge was not in town, making the act one of pure deviltry. It was the first of its kind which we have encountered since starting from Nice. These towns nearly all have signs by the highway regulating speed within their limits and we have always obeyed the notice.
Later we entered a very beautiful avenue of trees leading into Tonnerre, a melancholy old place with little of interest, save the Great Hall of a hospital founded by Marguerite de Bourgogne, seven hundred years ago,—a vast chapel resembling St. Stephen's hall in Westminster and quite as large.
CHAPTER XXVIII
DIJON—THE FRENCH AND FRESH WATER—THE ANTIQUITIES OF DIJON—RIDE THROUGH THE CÔTE D'OR—ARRIVAL AT BESANÇON.
As we roll onward, Dijon comes into view, picturesquely placed at the foot of the vine-clad hills of the Côte d'Or, backed in turn by the Jura Mountains.
The sun shines brightly as we roll into this ancient capital of Charles of Burgundy. It is only since motor cars have commenced to fly over this land that any one has thought of stopping at Dijon. Its glory has long since departed. It was absorbed into that of France under Louis XI. after the death of Charles, when ceasing of importance as a capital it has remained merely a prosperous provincial town, associated in one's mind, together with its province, with much that is rich and red and good in the shape of wine. Judging by the fat bottles all down the dinner table of this hotel, that reviver of mankind is cheaper here than water.
We have descended at the Hôtel du Jura, which holds out a special inducement of "baths on every floor," an inducement I must confess, for aside from the greatest hotels in the largest cities, one finds no bathrooms in beautiful France,—and on arriving at an inn after a long auto ride, a bath is an absolute necessity, unless you are so utterly tired out, which I have never been, that nothing save bed is of the slightest importance.
Where and how does the vast mass of the French nation bathe? I am not scoffing, I would like to know. It is a fact that until the advent of English and American tourists there were no baths in any hotel in France from Brest to Nice, and even with the building of the Hôtel Continental in Paris, in 1878, if one wanted a bath one must descend to the basement. In 1900, there were but one or two in all the hotel part of that vast establishment, and the rooms containing them were usually used as bedrooms. That condition is slowly improving, but even now they cannot understand the necessity of a bath with every bedroom. The plumbers' bills would drive them to drink, and even in the present Élysées Palace Hôtel, with all its paint, glass, and glitter, unless one has a large suite one has to walk a distance down the hall to the bath and often wait half an hour. The day may come when Europe will boast the convenience of such hotels as one finds in every American city, but she cannot do so now, and in Berlin it is reported that the Royal Palace has no bathrooms, that his Majesty's tub is behind a curtain at the end of a hall. The Empress is said to have exclaimed, when reading of a New York hotel, "I should think myself in heaven if I had such luxury around me." She evidently understood that luxury in its truest sense does not mean gorgeous pageants, pomp, and glitter, but a bathroom of your own less than a block away. How was it at Versailles in the days of the grand Louis? One reads much of the state function called "the toilet" where the King is represented as washing his eyes in some spirits of wine, but one has never read of a bath being part of the royal establishment, consequently one cannot but imagine that under all its pomp and majesty, the Court of France must have been a very dirty place. In fact it is necessary to look to the extremities of Europe, Turkey and Spain, to find evidences of the proper appreciation of fresh water as applied to the human frame. The Turks—though unspeakably vile in all other respects—do bathe and southern Spain holds mute testimony to the love of the Moors for water—a trait they certainly carried away with them when they crossed the straits.
As I sally forth for an inspection of the city of Dijon the first glances show an entirely modern town of wide streets and rattling trams, while just below me the trains rush to and fro from Paris, but pass onward on to the left, and while you will not find a Bourges or Rouen, you will discover many quaint relics of another period. On the corner of the Rue du Secret and the square of the Duke of Burgundy is an ancient mansion with a turret at its angle and an image in the niche over its doorway. The whole is black with the passing ages and one wonders what the lives were which were lived out there in the old days of chivalry. It's a shop now and from the windows of the adjacent palace no faces look down. It might have housed some dainty mistress of the duke. In the little garden which separates it from the palace there is a fountain and under the trees the people sleep when they will and there, as the museum is not open just yet, I wait listening to the bells of Notre Dame and watching the progress of a love-making between a man and girl on the same bench. They pay no attention to me. The work in hand is too serious for any notice of a passing stranger. Poor fool! He is a bright-eyed, honest-looking lad and she is one of the streets in every sense of that word. They finally move away and I turn to enter the Hôtel de Ville where I find the ancient palace of its dukes, and where there is something of interest even now. The vast kitchen and its six great chimney-places, all unchanged is a curious spot. There the feasts for the "Wild Boar of Ardennes" were prepared, where whole oxen were cooked at once. Above it you may still see his Noble Hall with its richly carved stone work and great chimney with flamboyant traceries, and in its Museum, the gorgeous tombs of Philippe le Hardi and Jean-sans-peur will hold your attention by their beauty of carving and colour. Being in a museum, one can pardon their restoration which has been most successfully accomplished. I have never seen anything so exquisite as these carved draperies.
Passing outward, pause a moment before the Church of Notre Dame, and allow its curious clock, brought from Courtrai by Philippe le Hardi, to speak. If it is a quarter to the hour, it will be struck off by a child, if a half, by a "hammer woman," if the full hour, by a "hammer man," and all have been doing like service for the citizens of Dijon for six hundred years and more, and will do so for thousands long after you are dust and ashes. We would probably pull down the church and erect a skyscraper upon the premises, but these Burgundians love their ancient city, and so this old shrine will stand and yonder quaint figures continue to ring these people into life and through life and off into the realms of heaven, where I doubt not their souls will rest more in peace if sometimes the winds from earth waft to them the tones of their ancient bells.
As I wander through the streets of the town it is plain to be seen that it was a Court city, for there are many stately and interesting façades lining the way. Passing onward beyond the railway station and its puffing locomotives, one comes to the ancient Chartreuse, once the ducal burying-place for the house of Burgundy. Charles the Bold slept here until carried off to Bruges. The only relic left here now is what formed once the base of a Calvary,—a group of stone figures surrounding the pedestal where formerly rose the crucifix. The figures of Moses, David, Jeremiah, Zachariah, Daniel, and Isaiah are life size, beautifully carved and very majestic. Formerly the whole Calvary was richly gilded and was the object of many pilgrimages, for which was accorded the remission of sins. I certainly feel better after my pilgrimage, but I fear it is for no religious feeling, but rather the brisk walk and the many hours of interest I have passed this sunny morning in the fresh air of this capital of Burgundy.
However, luncheon is ready, and the auto waits, it would seem impatiently, judging from the row it is raising and so we speed away from Dijon, and enter upon the richest section of France, the Côte d'Or, where the yellow hills for league after league are smothered in vineyards, and all the prospect is green and gold, with villages nestling here and there, clean and delightful to look upon. As we ascend the terraces and speed off and away on the wide highway, winding along the table-land on their summits, the air is full of the freshness of the mountains and on reaching the top of a hill, George points out Mt. Blanc far in the distance. It is Sunday, the people are abroad and all the world goes singing onward. Everybody seems glad to see every one else. The chickens are more reckless than usual and even the machine moves joyously.
If you pass this way during the season of the vintage, the air will be laden with the odour of the over-ripened grapes, and the vines will fairly shake out at you the fragrance of Chambertin, Pommard, or Volnay, until your senses swim as though in truth you had been drinking, but to-day in May there is only the fragrance of green leaves and the smell of the rich yellow earth wafted to us as we rush onward.
Our route lies through Auxonne, which held out successfully against the Prussians in 1871;—and so on towards Dôle. Turning for a glimpse of the land behind us, we see the spires of Dijon far down in the valley, while before us and to the north stretch the mountains of the Vosges, and far in the hazy distance, the greater Alps are beginning to assume form and shape. Dôle is passed at a rapid rate, and turning northeastward towards Besançon we fairly fly along and all goes well until four o'clock when a storm, which has blackened the heavens in front of us breaks in heavy rain and—then a tire gives out. While I write, George is down in the mud putting on a new one. He does not seem to mind the work in the least.
To-night we stop at Besançon. It is in sight all the time, but that tire must be replaced at once. So George takes refuge under a tree until the worst of the storm is over and then goes to work in the mud. Yama gets out to assist and is a good second,—the flow of French, Japanese, and pigeon English going on all the time. The work done, we roll on again.
CHAPTER XXIX
THE FORTRESS OF BESANÇON—AUTOS IN HEAVY RAINS—DREAMS—BELFORT—ENTRANCE INTO THE VOSGES—THE RISE TO BALLON D'ALSACE—SUPERB RIDE TO GÉRARDMER
Besançon is so old that Cæsar thought it of the utmost importance as a basis, and France thinks so to-day. As we approach it, we note that every hill (and it is surrounded by hills) holds its fortifications and even the river assists in the work of defence, by enclosing the town in a complete horseshoe. At the opening of the horseshoe, is a hill crowned by the citadel. If you explore the town you will find relics of the Romans on every hand, even a triumphal arch, rich with statues and bas-reliefs.
The Christian martyrs, St. Ferréol and St. Ferjeux, were slain in A. D. 212 in the amphitheatre whose remains one may see here. The wars of France have raged around Besançon to the present day. It is the most important stronghold on the Swiss frontier, and last but not least, it was the birthplace of Victor Hugo, who would seem to have acquired some of his ruggedness and strength from these surrounding mountains and yonder rushing river. The town is black and forbidding in appearance, as though strangers were not wanted, and we pass onward over the river Doubs and find refuge from the storm in the very comfortable "Hôtel des Bains," near the Casino, for Besançon is also a watering-place, has springs, a season, and a casino. Thank the Lord we are too soon for the season, and in consequence have the huge draughty hotel to ourselves.
The air is cold here and a wood fire is most cheering and acceptable. It is storming hard, and as I look downward upon the dripping trees, three autos rush past, autos without tops, and whose occupants are fairly drowned out. While a fixed top is a great weight to carry, and very hard on pneumatics, one should certainly have a calash. We are so provided and could never get wet save in a water-spout. The poor women who are coming out of these veritable bath-tubs below there are forced to pause in the rain and allow some of the accumulated water to run off them. Wearily they struggle to the lift and disappear for the night. I have the salle à manger all to myself, and gather my feet up upon the opposite chair to escape the draughts. Ensconced at last on a sofa in my room before a great blazing log, I look up the history of Besançon and while I read, the warm air gets into my brain and holds consultation with the cold air which has been rushing through it all day long, producing a drowsy effect. The dancing flames are full of shapes and fantasies, and as I watch them, the door opens and a queer figure dressed in sandals and short skirts and wearing a breast plate and helmet enters. He carries a green wreath in his hand, which, having doffed the helmet, he puts on: it has pointed leaves which stick forward over his big nose. I ask him if he likes Besançon, and he promptly tells me that it is called "Vesontio," at which I differ and we argue, finally deciding to go out and inquire. I take the auto which he scoffs at, preferring a thing shaped like a coal scuttle, with knives on its wheel hubs and drawn by three horses abreast—with a shout we are off through the storm, sweeping up and down the streets of the ancient city, past closed houses, and through silent fortresses, and even out on the face of the river, where car and auto hold a wild race, cheered by ghostly multitudes on the banks. Cæsar loses his wreath, and Yama stands up and yells a desire to have him in Manchuria. The race is mine and the Emperor of Rome is so enchanted with my red devil that he announces that it is his, and I will "just get out." Again discussion follows and he waves to his assistance some thousands or so of shadows, but a word to George and we rush right through them, and off and away until we come up with a bang somewhere, and I wake to find the fire out and the room very cold. Ah me, how one does sleep and dream after a rushing ride!
Our entrance into the Vosges was not propitious. Heavy mist and some rain attended all our morning progress until we neared the luncheon hour. The roads were fine and the scenery picturesque, what we could see of it.
At one we reached Belfort, another great army post, with soldiers everywhere,—necessary to prevent the gobbling up of one Christian nation by another.
In the very good "Hotel of the Ancient Post" I have an excellent luncheon served by a waiter who scarcely speaks French. He is an Alsatian, speaks English, and was at Chicago in 1893, says he is going back to America "just as soon as he can get there," was "a fool to leave," says this place is no good save for soldiers and there would be no soldiers if it were not for the fine clothes. Yea, verily! The Emperor William would find his army melt away if he put the men in plain clothes. Vanity and ambition form the basis of most empires.
Belfort is the last military post of great strength in this direction. If the traveller will mount to the foot of the old ruined tower which rises on a hill some twelve hundred feet above the town, he will obtain a view of all the fortifications, amongst them the famous "Intrenched Camp," capable of holding twenty thousand men. Off to the north, he will see the Vosges Mountains, and to the east, the Black Forest, while the Bernese Alps gleam in the south, rising above the Jura.
The siege and capture of Belfort by the Germans in 1871 forms an interesting chapter in the history of that conflict, and one would judge from the warlike appearance here to-day that the place would not be taken unawares if a struggle came on.
From Belfort to Ballon d'Alsace there is a rise of some four thousand feet. As we leave the former place, the clouds roll away and the sun streams out warmly. The road commences to mount soon after we quit the town and at one of the first hills the auto balks and refuses to go farther. George gets out and fusses and fixes for ten minutes and then away we go,—all of our twenty-four horses put their full speed forth and we sail up the mountains, skimming like a bird. The higher we mount, the steeper the grades, the faster we move.
Really this is a sturdy machine. In all the long journey, save a burst tire now and then, we have had no accidents and now it is lifting itself and ourselves up and over these mountains as easily as it rolled along the level.
It is good to be alive in such air and amidst such scenery. These mountains of the Vosges are very much like those at the Horse Shoe Bend and our Allegheny Mountains would be just as charming if we had such roads to reach them by. Here at an elevation of four thousand feet the highways are as fine as those in Central Park. Reaching the summit, a magnificent panorama is unrolled on all sides, but there is snow abroad and we do not linger long. Our route lies past Le Thillon. Farther on, we begin to ascend again and are soon high up in the snow line. As we round the shoulder of the peak, far off to the westward, between two great green mountain pyramids, the sun is setting in a golden glory high overhead the new moon sails in a pink sky, while far below, deep down in the valley sparkles an emerald lake on whose shore lies Gérardmer, where we shall stop for the night, the most beautiful spot in the Vosges.
The descent is rapid and very crooked, but George manages the turns as easily as with a hand cart, though I confess I hold on tightly now and then, feeling that that will help matters. Waterfalls tumble all around us and the sunlight rolls down through the pine boughs in a golden glory. Far below, the land is spread out like a map and dotted thickly with villages, while above, the sky bends, a blue arch without shadow of a cloud,—a blessing after the mists of this morning.
With all power shut off, our car glides down the white highway stretching in long curves and zigzags far below. The hills on either side are spangled with yellow easter lilies, and the glowing buttercups; the air is wine, which adds to one's lease of life; and again it is good to be alive,—one of those days and scenes which would force an atheist to believe in God.
The road winds through dense forests of pine trees where no sound breaks the silence, save that of our on-rushing and the music of the many waterfalls; and as for the sound of our wheels, this auto on the down grade is almost noiseless. It is nearly as silent on the level, but on the up grade when the speed is changed its motor talks quite loudly,—does not hesitate to discuss the change.
The journey to-day impresses me again with the advantages of motor cars over all other methods of locomotion for pleasure. We have run away from the storm and my perseverance in coming has had its reward. It was so wretched when we started and the prospects looked so hopeless that nothing save stubbornness and pride prevented my giving the order to turn southward towards the sun—if sun there could be—and give up the Vosges. My reward for not doing so has been a ride that I shall always remember as one of the most glorious of my travels. My own land holds many scenes of equal beauty, but as I have already stated we have not the roads by which to reach them. Then again we would find such wretched inns and poor food that the pleasure would be all gone, whereas here I draw up at the Hôtel de la Poste, where "Madame" shows me to a room, simple but clean, and later I sit down to a dinner which would do justice to any New York restaurant. To be sure, we are but a century old, whereas Cæsar fought for this section two thousand years ago, and I have a hazy recollection that he returns hereabouts every now and then.
CHAPTER XXX
GÉRARDMER AND THE MOUNTAINS—A WEDDING—FRENCH COURTSHIP—EXCURSIONS TO ST. DIÉ—OVER THE COL DE LA SCHLUCHT—GERMAN CUSTOM HOUSE—"ALWAYS A GERMAN"—COLMAR—RHINE VALLEY—ARRIVAL AT FREIBURG
Gérardmer (pronounced Je-rah-may) is considered one of the loveliest spots in these mountains. It nestles deep down in a valley by a smiling lake, and lies far apart from the rush of the great whirl of life; yet life does come here, as the several pretty half Swiss hotels proclaim. Gérardmer has its season, but not until July, and to-day the place is placid and peaceful, as though knowing that there are good times in store, and I found later in Paris that the spot is well known in the great capital—but only to the French. I fancy few Americans ever come this way.
Had I reached here yesterday, so "Madame" tells me, I would have been present at a wedding. It was here in her hotel, and she has the air of having added another leaf to her crown of laurels. She tells me that yonder middle-aged bachelor was one of the guests, and promptly lost his heart to one of the demoiselles. To-day he returns with his mother and that huge bouquet, and will shortly request the honour of the maiden's hand. But, I exclaim, you say he never saw her until yesterday? Certainly, Monsieur, but that is long enough surely, for at his age he must know his own mind. A statement which I do not think is always a true one. I watch him as he moves off into the garden of the hotel and wonder whether love can find any place under those prim angular black clothes. But the sunshine is too attractive to allow one to remain indoors, and to "Madame's" regret, who dearly loves to talk, I wander off into the streets of the town, lifting my eyes up to the hills all around it—for over them, we are told, cometh peace. The departing sunlight gilds the forests into gold, and sparkles on the cross high up on the village church, whose portals stand invitingly open bidding me enter. One of the attractions and beauties of the Catholic Church in Europe is that its sanctuaries are never closed; one may wander in at any and all times and be at rest and peace as long as one wishes it. Here in the heart of the Vosges, amidst this, busy little town is this one which I have all to myself save for the divine face looking downward from the cross and the painted saints in the windows. It is a simple structure, yet withal very impressive. Its Norman columns and arches must be very old, and very dear to these people, as the place where they have been baptised, married, and buried, throughout all the centuries. As I leave, two ancient black-robed priests greet me with smiles like a bit of late October sunshine.
This afternoon has been passed in an excursion to St. Dié, a beautiful ride to an uninteresting town, noted merely as the place where Amerigo Vespucci published his account of the land now bearing his name. Coming back, we left the beaten track, climbed mountains, and descended into valleys where autos rarely go, and our appearance created much astonishment; only two machines have passed that way this year. That route is not down on the map but plunges through the mountains to the west of St. Dié, passing Laveline, Le Valtin, and other towns. Just a run of seventy-five miles for the fun of it.
We finally leave Gérardmer on a glorious morning. George is well on time and the auto is snorting before the door at nine o'clock. Yama has become an expert in packing our goods and chattels in it, and they fit like a puzzle of his own land. The road begins to mount as soon as we leave the town, and when we reach the Col de la Schlucht we are far above the valley, and on one of the highest points of the Vosges. The road winds directly along the precipice. On one side, the pine forests mount above us, while on the other, the fall is sheer to the valley below, some three thousand feet and the panorama of the Rhine land and these mountains is magnificent. Here we enter Germany. George shuts off all power and for the next half hour we coast down the mountain in superb fashion to a village near the base where we are halted by a dapper little man in a German cap to pay a duty of one hundred francs for the auto, which will be returned when we leave the country. The number and make of the machine are taken and also my name, which I give with its present spelling; but the little man promptly changes it to that of his own land. When I venture to fear that it will cause confusion and that the spelling given has held in America for two centuries, he waves my objections aside, "Your name is Schumacher,—the fact that your family has spent the last few years away from home does not change it,—once a German, always a German." Well, perhaps, but in those two centuries and more, other strains have entered, which may claim a showing, and at least you could never get my mustache into that Kaiser fashion and I am very certain that I am exempt from military duty.
So we move on. The entire characteristics of the land have changed. All the neat, sweet appearance of France is gone, and the daintiness has vanished. Germany is a work-a-day world. No matter how interesting, and the interest is, of course, very great, at its best it cannot be called an elegant country, and that word does apply to France. The soldiers with their spiked helmets are an improvement over the rank and file of the French, but the French officers are chic, elegant. The same holds with her women, while in Germany, the word "dowdy" certainly suits the dress from the Court down.
In Colmar at the Hotel of the "Two Keys" we find as much English spoken as German, and have cabbage, boiled mutton, and carrots for luncheon. Many German officers enter and, pausing at the dining-room door, take out pocket combs and carefully arrange their hair.
I noticed a change in the highway, the moment we entered the Empire, and only trust it will not hold throughout. The excellent road-beds, well rolled and oiled to prevent dust, vanished, and we jolted on over an ordinary pike, dirty and rough, until it was agreeable to stop at Colmar. All this was before luncheon. Now that the meal has placed me more at peace with the world, my point of view is different and I am forced to retract at once. The road from Colmar to Freiburg is an excellent one, well marked, and well kept up.
We make quick time, crossing the Rhine at Breisach, and then on through its wide green valley until we reach Freiburg, nestling under the hills which form a lovely background for the stately red stone spire of the great Cathedral.
CHAPTER XXXI
FREIBURG—FANTASTIC CITY—THE YOUTHS OF GERMANY—MUSIC AND LEGENDS OF THE OLD TOWN—CATHEDRAL BY MOONLIGHT
I cannot overcome the feeling in strolling through these old German towns that I am on the stage of a theatre. Painted houses never look solid or ancient and especially when they are fantastic in decoration and brilliant in colour and are kept up. This city certainly is ancient but it is too well scrubbed and done up to be pleasing. Even the very superb cathedral is subject to the same objection. All the images inside and out glow with colour, and all the monuments likewise, and when compared to a cathedral like Westminster, for instance, or many in France, it lacks dignity and for that very reason. If you can banish from your thoughts all this and remember only the beautiful lines of the church, then you will appreciate the structure, but you will never enjoy it.
The Cathedral is interesting and very stately, but in its inspection there is no such deep satisfaction, like unto a draught of spring water on a hot day, which one experiences in England and France.
After I had wandered around the outside, which must appeal to every one, and through the nave, I approached the choir, to be greeted by the smell of soap and wet rags. Just inside the grating in the south aisle sat half a dozen scrub-women as loudly dirty as only scrub-women know how to be, munching great hunks of bread.
I was told that I could not enter the holy of holies without the Sacristan. He was not to be found, but from the glimpse I had beyond, I don't regret it,—the chapels are full of monuments coloured to the last degree of gorgeousness,—saints in red, green, and blue with heads much too large for their bodies—which is generally the case with German statues—stand and lie around in all directions.
The statues in this great church are nearly all of plaster, which at once detracts from their interest. How they escaped throughout the centuries is a marvel.
There are many quaint structures in these streets, all freshly painted, and I find myself poking them, half expecting to discover canvas.
To-day the charm of Germany does not fasten upon me until the shadows gather and the lights come out in her ancient city of Freiburg. Perhaps the spirits of the neighbouring Black Forest then descend upon the place. It is still theatrical, but one is in the mood for theatres after night falls, and as one moves through the fantastic place one would not be surprised to be accosted by any of the figures from Grimm's Fairy Tales. There are many old fairy godmothers and Rumplestiltskins wandering about. The throng is all moving in the same direction, and if you follow you will find a vast concert hall. There are thousands there, and, not knowing the customs of the university towns, I take a seat in the central section of the hall, only to be told promptly that it is reserved, and to be waved to the surrounding galleries. Then I discover that the centre is filled by the students, hundreds of them, divided into societies, the members of each wearing a different coloured cap, and every man with a great stein of beer before him. Groups of red, blue, yellow, green, and purple caps, worn all the time, make splotches of brilliant colour all over the hall, and shade bright wholesome faces,—the hope and strength of Germany, such boys as these,—manly young fellows all of them; and I cannot but feel sad when remembering that I saw no such scene throughout all my long tour in France. There must be young men there, but where are they? All through the provinces whenever I saw any and could talk with them, I found them bent upon going to Paris, which is not usually to their advantage. They did not seem to possess the strong feeling for "home" which keeps these Germans where they were born until they leave the fatherland for ever. Certainly Berlin is very much farther from being Germany than Paris is from being France. Here to-night, two hours are spent in listening to superb music from an orchestra of a hundred and more musicians, and the contrast between the vicious, lascivious gardens and halls of Paris is borne in upon one most markedly.
Pondering upon what the future holds for these two nations, I pass off into the night with this German multitude and hear on all sides, "Good-night, good-night," and in fact, every one does seem to have gone off to bed and I shortly have this ancient university town of Freiburg all to myself, though there may be Fausts and Mephistopheles about; I should not be surprised to have the latter suddenly appear and, drawing liquid fire from yonder beer keg, sing his famous Song of Gold. The moon is at the full and the place looks more than ever like a scene in a theatre. Indeed, I think if you pushed, you could shove aside the front of yonder house and show us the interior, but, rounding a corner, I come suddenly before the great minster. Its lace-like majestic spire soars far up into the blue of heaven and seems to hold a diadem of stars around its cross. If there are any witches about, they are in the deep shadows of its great portals yonder which, being closed, protect them from a sight of the holy interior, and they may have their evil way for a time, but I see nothing save a large black cat and I do not think to-night that her mistress is evilly disposed. I am certain yonder fat King Gambrinus on the walls of that drink-hall is chuckling at me as I move off into the silence of the shadows, and so to bed where honest people should be at such an hour, leaving the moon to see what she may. Amidst the electric lights of the great cities, the moon is not of much account nowadays, but in these quiet old towns she is of importance, and to-night has thrown the shadows of yonder lace-like spire so sharply athwart the great square that I stop to trace its pattern with my stick, and looking up find her laughing at me, it would seem. She wrote a book once about what she has seen. I have it somewhere. It is in quaint old German and called, "Hear what the Moon Relates," and from its pages, I judge her to be an old gossip, for she tells much which she should keep silent about, but, to bed, to bed, or one may meet a committee of the Vehmgericht.
CHAPTER XXXII
FROM FREIBURG TO BADEN-BADEN—THROUGH THE WOODS TO GERNSBACH—SUPERB ROADS—PEOPLE OF THE BLACK FOREST—CROSSING THE DANUBE—CUSTOMS REGULATIONS AS TO AUTOS—AN OLD SWISS MANSION—THE RIDE TO GENEVA AND AIX-LES-BAINS
The ride from Freiburg to Baden lies along the foot of the Black Forest Mountains through the Rhine valley and is hot and dusty, rough and without interest of any kind until we enter the valley of Baden-Baden, and find that lovely spa nestled under the shadow of the mountains. All the world knows the town. The portion which man has made is just like a hundred other resorts in Europe; an old section full of curious structures and a new part all great hotels, casinos, and pagodas.
On entering the grounds of the Hôtel Stephanie, George takes a wrong turn and brings up on one of the fancy foot-bridges in the park. For an instant we are in dismay as to whether the structure will hold the great weight of the car, but it does, and George does not allow of any change of mind but backs promptly off on to safer ground. In Baden-Baden the traveller falls at once into the clutches of hotel porters and waiters, each of whom levies some sort of blackmail. This Hôtel Stephanie, for charges, quite surpasses any other of my tour. For a simple dinner of soup, roast beef, mashed potatoes, and asparagus, I pay $2.50. As usual, the dining-room is hermetically sealed, such is the dread of fresh air, and what air there is, is rent and tattered by the noise of the Hungarian band.
The surrounding mountains are very beautiful, very romantic. Many of the crags hold ruined castles, which the people have had the good taste not to restore, simply preserving them as best they may. That of the Alten Schloss is especially romantic. The view from its tower embraces the Rhine Valley with the Vosges to the west and the Black Forest to the east; and there I spend an hour or more talking to the custodian who interlards his description with bits of personal history, until things are somewhat mixed.
The sun has set beyond Strasburg and the mountains become dense in shadow before I seek the carriage. The woods of the Black Forest cover these mountains so thickly that only the light of the moon shows from above and it is far past the dinner hour before we reach the hotel, where the usual dinner parties are in full swing, and the fact that I do not order almost everything on the bill of fare causes the waiters to regard me as of little moment and not to be greatly bothered over. The spirit of the mountains abides too strongly to make the dining-room agreeable and I soon retire, and then for the next three hours am forced to regret that this is not a Moslem country. How softly on this delicious night air the voice of the muezzin would mingle with the sound of falling waters and music of the winds in the neighbouring forest over which the moon is sending downwards her cascades of silver light! How beautiful the scene is! How rudely the whole beauty is destroyed by the harsh tones of the brazen bells of the neighbouring church! Not only are the quarters marked with a double chime, but the full hours are struck twice on different bells in the same steeple. The clangour and noise is such that sleep is an impossibility until utter weariness compels it. Such things are a stupid nuisance, a menace to health, and a death to any religious feelings one might possess. They should be suppressed. There is nothing more beautiful than a soft-toned bell or more discordantly disagreeable than harsh tones jangled out of tune. Those bells drive me out of Baden.
The auto is at the door at nine o'clock and, though the day threatens rain, we are off and away through the woods. Our route lies via Gernsbach and Forbach to Freudenstadt, over these picturesque mountains. The road is good and well marked, and we swing along at a rapid pace, sailing upwards and downwards with a most intoxicating motion. The ride to Freudenstadt is very beautiful, all the way by a rushing stream, past the Schwarzenberg and through the forest, with glimpses of old castles high above us and red-roofed villages in the green valleys far down the distance.
In Freudenstadt in Würtemberg, at the Schwarzwald Hotel which I have all to myself apparently, I am served by the host who talks English all the time. He says that while he does not approve of the French distaste for children he considers that Germany is overdoing in that respect, that there are too many,—they are "eating each other" so to speak. Well, they are sending one thousand a month, generally those who have been trained as soldiers, to Brazil, and they will be ready to meet us when that question arises.
Freudenstadt is a quaint old town, high up in the hills. It has an antique market square and is somewhat of a watering-place. It was founded by Duke Frederick as a refuge for Protestants expelled from Salzburg.
Our host here proves of service in directing our route onward as one can easily get lost in these mountains without watchfulness. While the routes are marked, the charts are not nearly so excellent as in France. That republic is divided into squares, each numbered and with a chart of the same number for each square, showing distinctly first the roads, then the rivers and towns and all so simply that a child can understand at once, whereas the German charts are like an ordinary map with all its colours, mountains, etc., and the route not so plainly marked. The chart is too elaborate. However, both are good, only one is better, so do not growl.
Our afternoon's ride takes us through the finest section and over the best roads of the Black Forest, and includes an extra spurt of some forty versts caused by our having lost our way during an animated discussion between George and myself over the comparative merits of American and French women.
About that time two of our pneumatics give up the ghost in rapid succession, announcing that act by a report which makes George say things. We are near a secluded village around which the forest closes in thickly and, it being Sunday, we are shortly surrounded by all the children of the place; and what a lot of them there are, good-natured, respectful, little, yellow heads, whose chubby faces try to become solemn, as a funeral cortege approaches, but with little success, and I must say that shortly that cortege was diminished by half, said half coming to inspect my machine. I feel as though I were the owner of a successful rival show. These new comers are all men and all interested in my car, not superficially, but with comprehension of its parts. They tell me that they live here or hereabouts, and when I ask if they do not desire to go to Berlin or Munich they look at me wonderingly and ask, Why? There spoke the hope of Germany. This was near Triberg where we lost the route and we may as well go forward via Furtwangen and Villingen and so to Donaueschingen. When once you know the Hartz Mountains and the Black Forest you understand where these people got their knowledge of fairies and elves, witches, Christmas trees, and music. The woods are to my imagination full of funny little people who hurry away as this machine advances, and if I stop to listen I find the brooks are singing all sorts of carols to which the pine trees furnish the undertones; also I doubt not if you put a crank to yonder funny little white church its windows will glow with lights. Take the top off that pink house and you will find it full of candy. All this is because there are children everywhere and because of the children there are homes and home life—a gain—the hope of Germany.