Part 2
Many women walk through the streets carrying great baskets on their heads. This custom seems to some travellers an evil. The women look too much, they say, like beasts of burden. But if a washerwoman has a great basket of clothes to carry home, and prefers to balance it upon her head instead of taking it in her hands, why may she not, provided she knows how? And it is by no means an easy thing to do, as you would be willing to admit if you had walked, or tried to walk, about your room with your unabridged dictionary borne aloft in a similar manner. These women wear little flat cushions, upon which the baskets rest. Those women I have seen looked well and strong and cheerful, and walked with a firm, free step, swinging their arms with great abandon. Three such women on a street-corner engaged in a morning chat were an interesting spectacle. One carried cabbages of various hues, heaped up artistically in the form of a pyramid. The huge circumference of their baskets kept them at a somewhat ceremonious distance from one another, but they exchanged the compliments of the season in the most kindly and intimate way, and their freedom of gesticulation and beautiful unconcern as to the mountains on their heads were really edifying.
I have not as yet been grieved and exasperated by the sight of a woman harnessed to a cart. One, apparently very heavily laden, I did see drawn by a man and two stalwart sons, while the wife and mother walked behind, pushing. As she was necessarily out of sight of her liege lord, the amount of work she might do depended entirely upon her own volition, and she could push or only pretend to push, as she pleased; or even, if the wicked idea should occur to her, going up a steep hill she might quietly _pull_ instead of push, and so ascend with ease. The whole arrangement struck me as in every respect a truly admirable and most uncommon division of family labor.
We meet of course everywhere groups of students with their dainty little canes, their caps of blue or red or gold or white, and their altogether jaunty aspect. The white-capped young men are of noble birth. Some of them wear, in addition to their white caps, ornaments of white court-plaster upon their cheeks and noses, as memorials of recent strife with some plebeian foe. To republican eyes they are no better looking than their fellows, and it may be said that few of these scholastic young gentlemen, titled or otherwise, who in knots of three or five or more, accompanied by great dogs, often blockade the extremely narrow pavement, manifest their pleasing alacrity in gallantly scattering, and in giving _place aux dames_ as might be desired.
It has been snowing persistently of late. More snow has fallen than Heidelberg has seen in many years, and the students have indulged in unlimited sleighing. The Heidelberg sleigh is an indescribable object. Its profile, if one may so speak, looks like a huge, red, decapitated swan. It has two seats, and is dragged by two ponderous horses with measured tread and slow, while the driver clings in a marvellous way to the back of the equipage, incessantly brandishing an enormously long whip. Sometimes a long line of these sleighs is seen, in each of which are four students starting out for a pleasure-trip. The young men fold their arms and lean back in an impressive manner. Their coquettish caps are even more expressive than usual. The curious thing is, that, apart from the evidence of our senses, they seem to be dashing along with the utmost rapidity. There is something in the intrepid bearing of the students, in the vociferations and loud whip-crackings of the driver, that suggests dangerous speed. On the contrary the elephantine steeds jog stolidly on, quite unmoved by the constant din; the students continue to wear their adventurous, peril-seeking air, and the undaunted man behind valiantly cracks his whip.
The contrast between the rate at which they go and the rate at which they seem to imagine that they are going is most comical. The heart is moved with pity for the benighted young men who do not know what sleighing is, and one would like to send home for a few superior American sleighs as rewards of merit for good boys at the university.
The thing with the least warmth and Christian kindness about it in Heidelberg is the stove. There may be stoves here that have some conscientious appreciation of the grave responsibilities devolving upon them in bitter cold weather, but such have not come within the range of my observation.
My idea of a Heidelberg stove is a brown, terra-cotta, lukewarm piece of furniture, upon which one leans,--literally with _nonchalance_,--while listening to attacks upon American customs and manners from representatives of the Swiss and German nations. The tall white porcelain stoves which somebody calls "family monuments," are at least agreeable to the eye. But _these_ are neither ornamental nor wholly ugly, neither tall nor short, white nor black, hot nor cold. They have neither virtues nor vices. We feel only scorn for the hopeless incapacity of a stove that cannot at any period of its career burn our fingers. It is, as a stove, a total failure, and it makes but an indifferently good elbow-rest.
However deficient in blind adoration for our fatherland we may have been at home, it only needs a few weeks' absence from it, during which time we hear it constantly ridiculed and traduced, to make us fairly bristle with patriotism.
It is marvellous how like boastful children sensible people will sometimes talk when a chance remark has transformed a playful, friendly comparison of the customs of different nations into a war of words. Often one is reminded of the story of the two small boys, each of whom was striving manfully to sustain the honor of his family.
"We've got a sewing-machine."
"We've got a pianner."
"My mother's got a plaid shawl."
"My sister's got a new bonnet."
"We've got lightning-rods on our house."
"We've got a _mortgage_ on ours!"
For instance:--
"You have in America no really old stories and traditions?" said a German lady to an American.
"We are too young for such things. But what does it matter? We enjoy yours," was the civil response.
"But," the German continued, in a tone of commiseration, "no fairy-stories like ours of the Black Forest, no legends like ours of the Blockberg! Isn't everything very new and prosaic?"
This superiority is not to be endured. The American feels that her country's honor is impeached.
"We have no such legends," she begins slowly, when a blessed inspiration comes to her relief, and she goes on with dignity,--"we have no such legends, to be sure; but then, you know, we have--_the Indians_."
"Ah, yes; that is true," said the German, respectfully, knowing as much of the Indians as of the inhabitants of some remote planet, while the American, trusting the vague, mysterious term will induce a change of subject, yet not knowing what may come, rapidly revolves in her mind every item of Indian lore she has ever known, from Pocahontas to Young-Man-Afraid-of-his-Horses, determined, should she be called upon to tell a wild Indian tale, to do it in a manner that will not disgrace the stars and stripes.
But I grieve to say that America is not always victorious. Our table-talk, upon whatever subject it may begin, invariably ends in a controversy, more or less earnest, about the merits of the several nations represented.
A Swiss student with strong French sympathies charges valiantly at three Germans, and having routed their entire army, heaped all manner of abuse upon Kaiser Wilhelm, reduced the crown prince to beggary, and beheaded Bismarck, suddenly turns, elated with his victory, and hurls his missiles at the American eagle.
O, how we suffer for our country!
Some sarcasm from our student neighbor calls forth from us,--
"America is the hope of the ages."
We think this sounds well. We remember we heard a Fourth-of-July orator say it. Then it is not too long for us to attempt, with our small command of the German tongue.
"A forlorn hope that has not long to live," quickly retorts our adversary.
He continues, contemptuously,--
"America is too raw."
"America _is_ young. She's a child compared with your old nations, but a promising, glorious child. Her faults are only the faults of youth," we respond with some difficulty as to our pronouns and adjectives.
"She's a very bad child. She needs a whipping," chuckles our saucy neighbor.
America's banner trails in the dust, and Helvetia triumphs over all foes. In silence and chagrin America's feeble champion retires to the window, watches the birds picking up bread-crumbs on the balcony, and meditates a grand revenge when her German vocabulary shall be equal to her zeal. Helvetia's son being, in this instance, a very clever, merry boy, soon laughingly sues for reconciliation, on the ground that, "after all, sister republics must not quarrel," and the two, in noble alliance, advance with renewed vigor, and speedily sweep from the face of the earth all tyrannous monarchical governments.
Is it not, by the way, thoroughly German, that down in its last corner the Heidelberg daily paper prints each day, "Remember the poor little birds"? And indeed they are remembered well; and there are few casements here that do not open every morning, that the birdies' bread may be thrown upon the snow.
And is there nothing else here in winter beside the innocent pastimes mentioned? There are wonderful views to be gained by those who have the courage to climb the winding silvery paths that lead up the Gaisberg and Heiligenberg. And then there is--majesty comes last!--the castle.
Ah! here lies the magic of the place. This is why people love Heidelberg. It is because that wonderful old ruin is everywhere present, whatever one does, wherever one goes, binding one's heart to itself. You cannot forget that it stands there on the hill, sad and stately and superb. Lower your curtains, turn your back to the window, read the last novel if you will, still you will see it. I defy you to lose your consciousness of it. It will always haunt you, until it draws you out of the house--out into the air--through the rambling streets--up the hill past the queer little houses--to the spot where it stands, and then it will not let you go. It holds you there in a strange enchantment. You wander through chapel and banquet-hall, through prison-vault and pages' chamber, from terrace to tower, where you go as near the edge as you dare,--_nearer_ than you dare, in fact,--and look down upon the trees growing in the moat. Because you never, in all your life, saw anything like a "ruin," and because there is but one Heidelberg Castle in the world, you take delight in simply wandering up and down long dark stairways, with no definite end in view. You may be hungry and cold, but you never know it. You are unconscious of time, and after hours of dream-life you only turn from gazing when somebody forcibly drags you away because the man is about to close the gates.
I cannot discourse with ease upon quadrangles and facades. I am doubtful about finials, and my ideas are in confusion as to which buttresses fly and which hang; but it is a blessed fact that one need not be very learned to care for lovely things, and while I live I shall never forget how the castle looked the first time I approached it.
Some people say it is loveliest seen at sunset from the "Philosopher's Walk," on Heiligenberg across the Neckar, and some say it is like fairy-land when it is illuminated (which happens once or twice in a summer,--the last time, before the students go away in August, and leave the old town in peace and quiet), and when one softly glides in a little boat from far up the Neckar, down, down, in the moonlight, until suddenly the castle, blazing with lights, is before you.
But though I should see it a thousand times with summer bloom around, with the charm of fair skies and sunshine, soft green hills and flowing water, or in the moonlight, with happy voices everywhere, and strains of music sounding sweet and clear in the evening air, I can never be sorry that, first of all, it rose in its beauty, before my eyes, out of a sea of new-fallen snow.
O, the silence and the whiteness of that day!
We entered the grounds and passed through broad walks, among shadowy trees whose every twig was snow-covered, and by the snow-crowned Princess Elizabeth Arch. On we went in silence,--only once did any sound break the stillness, when a little laughing child, in a sleigh drawn by a large black dog, aided by a good-natured half-breathless servant, dashed by and disappeared among the trees. Soon we stood on the terrace overlooking the city and the Neckar.
On one side was the castle, the dark mass standing out boldly against the whiteness,--on the other, far below, the city, its steep, high roofs snow-white, its three church-spires rising towards cold, gray skies; beyond, the frozen Neckar, then Heiligenberg, its white vineyards contrasting with the dusky fir-forests, and, far away as one could see, the great plain of the Rhine, with the line of the Haardt Mountains barely perceptible in the distance and the dim light. All was so white and still! Only the brave ivy, glossy and green and fresh on the old walls and amid this frozen nature, spoke of life and hope. All else told of sadness, and of peace it may be, but of the peace that follows renunciation.
But to stand on the height--to look so far--to be in that white, holy stillness! It was wonderful. It was too beautiful for words.
A FLYING SHEET FROM PARIS.
Is it in "The Parisians" that the soldier carries a bouquet on his musket, and it is said that Paris, though starving, must have flowers? These sweet spring days, when vast crowds of people are wandering about amusing themselves, and children are making daisy chains in the parks, and men pass along the streets with great branches of lilac blossoms or masses of rosebuds, which are sold at every corner, and skies are blue, and the lovely sunshine everywhere is falling upon happy-looking faces, you feel like blessing not only the spring-time, but beautiful Paris and the temperament of the French. "St. Denis caught a sunbeam flying, and he tied it with a bright knot of ribbons, and he flashed it on the earth as the people of France; only, alas, he made two mistakes,--he gave it no ballast, and he dyed the ribbons blood-red." You think of the want of ballast and the blood-red tinge when you look at the ruined Tuileries, and see every now and then other traces of the Commune. In our dining-room is a great mirror with a hole in its centre and long seams running to its corners. Madame keeps it as a memento of those terrible times, and of her anxiety and terror when balls were coming in her doors and windows, and she would not on any account have it removed. But, after all, it is the flying sunbeams of the present that most impress you. They are more vivid, being actually before your eyes, than scenes of riot and madness, which you can only imagine. The life about you is altogether so fascinating, so cheering. You catch the spirit that seems to animate the people. Where all is so sunny and gay why should you grieve? Have you little troubles? Leave them behind and go out into the sweet sunshine, and they will grow so insignificant you will be ashamed to remember how you were brooding over them; and then, if they are really great, they will pass; everything passes. Only take to-day to your heart the loveliness that is waiting for you, for indeed there is something in it that makes you not only happy for the time, but brave and hopeful for the future. All of which is the little sermon that Paris preaches to us all day long. Perhaps we didn't come to Paris for sermons especially, but after all it is often the unexpected ones that are the best.
How shall I tell what we have seen and heard here? One day we visited the Pantheon, and, having seen what there was to see below, we went up to the dome, which affords a magnificent view of all Paris and the surrounding country. A party of school-girls ascended the long, narrow, winding flights at the same time, and they were entirely absorbed in counting the stairs. The one in advance clearly proclaimed the number; the others verified her account. The interest was intense. Occasionally we would come to a platform where at first it would seem that there was nothing more to conquer. Breathless, panting, flushed, the young girls would look searchingly around, then, with a shriek of delight, would plunge into a dark corner and open a door, from which another crazy-looking stairway led up to other heights. Their chaperon, who looked as if she might be the principal of a school, gave up in despair before we were half-way up, and, seating herself to await their return, cast amused, kindly glances after the retreating forms of the undaunted girls. I take pleasure in stating the important and interesting fact that the number of steps from the ground to the "Lanterne" above the dome of the Pantheon is five hundred and twenty, and you can't possibly go higher unless you should choose to ascend a rope which is used when on grand occasions they illuminate the dome and burn a brilliant light on the very tiptop. So said a little abbe who looked like a mere boy, and who courteously told us many interesting things as we stood there, a group of strangers scanning one another with mild curiosity,--two well-bred Belgian boys with the abbe, some ultra-fashionable dames, a party of Englishmen of course, and ourselves. The school-girls fortunately went down without seeing the rope. Had they observed it, and known that it was possible by any means whatever to go higher than they had gone, they would have been miserable, unless indeed their aspiring spirit had led them in some way to ascend it.
With the paintings and sculpture at the Louvre and the Luxembourg we have spent several happy days, only wishing the days might be months. Don't expect me to tell you what delighted us most, or how great pictures seemed which we had before seen only in engravings or photographs. They burst gloriously all at once upon our ignorant eyes, and we wanted to sit days and days before one picture that held us entranced, and yet our time was so limited we had to pass on and on regretfully. Of course some one was there to whisper in our ears, "O, this is nothing! You must go to Italy." Certainly we must go to Italy, but the thought of the beauty awaiting there could not detract from that which was around us. Before some of the paintings we felt like standing afar off and worshipping. There were Madonnas with insipid faces which we did not appreciate. There were other pictures which we coldly admired; they were wonderful, but we did not want to own them,--did not love them. Among those which we longed to seize and carry away is the "Cupid and Psyche" of Gerard, in which Psyche receiving the first kiss of love is an exquisitely innocent, fair-haired little maiden, not so very unlike the friend to whom we would like to send it.
There are always curious people in the galleries. Sit down and rest a minute and something funny is sure to happen.
"See this chaw-ming thing of Murillo," says a florid youth of nineteen or twenty, with very tight gloves, an elaborate necktie, and, alas! an unquestionably American air, as he marshals a timid-looking group,--his mother and sisters, perhaps. "Quite well done, now, isn't it?" And on he went. If he knew a Perugino from a Vandyck his countenance did him great injustice. Then another party comes along,--conscientious, ponderous, English,--and halts with precision. One of them reads, in a loud voice, from a book--"Titian--Portrait--462"--and they stare blankly at the picture before them, which happens to be not a Titian at all, but a "Meadow Scene, with Cows," by Cuyp, or a great battle-piece of Salvator Rosa. When they discover their mistake and recover from their astonishment, they pass on in search of the missing Titian. We smiled at this, but, as the pictures are not hung according to the order given in catalogues, we knew very well that it was our good fortune, and not our merit or our wisdom, that kept us from similar mistakes. What might we not have done had we not been so beautifully guarded against all blundering by our escort, a French gentleman of rare culture,--both an amateur painter and sculptor,--and an intimate friend of some of the most distinguished French artists! With him for a companion we felt superior to all catalogues and treatises upon art. We have had the pleasure, too, of visiting his private museum and studio, where are strange relics collected in a life of unusual travel and adventure. He is a retired colonel of the French army, and when in service has lived in Egypt, Turkey, Persia, Greece, and now his little room, which we climbed six flights of stairs to reach, is crowded with mementos of his wanderings. I despair of conveying any idea of what he has hung upon his walls. It would almost be easier to tell what he has not. Persian pictures, stone emblems, fans, rosaries, swords, mosaics, pistols, queer chains and pipes, as well as some very valuable paintings,--a Vandyck, an Andrea del Sarto, a number of the modern French school, presented to him by the artists. Was it not a privilege to have such a guide when we visited the Paris lions? He took us to the Musee de Cluny, among other exceedingly interesting places, where we saw hosts of antiquities,--beautifully carved mantels, magnificent fireplaces, "big enough to roast a whole ox" (and they really use them, winters, too--the noble great logs were all ready to be lighted), rare old windows of stained glass, rich robes of high church dignitaries, porcelain, jewelled crowns of Gothic kings, old lace and tapestries, and carved wood that it did one's heart good to see. Girls with tied-back dresses, and hats fairly crushed by the weight of the masses of flowers with which French milliners persist in loading us this spring, did look so painfully modern in those mediaeval rooms! We began to feel as if we were walking about in one of the Waverley novels, and fully expected to meet Ivanhoe clad in complete armor on the stone staircase that leads down from the chapel.
There were many things over which we found it impossible to be enthusiastic,--the jawbone of Moliere, for example, in a glass case. It probably looks like less distinguished jawbones, but if his whole skeleton had been there I fear we should have been no more impressed. Chessmen of rock crystal and gold we coveted, and we liked the room in which are the great, ponderous, gilded state coaches of some century long ago, with their whips, harnesses, and comical postilion boots. There is a little sleigh or sledge there, said to have been Marie Antoinette's,--a small gold dragon, whose wing flies open to admit the one person whom the tiny equipage can seat. It looked as if it must have been pushed by some one behind. Fancy a gold dragon with fiery-red eyes and a wide-open red mouth coming towards you over the snow!