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CHAPTER XXXII. THE WARTBURG AND EISENACH
I left Cassel with a heart far heavier than I had brought into it some weeks before. The poor fellow, whose remains I followed to the grave, was ever in my thoughts, and all our pleasant rambles and our familiar intercourse, were now shadowed over by the gloom of his sad destiny. So must it ever be. He who seeks the happiness of his life upon the world’s highways, must learn to carry, as best he may, the weary load of trouble that “flesh is heir to.” There must be storm for sunshine; and for the bright days and warm airs of summer, he must feel the lowering skies and cutting winds of winter.
I set out on foot, muttering as I went, the lines of poor Marguerite’s song, which my own depression had brought to memory.
“Mein Ruh ist hin. Mein Hers ist schwer;
Ich finde sie nimmer – und, nimmer mehr.”
The words recalled the Faust – the Faust, the Brocken, and so I thought I could not do better than set out thither. I was already within three days’ march of the Hartz, and besides, I should like to see Göttingen once more, and have a peep at my old friends there.
It was only as I reached Münden to breakfast, that I remembered it was Sunday, and so when I had finished my meal, I joined my host and his household to church. What a simplicity is there in the whole Protestantism of Germany – how striking is the contrast between the unpretending features of the Reformed, and the gorgeous splendour of the Roman Catholic Church. The benches of oak, on which were seated the congregation, made no distinctions of class and rank. The little village authorities were mingled with the mere peasants – the Pastor’s family sat nearest to the reading-desk – that, was the only place distinguished from the others. The building, like most of its era, was plain and un-ornamented – some passages from Scripture were written on the walls, in different places, but these were its only decoration. As I sat, awaiting the commencement of the service, I could not avoid being struck by the marked difference of feature, observable in Protestant, from what we see in Roman Catholic communities – not depending upon nationality, for Germany itself is an illustration in point. The gorgeous ceremonial of the Romish Church – its venerable architecture – its prestige of antiquity – its pealing organ, and its incense – all contribute to a certain exaltation of mind, a fervour of sentiment, that may readily be mistaken for true religious feeling. These things, connected and bound up with the most awful and impressive thoughts the mind of man is capable of, cannot fail to impress upon the features of the worshippers, an expression of profound, heartfelt adoration, which poetizes the most commonplace, and elevates the tone of even the most vulgar faces. Retsch had not to go far for those figures of intense devotional character his works abound in – every chapel contained innumerable studies for his pencil. The features of the Protestant worshippers were calm, even to sternness – the eyes, not bent upon some great picture, or some holy relic, with wondering admiration, were downcast in meditation deep, or raised to heaven with thoughts already there. There was a holy and a solemn awe in every face, as though in the presence of Him, and in His Temple, the passions and warm feelings of man were an unclean offering; that to understand His truths, and to apply His counsels, a pure heart and a clear understanding were necessary – and these they brought. To look on their cold and stedfast faces, you would say that Luther’s own spirit – his very temperament, had descended to his followers. There was the same energy of character – the indomitable courage – the perseverance, no obstacle could thwart – the determination, no opposition could shake. The massive head, square and strong – the broad, bold forehead – the full eye – the wide nostril, and the thick lip – at once the indication of energy, of passion, and of power, are seen throughout Saxony as the types of national features.
The service of the Lutheran church is most simple, and like that of our Presbyterians at home, consists in a hymn, a portion of Scripture read out, and – what is considered the greatest point of all – a sermon, half prayer, half dissertation, which concludes the whole. Even when the Pastors are eloquent men, which they rarely are, I doubt much if German be a language well suited for pulpit oratory. There is an eternal involution of phrase, a complexity in the expression of even simple matters, which would for ever prevent those bold imaginative flights by which Bossuet and Massillon appealed to the hearts and minds of their hearers. Were a German to attempt this, his mysticism – the “maladie du pays” – would at once interfere, and render him unintelligible. The pulpit eloquence of Germany, so far as I have experience of it, more closely resembles the style of the preachers of the seventeenth century, when familiar illustrations were employed to convey such truths as rose above the humble level of ordinary intellects; having much of the grotesque quaintness our own Latimer possessed, without, unhappily, the warm glow of his rich imagination, or the brilliant splendour of his descriptive talent. Still the forcible earnestness, and the strong energy of conviction, are to be found in the German pulpit, and these also may be the heirlooms of “the Doctor.” as the Saxons love to call the great reformer.
Some thoughts like these suggested a visit to the Wartburg, the scene of Luther’s captivity – for such, although devised with friendly intent, his residence there was; and so abandoning the Brocken, for the “nonce,” I started for Eisenach.
As you approach the town of Eisenach – for I’m not going to weary you with the whole road, – you come upon a little glen in the forest, the “Thuringer Wald,” where the road is completely overshadowed, and even at noonday, is almost like night. A little well, bubbling in a basin of rock, stands at the road-side, where an iron ladle, chained to the stone, and a rude bench, proclaim that so much of thought has been bestowed on the wayfarer. As you rest from the heat and fatigue of the day, upon that humble seat, you may not know that Martin Luther himself sat on that very bench, tired and wayworn, as he came back from Worms, where, braving the power of king and kaiser, he had gone manfully to defend his opinions, and assert the doctrines of the Reformation.
It was there he lay down to sleep – a sleep I would dare to say; not the less tranquil, because the excommunication of Rome had been fulminated over his head. He was alone. He had refused every offer of companionship, which zeal for the cause and personal friendship had prompted, when suddenly he was aroused by the tramp of armed men, and the heavy clattering of horses, coming up the glen. He knew his life was sought for by his enemies, and what a grateful deed his assassination would be to record within the halls of many a kingly palace. In an instant, he was on his legs, and grasping his trusty broad-sword, he awaited the attack. Not too soon, however, for scarcely had the horsemen come within sight, than, putting spurs to their steeds, they bore down upon him; then checking their horses suddenly, the leader called aloud to him, to surrender himself his prisoner.
Good Martin’s reply was a stroke of his broad-sword that brought the summoner from his saddle to the ground. Parley was at an end now, and they rushed on him at once. Still, it was clear that their wish was not to kill him, which from their numbers and superior equipment, could not have been difficult. But Luther’s love of liberty was as great as his love of life, and he laid about him like one who would sell either as dearly as he could. At length, pressed by his enemies on every side, his sword broke near the hut, he threw the useless fragment from his hand, and called out, “Ich kann nicht mehr!” – “I can do no more!”
He was now bound with cords, and his eyes bandaged, conveyed to the castle of the Wartburg, about two miles distant, nor did he know for several days after, that the whole was a device of his friend and protector, the Elector of Saxony, who wished to give currency to the story, that Luther’s capture was a real one, and the Wartburg his prison, and not, as it really proved, his asylum. Here he spent nearly a year, occupied in the translation of the Bible, and occasionally preaching in the small chapel of the “Schloss.” His strange fancies of combats with the evil one, are among the traditions of the place, and the torn plaster of the wall is pointed out as the spot where he hurled his inkstand at the fiend, who tormented him in the shape of a large blue-bottle fly.
One cannot see, unmoved, that rude chamber, with its simple furniture of massive oak, where the great monk meditated those tremendous truths that were to shake thrones and dynasties, and awake the world from the charmed sleep of superstition, in which, for centuries, it lay buried.
The force of his strong nature, his enthusiasm, and a kind of savage energy he possessed, frequently overbalanced his reason, and he gave way to wild rantings and ravings, which often followed on the longest efforts of his mental labour, and seemed like the outpourings of an overcharged intellect. The zeal with which he prosecuted his great task, was something almost miraculous – often for thirty, or even forty, hours, did he remain at the desk without food or rest, and then such was his exhaustion, bodily as well as mental, that he would fall senseless on the floor, and it required all the exertions of those about him to rally him from these attacks. His first sensations on recovering, were ever those of a deadly struggle with the evil one, by whose agency alone he believed his great work was interrupted; and then the scene which succeeded would display all the fearful workings of his diseased imagination. From these paroxysms, nothing seemed to awake him so readily, as the presence of his friend Melancthon, whose mild nature and angelic temperament were the exact opposites of his bold, impetuous character. The sound of his voice alone would frequently calm him in his wildest moments, and when the torrent of his thought ran onward with mad speed, and shapes and images flitted before his disordered brain, and earthly combats were mingled in his mind with more dreadful conflicts, and that he burst forth into the violent excesses of his passion – then, the soft breathings of Melancthon’s flute, would still the storm, and lay the troubled waters of his soul – that rugged nature would yield even to tears, and like a child, he would weep till slumber closed his eyes.
I lingered the entire day in the Wartburg – sometimes in the Rittersaal, where suits of ancient and most curious armour are preserved; sometimes in the chapel, where the rude desk is shown at which Luther lectured to the household of the “Schloss.” Here, too, is a portrait of him, which is alleged to be authentic. The features are such as we see in all his pictures; the only difference I could perceive, was, that he is represented with a moustache, which gives, what a Frenchman near me called an “air brigand” to the stern massiveness of his features. This circumstance, slight as it is, rather corroborates the authenticity of the painting, for it is well known that during his residence at the Wartburg, he wore his beard in this fashion, and to many retainers of the castle, passed for a Ritter, or a knight confined for some crime against the state.
With a farewell look at the old chamber, where stands his oaken chair and table, I left the Schloss, and as night was falling descended towards Eisenach – for a description of whose water-mills and windmills, whose cloth factories and toy shops, I refer you to various and several guide books – only begging to say, on my own account, that the “Reuten Kranta” is a seemly inn, and the host a pleasant German of the old school; that is, in other words, one whose present life is always about twenty years in advance of his thoughts, and who, while he eats and drinks in the now century, thinks and feels with that which is gone. The latest event of which he had any cognizance, was the retreat from Leipsic, when the French poured through the village for five days without ceasing. All the great features of that memorable retreat, however, were absorbed in his mind, by an incident which occurred to himself, and at which, by the gravity of his manner in relating it, I could not help laughing heartily.
When the commissariat arrived at Eisenach, to make arrangement for the troops on their march, they allowed the inhabitants the option – a pleasant one – of converting the billets, imposed upon them, for a certain sum of money, in virtue of which, they obtained an exemption from all intrusion on the part of men and officers, save those of the rank of colonel and upwards; and in evidence, a great placard was affixed to their door, setting forth the same, as a “general order,” Now as it was agreed that only one officer should be accommodated at a time, the privilege was worth paying for, particularly by our host of the “Rue Garland,” whose larder was always stored with delicacies, and whose cellar was famed for thirty miles round. He accordingly counted down his reichs-thalers, gulden, and groschen – with a heavy heart it is true, but to avert a heavier evil, and with his grand patent of immunity, hung out upon his sign post, he gave himself no farther trouble about the war or its chances. On the third evening of the retreat, however, a regiment of the Chasseurs de la Garde, conspicuous by their green coats and white facings, the invariable costume of the Emperor himself, entered the town, and bivouacked in the little square. The colonel, a handsome fellow of about five-and-thirty, or forty, looked about him sharply for a moment or two, irresolute where he should fix his resting-place; when a savoury odour of sausages frying in the “Reuten Krantz,” quickly decided his choice. He entered at once, and making his bow to mine host, with that admirable mixture of deference and command a Frenchman can always assume, ordered his dinner to be got ready, and a bed prepared for him.
It was well worth the host’s while to stand on good terms with the officers of rank, who could repress, or wink, at the liberties of the men, as occasion served, and so the “Rue Garland” did its utmost that day to surpass itself.
“Je dois vous prévenir,” said the colonel, laughing as he strolled from the door, after giving his directions, “Je dois vous prévenir, que je mange bien, et beaucoup.”
“Monsieur shall be content,” said the host, with a tap on his own stomach, as though to say, – “The nourishment that has sufficed for this, may well content such a carcass as thine – ”
“And as for wine – continued the colonel.
“Zum kissen!” cried the host, with a smack of his lips, that could be heard over the whole Platz, and which made a poor captain’s mouth water, who guessed the allusion.
I shall not detail for my reader, though I most certainly heard myself the long bill of fare, by which the Rue Branch intended to astonish the weak nerves of the Frenchman, little suspecting, at the time, how mutual the surprise was destined to be. I remember there was “fleisch” and “braten” without end, and baked pike, and sausages, and boar’s head, and eels, and potted mackerel, and brawn, and partridges; not to speak of all the roots that ever gave indigestion since the flood, besides sweetmeats and puddings, for whose genera and species it would take Buffon and Cuvier to invent a classification. As I heard the formidable enumeration, I could not help expressing my surprise at the extent of preparations, so manifestly disproportionate to the amount of the company; but the host soon satisfied me on this head, by saying, “that they were obliged to have an immense supply of cold viands always ready to sell to the other officers throughout the town, whom,” he added in a sly whisper, “they soon contrived to make pay for the heavy ransom imposed on themselves.” The display, therefore, which did such credit to his hospitality, was made with little prospect of injuring his pocket – a pleasant secret, if it only were practicable.
The hour of dinner arrived at last, and the Colonel, punctual to the moment, entered the salon, which looked out by a window on the Platz – a strange contrast, to be sure, for his eyes; the great side-board loaded with luscious fare, and covered by an atmosphere of savoury smoke; and the meagre bivouack without, where groups of officers sat, eating their simple rations, and passing their goblets of washy beer from hand to hand.
Rouchefoucauld says, “There is always something pleasant in the misfortunes of our best friends;” and as I suppose he knew his countrymen, I conclude that the Colonel arranged his napkin on his knee with a high sense of enjoyment for the little panorama which met his eyes on the Platz.
It must certainly have been a goodly sight, and somewhat of a surprise besides, for an old campaigner to see the table groaning under its display of good things; amid which, like Lombardy poplars in a Flemish landscape, the tall and taper necks of various flasks shot up – some frosted with an icy crest, some cobwebbed with the touch of time.
Ladling the potage from a great silver tureen of antique mould, the host stood beside the Colonel’s chair, enjoying – as only a host can enjoy – the mingled delight and admiration of his guest; and now the work began in right earnest. What an admirable soup, and what a glass of “Niederthaler” – no hock was ever like it; and those pâtés – they were “en bechamelle.” “He was sorry they were not oysters, but the Chablis, he could vouch for.” And well he might; such a glass of wine might console the Emperor for Leipsic.
“How did you say the trout was fried, my friend?”
“In mushroom gravy, dashed with anchovy.”
“Another slice, if you’ll permit me,” pop! “That flask has burst its bonds in time; I was wishing to taste your ‘OEil de Perdrix.’”
The outposts were driven in by this time, and the heavy guns of the engagement were brought down; in other words, the braten, a goodly dish of veal, garnished with every incongruity the mind of man could muster, entered; which, while the host carved at the side-board, the Colonel devoured in his imagination, comforting himself the while by a salmi of partridges with truffles.
Some invaluable condiment had, however, been forgotten with the veal, and the host bustled out of the room in search of it. The door had not well closed, when the Colonel dashed out a goblet of Champagne, and drank it at a draught; then, springing from the window into the Platz, where already the shadow of evening was falling, was immediately replaced by the Major, whose dress and general appearance were sufficiently like his own to deceive any stranger.
Helping himself without loss of time to the salmi, he ate away, like one whose appetite had suffered a sore trial from suspense.
The salmi gave place to the veal, and the veal to the baked pike; for so it is, the stomach, in Germany, is a kind of human ark, wherein, though there is little order in the procession, the animals enter whole and entire. The host watched his guest’s performance, and was in ecstasies – good things never did meet with more perfect appreciation; and as for the wine, he drank it like a Swabian, whole goblets full at a draught. At length, holding up an empty flask, he cried out “Champagne!” And away trotted the fat man to his cellar, rather surprised, it is true, how rapidly three flasks of his “Aï Mousseux” had disappeared.
This was now the critical moment, and with a half-sigh of regret, the Major leaped into the street, and the first Captain relieved the guard.
Poor fellow, he was fearfully hungry, and helped himself to the first dish before him, and drank from the bottle at his side, like one whose stomach had long ceased to be pampered by delicacies.
“Du Heiliger!” cried the host to himself, as he stood behind his chair, and surveyed the performance. “Du Heiliger! how he does eat, one wouldn’t suppose he had been at it these fifty minutes; art ready for the capon now?” continued he, as he removed the keel and floor timbers of a saddle of mutton.
“The capon,” sighed the other; “Yes, the capon, now.” Alas! he knew that delicious dish was reserved for his successor. And so it was; before the host re-entered, the second Captain had filled his glass twice, and was anxiously sitting in expectation of the capon.
Such a bird as it was! – a very sarcophagus of truffles – a mine of delicious dainties of every clime and cuisine.
“Good – eh?”
“Delicious!” said the second Captain, filling a bumper, and handing it to the host, while he clinked his own against it in friendly guise.
“A pleasant fellow, truly,” said the host, “and a social – but, Lord, how he eats! There go the wings and the back! Himmel und Erde! if he isn’t at the pasty now!”
“Wine!” cried the Frenchman, striking the table with the empty bottle, “Wine.”
The host crossed himself, and went out in search of more liquor, muttering as he shuffled along, “What would have become of me, if I hadn’t paid the indemnity!”
The third Captain was at his post before the host got back, and whatever the performance of his predecessors, it was nothing to his. The pasty disappeared like magic, the fricandeau seemed to have melted away like snow before the sun; while he drank, indiscriminately, Hock, Hermitage, and Bordeaux, as though he were a camel, victualling himself for a three weeks’ tramp in the desert.
The poor host now walked round the board, and surveyed the “débris” of the feast, with a sad heart. Of all the joints which he hoped to have seen cold on the shelves of his larder, some ruined fragments alone remained. Here was the gable end of a turkey – there, the side wall of a sirloin; on one side, the broken roof of a pasty; on the other, the bare joists of a rib of beef. It was the Palmyra of things eatable, and a sad and melancholy sight to gaze on.
“What comes next, good host?” cried the third Captain, as he wiped his lips with his napkin.
“Next!” cried the host, in horror, “Hagel und regen! thou canst not eat more, surely!”
“I don’t know that,” replied the other, “the air of these mountains freshens the appetite – I might pick a little of something sweet.”
With a groan of misery, the poor host placed a plum pie before the all-devouring stranger, and then, as if to see that no legerdemain was practised, stationed himself directly in front, and watched every morsel, as he put it into his mouth. No, the thing was all fair, he ate like any one else, grinding his food and smacking his lips, like an ordinary mortal. The host looked down on the floor, and beneath the cloth of the table – what was that for? Did he suspect the stranger had a tail?
“A glass of mulled claret with cloves!” said the frenchman, “and then you may bring the dessert.”
“The Heavens be praised!” cried the host as he swept the last fragments of the table into a wide tray, and left the room.
“Egad! I thought you had forgotten me altogether, Captain,” said a stout, fat fellow, as he squeezed himself with difficulty through the window, and took his seat at the table. This was the Quarter-master of the Regiment, and celebrated for his appetite throughout the whole brigade.
“Ach Gott! how he is swelled out!” was the first exclamation of the host, as he re-entered the room; “and no wonder either, when one thinks of what he has eaten.”
“How now, what’s this?” shouted the Quarter-master, as he saw the dessert arranging on the table, “Sacré tonnerre! what’s all this?”
“The dessert – if you can eat it,” said the host, with a deep sigh.
“Eat it! – no – how the devil should I?”
“I thought not,” responded the other, submissively, “I thought not, even a shark will get gorged at last!”
“Eh, what’s that you say?” replied the Quarter-master, roughly, “you don’t expect a man to dine on figs and walnuts, or dried prunes and olives, do you?”
“Dine!” shouted the host, “and have you not dined?”
“No, mille bombes, that I haven’t – as you shall soon see!”
“Alle Gute Geisten loben den Hernn!” said the host, blessing himself, “An thou be’st the Satanus, I charge thee keep away!”
A shout of laughter from without, prevented the Quartermaster’s reply to this exorcism being heard; while the trumpet sounded suddenly for “boot and saddle.”
With a bottle of wine stuffed in each pocket, the Quartermaster rose from table, and hurried away to join his companions, who had received sudden orders to push forward towards Cassel, and as the bewildered host stood at his window, while the regiment filed past, each officer saluted him politely, as they cried out in turn, “Adieu, Monsieur! my compliments to the braten” – “the turkey was delicious” – “the salmi perfect” – “the capon glorious” – “the venison a chef-d’ouvre!” down to the fat Quarter-master, who, as he raised a flask to his lips, and shook his head reproachfully, said, “Ah! you old screw, nothing better than nuts and raisins to give a hungry man for his dinner!” And so they disappeared from the Platz, leaving mine host in a maze of doubt and bewilderment, which it took many a day and night’s meditation to solve to his own conviction.
Though I cannot promise myself that my reader will enjoy this story as much as I did, I could almost vouch for his doing so, if he heard it from the host of the “Reuten Krantz” himself, told with the staid gravity of German manner, and all the impressive seriousness of one who saw in the whole adventure, nothing ludicrous whatever, but only a most unfair trick, that deserved the stocks, or the pillory.
He was indeed a character in his way, his whole life had only room for three or four incidents, about, and around which, his thoughts revolved, as on an axis, and whose impression was too vivid to admit of any occurrence usurping their place. When a boy, he had been in the habit of acting as guide to the “Wartburg” to his father’s guests – for they were a generation of innkeepers, time out of mind, and even yet, he spoke of those days with transport.
It was amusing, too, to hear him talk of Luther, as familiarly as though he had known him personally, mentioning little anecdotes of his career, and repeating his opinions as if they were things of yesterday; but indeed his mind had little more perspective than a Chinese tea-tray – everything stood beside its neighbour, without shadow, or relief of any kind, and to hear him talk, you would say that Melancthon and Marshal Macdonald might have been personal friends, and Martin Luther and Ney passed an evening in the blue salon of the Reuten Krantz. As for Eisenach and all about it, he knew as little as though it were a city of Egypt. He hoped there was a public library now – he knew there was in his father’s time, but the French used to make cartridges with the books in many towns they passed through – perhaps they had done the same here. These confounded French – they seemed some way to fill every avenue of his brain – there was no inlet of his senses, without a French sentinel on guard over it.
Now, – for my sins, I suppose, – it so chanced that I was laid up here for several weeks, with a return of an old rheumatism I had contracted in one of my wanderings. Books, they brought me, but alas! the only volumes a German circulating library ever contains are translations of the very worst French and English works. The weather was, for the most part, rainy and broken, and even when my strength permitted me to venture into the garden, I generally got soundly drenched before I reached the house again. What insupportable ennui is that which inhabits the inn of a little remote town, where come few travellers, and no news! What a fearful blank in existence is such a place. Just think of sitting in the little silent and sanded parlour, with its six hard chairs, and one straight old sofa, upholstered with flock and fleas; counting over the four prints in black wood frames, upon the walls. Scripture subjects, where Judith, with a quilted petticoat and sabots, cuts the head off a Holofernes in buckskins and top boots, and catches the blood in a soup tureen; an Abraham with a horse pistol, is threatening a little Isaac in jacket and trowsers, with a most villanous expression about the corners of his eyes; and the old looking-glass, cracked in the middle, and representing your face, in two hemispheres, with a nose and one eye to each – the whole tinged with a verd antique colouring that makes you look like a man in bronze.
Outside the door, but near enough for every purpose of annoyance, stands a great hulking old clock, that ticks away incessantly – true type of time that passes on its road whether you be sick or sorry, merry or mournful. With what a burr the old fellow announces that he is going to strike – it is like the asthmatic wheezing of some invalid, making an exertion beyond his strength, and then, the heavy plod of sabots, back and forward through the little hall, into the kitchen, and out again to the stable yard; with the shrill yell of some drabbled wench, screaming for “Johann” or “Jacob;” and all the little platitudes of the “ménage” that reach you, seasoned from time to time by the coarse laughter of the boors, or the squabbling sounds that issue streetwards, where some vender of “schnaps” or “kirch-wasser” holds his tap.
What a dreary sensation comes over one, to think of the people who pass their lives in such a place, with its poor little miserable interests and occupations! and how one shudders at the bare idea of sinking down to the level of such a stagnant pool – knowing the small notorieties, and talking like them; and yet, with all this holy horror, how rapidly, and insensibly, is such a change induced. Every day rubs off some former prejudice, and induces some new habit, and, as the eye of the prisoner, in his darksome dungeon, learns to distinguish each object clear, as if in noon-day; so will the mind accommodate itself to the moral gloom of such a cell as this, ay, and take a vivid interest in each slight event that goes on there, as though he were to the “manner born.”
