Kitabı oku: «A July Holiday in Saxony, Bohemia, and Silesia», sayfa 15

CHAPTER XXV

Schnaps and Sausage—Dresdener upon Berliners—The Prince's Castle at Fischbach—A Home for the Princess Royal—Is the Marriage Popular?—View from the Tower—Tradition of the Golden Donkey—Royal Palace at Erdmannsdorf—A Miniature Chatsworth—The Zillerthal—Käse and Brod—Stohnsdorf—Famous Beer—Rischmann's Cave—Prophecies—Warmbrunn.

At Fischbach, in a pleasant valley, about an hour's walk from Erdmannsdorf, stands a castle belonging to Prince Wilhelm of Prussia, which is shown to curious tourists. A Dresdener, who thought it worth the trouble of the walk, asked me to accompany him next morning, and we started after an early breakfast. Early as it was a party of Silesian peasants were breaking their fast with Schnaps, sausage, and rye bread. Think of Schnaps and sausage at seven in the morning!

The Dresdener beguiled the way by laughing at the peculiarities of three Berliners, whom we had left behind at the Gasthof. A Prussian cockney, he said, was sure to betray himself as soon as he began to talk, for nothing would satisfy him but the most exalted superlatives. "When you hear," he continued, "a man talk of a thing as gigantic—incomprehensibly beautiful—ravishingly excellent—insignificantly scarcely visible—set him down at once as a Berliner. You heard those three last night, how they went on; as we say in our country, hanging their hats on the topmost pegs. Yracious yoodness! what yiyantic yabble!" And the Saxon cockney laughed as heartily at his own wit as if it had been good enough for Punch.

The castle is an old possession of the Knights Templars, repaired and beautified. It has towers and turrets, and windows of quaint device; a small inner court, and a surrounding moat spanned by a bridge at the entrance. Outside the moat are shady walks and avenues of limes, and the gardens, which did not come up to my notion of what is royal either in fruits or flowers. With plantations on the hills around, and in the park, the whole place has a pleasant bowery aspect.

As we crossed the bridge, there seemed something inhospitable in the sight of two large cannon guarding the entrance; but the portress told us they were trophies from Afghanistan, captured at the battle in which Prince Waldemar was wounded—a present from the British government. The fittings of the room are mostly of varnished pine, to which the furniture and hangings do no violence. There are a few good paintings, among them a portrait of the Queen of Bavaria, which you will remember for beauty above all the rest; nor will you easily forget the marble head copied from the statue of Queen Louisa in the mausoleum at Charlottenburg. From looking at the rarities, the portress called us to hear the singing of an artificial bird, and seemed somewhat disappointed that we did not regard it as the greatest curiosity of all.

"A snug little place," said the Dresdener, as we walked from room to room. "Not quite what your Princess Royal has been used to, perhaps; but she will be able to pass summer holidays here agreeably enough."

And quickly the question followed: "But what do you think of the marriage in England. Is it very popular?"

"Not very," I answered; "your Prussian Prince would have stood no chance had the King of Sardinia only been a Protestant. Nothing but her wholesome ingredient of Protestantism saves Prussia from becoming an offence to English nostrils."

"So-o-o-o-o!" ejaculated the Dresdener, while he made pointed arches of his eyebrows. "That sounds pretty in the Prince's own castle."

We went to the top of the tower, and looked out on the domain, the mountain chain, and the encircling hills—among which the rocky Falkenstein—the climbing test of adventurous tourists—rises conspicuous. According to tradition, great things are in store for the quiet little village of Fischbach; it is destined to grow into a city. In the Kittnerberg, a neighbouring hill, a golden donkey is some day to be found, and when found the city is forthwith to start up, and the finder to be chosen first burgomaster.

Erdmannsdorf, once the estate of brave old Gneisenau, was bought by the former King Frederick William III., who built in a style combining Moorish and Gothic the Schloss, or palace, which, with its charming grounds and bronze statues of men-at-arms at the entrance keeping perpetual guard with battle-axes, rivals the Tyrolese and their houses in attracting visitors. No barriers separate the grounds from the public road, and you may walk where you please along the broad sandy paths, under tall groves, through luxuriant shrubberies, round rippling lakes, and by streams which here and there tumble over rocky dams. The place is a miniature Chatsworth, with its model village. Within the limits of the smooth green turf and well-kept walks stands the church, an edifice with a tall square tower in the Byzantine style. The palace, too, has a tall tower, from the top of which, on our return to Erdmannsdorf—that is the Dresdener and I—we got a view of the royal domain, and the scattered houses of the Tyrolese, and always in the background the Riesengebirge.

Remembering their native valley, the Tyrolese named their settlement Zillerthal, and many a one comes here expecting to see a romantic valley. But all immediately beneath your eye is a great plain watered by the Lomnitz—the stream which flows out of the Big Pond up in the mountains—cut up by fields and meadows, crowded with trees around the palace, and in the deer-park adjoining. Only in Ober-Zillerthal, which lies nearer to the mountains, do the colonists have the pleasure of ascending or descending in their walks.

The Tyrolese themselves built their first house entirely of wood, after the old manner; and this served as model for all the rest, which, with stone walls for the lower story, have been erected at the king's expense. The colonists find occupation in cattle-breeding and field-work, or in the great linen factory, the tall chimney of which is seen from far across the plain; and are well cared for in means of education and religious worship. In their Friedhof you may see the first Tyrolese grave, the resting-place of Jacob Egger, a blind old man of eighty-three, who died soon after the immigration.

Not far from the palace is a singular group of rocks named Käse und Brod (Cheese and Bread), on the way to which you pass a stone quarry, where you can pick up fine crystals of quartz, and see men digging feldspar for the china-manufacturers at Berlin.

Here I parted from the Dresdener and took the road to Warmbrunn—about six miles distant. Half way, at the foot of the rocky Prudelberg, lies the village of Stohnsdorf, famed for its beer; and not without reason. But while you drink a glass, the landlord will tell you that clever folk in distant places—Berlin or Dresden—damage the fame by selling bottled Stohnsdorfer brewed from the waters of the Spree or Elbe.

If inclined for a scramble up the Prudelberg, take a peep into Rischmann's Cave among the rocks, for from thence, in 1630, the prophet Rischmann delivered his predictions with loud voice and wild gestures. He was a poor weaver, who fancied himself inspired, and, although struck dumb in 1613, could always find speech when he had anything to foretel. Woe to Hirschberg was the burden of his prophecy: war, pestilence, and famine! The tower of the council-house should fall, and the stream of the Zacken stand still. Honour and reverence awaited the weaver, for everything came to pass as he had foretold. The Thirty Years' War brought pestilence and famine; the tower did fall down; and the Zacken being one of those rivers with an intermittent flow, its stream was subject to periodical repose.

After frequent ups and downs, you come to the brow of a hill which overlooks a broad sweep of the Hirschbergerthal, and the little town of Warmbrunn, chief among Silesian spas—lying cheerfully where the valley spreads itself out widest towards the mountains. You will feel tempted to sit down for awhile and gaze on the view—for it has many pleasing features—touches of the romantic with the pastoral, and the town itself wearing an unsophisticated look. Seume said of the Hirschberg Valley—"Seldom finds one a more delightful corner of the earth; seldom better people."

CHAPTER XXVI

The Three Berliners—Strong Beer—Origin of Warmbrunn—St. John the Baptist's Day—Count Schaffgotsch—A Benefactor—A Library—Something about Warmbrunn—The Baths—Healing Waters—The Allée—Visitors—Russian Popes—The Museum—Trophies—View of the Mountains—The Kynast—Cunigunda and her Lovers—Served her right—The Two Breslauers—Oblatt—The Baths in the Mountains.

I had gone a little way along the street when I heard voices crying, "Eng-lischmann! Eng-lischmann! Eng-lischmann!" and, looking about, I saw the three Berliners at the window of an hotel. "You must come up!" "You must come up!" "You must come up!" cried one after the other; so up I went. We had half an hour of yood-natured yossip about our morning's adventures, not forgetting the merits of Stohnsdorf; and one of them said something about the famous beer that justified the Dresdener's criticism. "Isn't it yood? Isn't it strong? Why it is so strong that if you pour some into your hand, and hold it shut for ten minutes, you can never open it ayain!"

The old story. Some time in the twelfth century, Duke Boleslaw IV., while out hunting, struck the trail of a deer, and following it, was led to a Warmbrunn (Warm Spring), in which, as by signs appeared, the animals used to bathe. The duke bathed too, and perhaps with benefit; for near by he built a chapel, and dedicated it to the patron saint of Silesia—John the Baptist. The news spread, even in those days; and with it a belief that on St. John's Day the healing properties of the spring were miraculously multiplied. Hence, on the 24th of June, sick folk came from far and near to bathe in the blessed water, and some, thanks to the energy of their belief, went away cured. And this practice was continued down to the year 1810.

Such was the origin of the present Marktfleck (Market Village) Warmbrunn. In 1387 King Wenzel sold it to Gotsche Schoff—Stemfather, as the Germans say, of Count von Schaffgotsch, who now rules with generous sway over the spa and estates that stretch for miles around. It was he who built the Schneegrubenhaus; who made the path up the Bohemian side of Schneekoppe; who opens his gardens and walks to visitors, and a library of forty thousand volumes with a museum for their amusement and edification; who established a bathing-house with twenty-four beds for poor folk who cannot pay, and who spares no outlay of money or influence to improve the place and attract strangers.

Warmbrunn now numbers about 2300 inhabitants, who live upon the guests during the season, and the rest of the year by weaving, bleaching, stone-polishing, and wood-carving. Of hotels and houses of entertainment there is no lack; the Schwarzer Adler and Hôtel de Prusse among the best. But as at Carlsbad, nearly every house has its sign, and lets lodgings, dearest close to the baths, and cheaper as the distance increases, till in the outskirts, and they are not far off, you can get a room with attendance for two dollars a week, or less. Of refectioners there is no lack in the place itself, or about the neighbourhood.

There are six baths. The Count's and Provost's—or Great and Little Baths—are near the middle of the village, separated by the street. These are the oldest. The water bursts up clear and sparkling from openings in coarse-grained, flesh-red granite, at a temperature of 94 degrees Fahrenheit in the great basin, and 101 degrees in the little basin. It is soft on the palate, with a taste and odour of sulphur, and in saline and alkaline constituents resembles the waters of Aix-la-Chapelle and Töplitz. It is efficacious in cases of gout, contractions, skin diseases, and functional complaints; in some instances with extraordinary results. I heard of patients who come to Warmbrunn so crooked and crippled that they can neither sit nor stand, nor lie in a natural posture, who have to be lifted in and out of the bath, and yet, after two months' bathing, have been able to walk alone.

Although patients bathe a number together, the throng is so great in the hot months that many have to study a lesson in patience till their turn comes. Some, to whom drinking the water is prescribed, resort to the Trinkquelle; and in the other bathing-houses there are all the appliances for douche, showers, vapour, and friction. One room is fitted up with electrical and galvanic apparatus, to be used in particular cases.

With so many visitors Warmbrunn has an appearance of life and gaiety; the somewhat rustic shops put on an upstart look, or a timid show of gentility. The Allée, a broad tree-planted avenue opening from the main street, by the side of the Count's Schloss, is the favourite promenade. Here, among troops of Germans, you meet Poles and Muscovites, some betraying their nationality by outward signs. I saw three men of very dingy complexion and sluggish movement, clad in shabby black coats, with skirts reaching to their heels, who seemed out of place among well-dressed promenaders. They were Russian popes. Great personages have come here at times in search of health, and on such occasions the little spa has grown vain-glorious. In 1687 the queen of John Sobieski III. came with one thousand attendants. In 1702 came Prince Jacob, their son, and stayed a year; and since then dignitaries without number, among the latest of whom was Field-Marshal Count von Ziethen, who took up his abode here in 1839.

There are a few paintings worth looking at in the Romish church: one of them represents the rescue of a Count Schaffgotsch from drowning; and in the Evangelical church hang two portraits, one of the present king, the other of Blucher. But the museum established in the same building with the library, by the liberality of the Count, is the great attraction. Among the weapons you may see the scimitar which Sobieski snatched with his own hand from the grand vizier's tent when he raised the siege of Vienna; and near it a horsetail standard, a trophy of the same event, brought home by Johann Leopold von Schaffgotsch, one of the Count's ancestry. In other rooms are a collection of coins, of maps and charts—among them a few old globes, interesting to geographers—the Lord's Prayer in one hundred different languages, a model of the Riesengebirge, and other curiosities, which, with the library, afford abundant means for instruction and amusement. Then there is music twice a day in the Schloss garden, and the theatre is open in the evening, besides the numerous excursions to the hills and mountains around.

The Allée, about six hundred paces long, commands a striking view of the mountain chain from its farther end, where the ground falls away with gentle slope. I could see the prominent points which I had walked over a few days before; and nearer—about half an hour's walk—the Kynast, that much-talked-of ruin, crowning a dark-wooded hill. It attracts visitors as much by its story as by its lofty and picturesque situation. There once lived the beautiful but stony-hearted Cunigunda, who doomed many a wooer to destruction; for none could win her hand who had not first ridden his horse round the castle on the top of the wall. One after another perished; but she had vowed a vow, and would not relent. At last came one whose handsome face and noble form captivated at once the lady's heart. She would have spared him the adventure, but her vow could not be broken, and she watched with trembling heart while the stranger knight rode along the giddy height. He accomplished the task in safety; she would have thrown herself into his arms; but with a slap on her face, and a reproach for her cruelty, the Landgrave Albert of Thuringia—for he it was, who had a wife at home—turned his horse and galloped away.

While sauntering, I met the two Breslauers—my companions on the descent to the Grenzbäuden—and under their guidance explored yet more of the neighbourhood. The guard at the frontier had treated them mercifully, and after half an hour's detention in a little room up-stairs, let them go. Since then they had been making the usual round of excursions: to the fall of the Zacken, to the Norwegian church at Wang, to the Annakapelle, to Hirschberg, and other places—all within two or three hours' walk. Two days more and they would have to return to the counting-house at Breslau. Near the refreshment-houses in the fields young girls followed us offering packets of Oblatt for sale. This is a crisp cake, of agreeable flavour, thinner and lighter than the unleavened bread of the Jews, friendly to the enjoyment of a glass of beer on a hot afternoon; as we proved by eating a few packets while emptying our tankards in full view of the mountains, under an airy colonnade.

On our return to the village we met the Wirth from Schneekoppe, who had come down from his cloudy dwelling to bury a relative. I took the opportunity to send my compliments to Father Hübner, with a hint that his topographical information had not appeared to me of much more value than his man's morality.

Mineral springs are frequent in the mountains. Flinsberg, a quiet village on the Queiss, about four hours from Warmbrunn, in the Isergebirge, is resorted to by women, to whom the saline water impregnated with iron is peculiarly beneficial. One of the springs is so highly charged with carbonic acid gas that the villagers call it the Bierbrunnen (Beer Spring). And a short distance beyond Flinsberg, on the Bohemian side of the mountains, is Liebwerda, a romantic village, where springs of health bubble up, and Wallenstein's castle is within a walk. Quietest of all is Johannisbad, on the southern slope below Schneekoppe, not far from Marschendorf. There the fountains are lukewarm, and their influence is promoted by complete seclusion and repose.

CHAPTER XXVII

Hirschberg—The Officers' Tomb—A Night Journey—Spiller—Greifenberg—Changing Horses—A Royal Reply—A Griffin's Nest—Lauban—The Potato Jubilee—Görlitz—Peter and Paul Church—View from the Tower—The Landskrone—Jacob Böhme—The Hidden Gold—A Theosophist's Writings—The Tombs—The Underground Chapel—A Church copied from Jerusalem—The Public Library—Loebau—Herrnhut.

It was so dark when the omnibus from Warmbrunn arrived at Hirschberg—about five miles—that I lost the sight of its pretty environment, watered by the Bober and Zacken, and of its old picturesque houses, the gables of which were dimly visible against the sky. The town has more than seven thousand inhabitants, and for trade ranks next to Breslau. Its history is that of most towns along this side of Silesia: so much suffering by war, that you wonder how they ever survived. A memorial of the latest scourge is to be seen in the Hospital churchyard—a cast-iron monument in memory of three Prussians, who, wounded at Lützen in 1813, died here on the same day. Under their names runs the inscription: They died in an Iron time for a Golden.

Not being able to see anything, I booked a place by Stellwagen for Görlitz, and supped in preparation for a night of travel. We started at eleven, a company numerous enough to fill three vehicles, those lowest on the list taking their seats in the hindmost. As these hindmost carriages are changed at every stopping-place with the horses, I and other unfortunates had to turn out at unseasonable hours, and to find, in two instances, that we had not changed for the better—soft seats and cleanliness for hard seats and fustiness. So at Spiller: so at Greifenberg.

It adds somewhat to one's experiences to be roused from uneasy slumber at midnight with notice to alight. You feel for umbrella and knapsack, and step down into the chill gloom of a summer night; and while the leisurely work of changing goes on, stroll a little way up or down the roughly-paved street, looking at the strange old houses, all so still and lifeless, as if they were fast asleep as well as their inmates. Why should you be awake and shivering when honest folk are a-bed? and you feel an inclination to envy the sleepers. If you turn a corner and get out of sight of the Posthouse, the houses look still more lonely and unprotected: not a glimmer to be seen, and it seems unfair that every one should be comfortable but you. Or from the outside of a house you picture to yourself those who inhabit it; or, perhaps, you get a peep into the churchyard, or venture through a dark arch to what looks like an ancient cloister, and your drowsy thought gives way to strange imaginings.

But the night is chilly. Let us go into the Posthouse. There is comfort by the stove in the inner room, and the woman who has sat up to await our arrival brings an acceptable refreshment of coffee and cakes. Steaming coffee, with the true flavour; and not sixpence a cup, but six kreutzers. Then the driver blows his horn, and each one takes his allotted seat, to slumber if he can through another jolting stage.

Greifenberg, a town of three thousand inhabitants, on the Queiss, is proud of four things: manufacture of fine linen and damask, a griffin in its coat-of-arms, and a right royal word of the Great Frederick. Certain deputies having appeared before the monarch to thank him for his prompt and generous aid in restoring the town after a great fire in 1783—"For that am I here!" was his kingly reply.

About two miles distant is the Greifenstein, a basaltic hill, so named from a nest of young griffins found on the top of it at a date which no one can remember. It is now crowned by the ruins of a castle which was given by the Emperor Charles IV., in the fourteenth century, as a reward for service to the brave Silesian knight Schaffgotsch. Were it daylight we might see in the Romish church a vault which has been the burial-place of the Schaffgotsch family since 1546.

It was early morning when we came to Lauban, and changed carriages by the side of the grass-grown moat at a break in the old round-towered wall. The view from the adjacent Steinberg is described as equal in beauty to any other scene in Prussia. Unfortunately I had not time to judge for myself; but hope to go and see some future day. Perhaps, while waiting here, you will be reminded that Lauban was one of the Silesian towns which, on the 19th of August, 1836, held a jubilee to celebrate the three hundredth anniversary of the introduction of the potato into Europe by the famous circumnavigator Drake—as the promoters said. Of course potatoes cooked in many ways appeared plentifully at every table over half the province.

We reached Görlitz at eight, and for some reason, perhaps known to the driver, went through the streets in and out, up and down, across the Neisse to the Postamt in the new quarter, at a slow walking pace. I had three hours to wait for a train, and to improve the time, after comforting myself at the Goldenen Strauss, mounted to the top of the Peter and Paul church tower. Erected on a rocky eminence, rising steeply from the river, it commands a wide prospect. The town itself, a busy place of more than 18,000 inhabitants, closely packed, as in the olden time, around the church; spreading out beyond into broad, straight streets and squares, well-planted avenues, and pretty pleasure-grounds; and in this roomy border you see bleaching-greens, the barracks, the gymnasium, and observatory. From thence your eye wanders over the hills of Lusatia to the distant mountains—a fair region, showing a thousand slopes to the sun. About two miles distant the Landskrone rises from the valley of the Neisse—a conspicuous rocky hill bristling with trees. We got a glimpse of it from Schneekoppe; and now you will perhaps fancy it a watch-tower, midway between the Giant Mountains and the romantic highlands of Saxony.

The sight of that hill recalls the name of the "Teutonic philosopher"—Jacob Böhme. He was born at Alt-Seidenberg, about a mile from Görlitz, in 1575; and he relates that one day when employing himself as herdboy, to relieve the monotony of shoemaking, he discovered a cool bosky crevice on the Landskrone, and crept in for shelter from the heat of the sun. Inside, to his great surprise, he saw a wooden bowl, or vase, full of money, which he feared to touch, and went presently and told certain of his playmates of the discovery. With them he returned to the hill; but though they searched and searched again, they could never find the cleft, nor the wonderful hoard. A few years later, however, there came a cunning diviner, who, exploring with his rod, discovered the money and carried it off; and soon after perished miserably, for a curse had been declared on whomsoever should touch the gold.

Fate had other things in store for Jacob, and allured him from his last to write voluminous works on theosophy, wherein he discusses the most mysterious questions about the soul, its relations to God and the universe, and such like; and great became the poor shoemaker's repute among the learned. Some travelled from far to confer with him; some translated his books into French and English; some studied German that they might read them in the original; and even Isaac Newton used at times to divert his mind from laborious search after the laws of gravitation by perusal of Böhme's speculations. That Jacob was not a dreamer on all points is clear from what he used to pen for those who begged a scrap of his writing:

 
"Wem Zeit ist wie Ewigkeit,
Und Ewigkeit wie die Zeit,
Der ist befreit von allem Streit."⁹
 

There is something to be seen in the church itself as well as from the top of the tower. It is a singularly beautiful specimen of Gothic architecture of the fifteenth century. The great height of the nave, with the light and graceful form of the columns and arches, produce an admirable effect, to which the high altar, the carved stone pulpit, and the large organ do no violence. It is one of those buildings you could linger in for hours, contemplating now its fair proportions, now the old tombs and monuments, and quaint devices of the sculptor's art. Below the floor at the eastern end is an underground chapel, a century older than the church itself, hewn out of the solid rock. Preaching is held in it once a year. The attendant will make you aware in the dim light of a spring that simmers gently up and fills a basin scooped in the solid stone of the floor.

The church of the Holy Cross in the Nicolai suburb is remarkable as having been built, and with a sepulchre, after the original at Jerusalem by a burgomaster of Görlitz, who travelled twice to Jerusalem, in 1465 and in 1476, to procure the necessary plans and measurements for the work. There is a singularity about the sepulchre: it is always either too long or too short for any corpse that may be brought to it, and yet appears large enough for a Hercules.

The town possesses two good libraries, each containing about twenty thousand volumes. In the Rathsbibliothek you may see rare manuscripts, among them the Sachsenspiegel; and a book which purports to have been printed before the invention of printing, bearing date 1400! The other library belongs to the Society for the Promotion of Science, who have besides a good collection of maps, fossils, minerals, and philosophical instruments. Perhaps here in England writers and scholars in provincial towns will some day be able to resort to libraries and museums as easily as in the small towns of Germany. Many an English student would be thankful to find in his native town even one such library as those at Görlitz.

The train from Breslau kept good time. It dropped me at Loebau, where there is a church in which service is performed in the Wendish tongue. From hence a branch line runs to Zittau. I stopped half way at Herrnhut, the head-quarters of the Moravians: a place I had long wished to see.