CHAPTER IV
WIESBADEN, admittedly the queen of Continental spas, is a dream of a town of over 80,000 inhabitants, lying in a sheltered valley on the southern slope of the Taunus Range. It creeps along the spurs of the surrounding hill to within one half-hour’s distance of the Rhine. These hills are densely wooded, a veritable wilderness, traversed by the most romantic walks and paths. The woods are so dense—apparently all young trees (by the size only I judge)—that not an inch of the blue canopy could be seen at any step of the walk; thus sheltering this delightful watering-place from the bleak winds of the north and east, consequently affording a climate so mild that the chestnut, almond, and magnolia, and other of like trees flourish in the open air, the temperature never reaching zero in their bleakest winters. It is attractive in every way. Its “Kurhaus,” with its Ionic columns and great flower gardens, looks across to the “Friedrichsplatz,” connected by the old and new colonnades. Here is the scene of constant merriment afternoon and evening; grand music, Sousa occupying the grand-stand the week prior to our arrival. We attended one of the mid-summer fête balls in this grand “Kurhaus,” which is conducted very differently from our American Assembly balls. There are in all three or four beautiful dance halls, gigantic in size and glorious in appointment. The German band, in the intermissions, leads the entire assemblage from room to room (all connected by arches) in the grand march, where they simply proceed with the dance as they left off. Several Americans, dancing the glide waltz and two-step, were frequently applauded.
On the south side of the new colonnade rises the Royal Court Theatre, a handsome pile, with its rich boroque interior, where nothing but grand opera is played. From here we made a side trip to Frankfort-on-Main to hear “Tannhäuser.”
The Wiesbaden Springs have been known from Roman times. The waters are drunk mostly from Kochbrunnen Spring, which supplies the immense “Drink Halle.” After consulting an eminent specialist, we found three glasses were the most taken per day; telling us to drink but one. This half-way disgusted us, who had been accustomed to ten or twelve pints per day. Then, too, to find it was specially beneficial for aged people, we became less impressed. Our environs were so charming here, that we lingered longer than at any place in the province. One delightful day was spent at Mainz, where we drove in a carry-all with a charming company. The conveyance, which held eleven persons, represented five nationalities—a Russian and his wife; the ex-President of the Argentine Republic, South America, with his wife and daughter (French and Spanish); an Englishman; several Germans, and ourselves. The daughter was one of the most exquisite pieces of femininity, both as to manner and dress, that it is your privilege to meet; her father, having served as minister to both Chili and Peru, possessed vast wealth; they were able to give us many ideas of South America’s importance, both socially and financially. They were equally proud to say they were Americans.
We witnessed what we would probably term an “Imperial Review,” Kaiser Wilhelm reviewing a grand body of cavalry and artillery at Mainz-on-the-Rhine. From the frequency of these affairs, you would think the Emperor has no idea of peaceful intentions at any time. This review came off in the morning. The troops were pouring in by the thousands when we arrived. Train-loads of soldiers and horses. All Germany must have been there that day. All roads leading to the training ground were filled with pedestrians and carriages,—many royal personages. The big hollow square was a noble ground, of level greensward, perhaps a mile square, hedged about by one of those beautiful dense woods. It was bordered by thousands of people in their holiday attire, which always adds to the charm. The whole was a brilliant spectacle. Your attention was divided between the place where the Imperial party stood, the central attraction of the group being the Emperor on a gray horse, backed by his gay and glittering guard, with their banners and insignia—as brave a show as chivalry ever made—and the field of green with its long lines in martial array. Every variety of splendid uniform; their love of gay and dazzling combinations, combined with their shining brass and gleaming steel, and, last but not least, their magnificent horses of war, made it a splendid sight. These regiments of black, gray, and bay lined up to a straight line in the review before his Majesty with the graceful precision that was not surpassed by the best-drilled old veterans. Over it all was one of those beautiful German skies—the sun hidden, and just an atmospheric condition to make it restful and interesting to the artist. I understand now much better why the artist longs for a German sky, and the benefits derived from fellowship with those of similar tastes and feelings. The Emperor kept changing horses, so as not to be exactly located. A few days before King Humbert of Italy had been assassinated, hence his extra precaution. The manœuvrings were such as to stir the blood of the least sanguine. A regiment, full front, perfectly drilled, would charge down on a dead run from the far field, men shouting, sabres flashing, horses prancing, toward the Imperial party, then they would gallop off and disappear in the woods to scout the enemy. Others galloping take their places, some coming up the centre, while their predecessors filed down the sides, so that the whole field in one minute was a moving mass of splendid color and glistening steel; the next, all drawn up in precise lines, so that it was a constant wonder how they could bring order out of such confusion. This display was followed by flying artillery; battalion after battalion came clattering by, stretching over the large field. The great guns kept up a repeated discharging during the sham battle, which waked all the surrounding country with echoes. The great advantage of smokeless powder was here demonstrated. What seemed to us a hundred thousand soldiers was said to have been only thirty thousand. Then followed the rush of the people and vehicles to see the royal party, pushing and smashing and tiptoeing, driving at full speed as though there were no crowd, each trying to get into position to see the Emperor and his guard ride by. It was minus any Yankee Doodle cheering. We were absolutely too close to the Emperor to take a snap-shot, as it proved.
CHAPTER V
THE RHINE
THIS beautiful and wonderful river, the cause of much contention and many songs, was less than one half-hour’s ride. Who has not talked and lectured with stereopticon views on the Rhine the past winter? Every woman’s club has at least from two to five to give guide-book descriptions, and expects their fair listeners to believe that in the few hours passing down this stream in a “schnell Dampfschiffahrt” they are able to tell all its history. We were near enough to this noble stream to enjoy it many times, but there was one of our trips more notable than others. We had taken rate tickets to Coblenz to see its grand monument and other points of interest. Those who are able to travel up-stream, as it was our good fortune many times to do, perhaps had a better opportunity to enjoy the varied and romantic scenery which comes into view at every turn in the river. We had gone to Coblenz for the day, but the trip was perverted and twisted to mean anything by a busybody who could not lay aside her gossip long enough to enjoy the few hours she was fortunate enough to be on this noble stream. In after years what a loss to her when she misplaces her guide-book, and her little mind fails to remember one thing she saw! Rhenish castles lost their charm as she devoured two people who happened to be on the same boat because they had a right to be there, and could afford to enjoy this privilege. But the Rhine! We have all seen pictures of it and read its legends. You know that the Rhenish province is the richest in Germany, and it is to Germany what the Nile was to the Egyptians—a real delight and a theme of song and story. They say over there, “Our Rhine is like your Hudson.” Don’t think so. I am living near the banks of the latter and have gone its length many times, but it reminded me often of the canyons of Colorado in this way: it winds among the craggy hills of splendid form, turning so abruptly as to leave you often shut in, with no visible outlet from the wall of rock and vineyards. The castles were gazed upon, with their ruins, some with feudal towers and battlements still perfect, and hanging on the crags, or standing sharp against the sky, or nestling by the stream. The most beautiful one to me is Burg Rheinstein. I don’t know whether it is admired because of its claim that Cæsar crossed here or a couple of miles upstream, or that it was the birthplace of some feudal baron; it is probably better known for the fine brand of wine made there. Whether its vine-clad hills resemble a crazy-quilt or not, with its many shades of green fastened together with stone-wall terraces one way, and joined together with sticks like bean-poles another way, it is satisfying, and you’ve seen the Rhine, and you can lord it over some by saying, “When we were on the Rhine.” In some respects it resembles our own New York. The mercenary wretches you encounter at every point sort of make one forget about its legendary reputation.
Like all Continental Europe a mercenary atmosphere is omnipresent. You have to buy all your views. The national monument at Rhüdesheim-on-the-Rhine is one of its most interesting spots, just opposite Bingen-on-the-Rhine. This grand monument commands a view of about ninety miles on a clear day in this part of Germany. There is an inclined railway to it from the village below; but we took a carriage, driving up its steep hillside, with the vineyards stretching away in rows for miles on either side. The little houses clinging to the hillsides are quaint and queer. As we wended our way through the little village, they seemed jammed into the crevices between the steep hills. The streets are all cobble-stoned, and, as we clattered up them, above the clatter of the horses’ feet we could hear the bells ring loudly for matins, the sound reverberating in the narrow way, and following us with its benediction when we were far up the hillside. A splendid forest of trees covered the hilltop, not trimmed and cut into allées of arches, as we too frequently see on this side of the Atlantic.
Sometimes one feels that the castles come so thick that our appreciation would have been greater if they had been fewer. A shifting panorama of vine-clad hills or mountains, with here and there an old feudal tower. About the only variation is in the English people you are meeting at every turn. The variety seems almost infinite, but they all impress you as a people with no nonsense and very strong individuality, and whatever information they give you you can rely upon it, “don cher know!” The American impatience is manifested everywhere—first on boats and trains and first off. You can bet on them every time. The New York “step lively” gait.
What shall we do? This was the question as we sat in a most delicious place in “Kur” Garden in one of those cozy nooks overlooking extensive grounds under grand old trees (no mosquitoes), listening to the band playing in its gilded bower, and surrounded by the choicest art, which for the time being paled the moon which was rising in the same regal splendor that characterizes her on the western hemisphere. Shall we continue our daily walks through winding ways up terraced hills, flanked by splendid masonry and hidden in trees, and palaces as a rich façade for a background? Here the field sports were being indulged in by great numbers. Shall we sit here and dream in floods of golden sunlight, or shall we proceed to Munich by way of Nürnberg?