Frau W.'s brother, "Uncle S." as I call him, announced the other day that he was going to take us to Charlottenburg. I had often been told that I must go there and see the "Mausoleum," but as you know I never ask for explanations, this did not convey any particular idea to my mind, and I started out on this excursion in my usual state of blissful ignorance. We took two droschkies for our party, and meandered slowly through the Thier-Garten and along the Charlottenburg road till we arrived at our point of destination. This was announced from afar by an absurd statue poised on one toe on the top of the castle which stands in front of the park containing the Mausoleum.
The first thing we did on alighting was to go into a little beer garden close by to take coffee. It was a perfect afternoon, and the trees and flowers were in all their June glory. We sat down around one of those delightful tables which they always have under the trees in Germany. The coffee was soon served, hot and strong, and Uncle S. took out a cigar to complete his enjoyment. Then we began to stroll. We went through a gate into the grounds surrounding the castle, and after passing through the orangery emerged into a garden, which soon spread into a beautiful park filled with magnificent trees, and with beds of flowers cut in the smooth turf for some distance along the borders of the avenues. We turned to the right (instead of to the left, which would have brought us directly to the Mausoleum) in order to see the flowers first, then the river, and then come round by the pond where the carp are kept.
The Germans certainly understand laying out parks to perfection. They are not too rigidly kept, and there is an air of nature about everything. This Charlottenburg park is a particularly fascinating one. A dense avenue borders the River Spree, which is broad at this point, and flows gloomily and silently along. The branches of the trees overhang the stream, and also lock together across the walk, forming a leafy avenue before and behind you. We met very few people, scarcely any one, in fact, and the songs of the birds were the only sounds that broke the all-pervading calm. The path finally left the river, and we came out on an open spot, where was a pretty view of the castle through a little cut in the trees. We sat down on a bench and looked about us for awhile, and then went up on the bridge which crosses the pond where the carp are kept. The Germans always feed these carp religiously, and that is a regular part of the excursion. The fish are very old, many of them, and we saw some hoary old fellows rise lazily to the surface and condescend to swallow the morsels of cake that we threw them. They were evidently accustomed to good living, and, like all swells, considered it only their due!
At last we came gradually round towards the Mausoleum. An avenue of hemlocks led to it—"Trauer-Bäume (mourning-trees)," as the Germans call them, and it was an exquisite touch of sentiment to make this avenue of these dark funereal evergreens. At first you see nothing, for the avenue is long, and you turn into it gay and smiling with the influence of the birds, the trees, and the flowers fresh upon you. But the drooping boughs of the sombre hemlocks soon begin to take effect, and the feeling that comes over one when about half way down it is certainly peculiar. It seems as if one were passing between a row of tall and silent sentinels watching over the abode of death!
Involuntarily you begin repeating from Edgar Poe's haunting poem:
| "Then I pacified Psyche and kissed her, |
| And conquered her scruples and gloom, |
| And banished her scruples and gloom, |
| And we passed to the end of the vista |
| Till we came to the door of a tomb; |
| And I said, 'What is written, sweet sister, |
| On the door of this legended tomb?' |
| And she said, 'Ulalume, Ulalume, |
| 'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume." |
And so, too, does your eye become fixed upon a door at the end of this vista, which comes nearer and nearer until finally the Mausoleum takes form round it in the shape of a little Greek temple of polished brown marble. A small flower garden lies in front of it, and it would look inviting enough if one did not know what it was. Two officials stand ready to receive you and conduct you up the steps.
Within these walls a royal pair lie buried—King Friedrich Wilhelm III. and his beautiful wife, Luisa, who so calmly withstood the bullying of Napoleon I. and for whom the Prussians cherish such a chivalrous affection. They are entombed under the front portion of the temple, and two slabs in the pavement mark their resting places. These are lit from above by a window in the roof filled with blue glass, which throws a subdued and solemn light into the marble chamber. You walk past them to the other end of the temple, which is cruciform in shape, go up one step between pillars, and there, in the little white transept, lie upon two snowy marble couches the sculptured forms of the dead king and queen side by side. Though this apartment is lit by side windows of plain glass high up on the walls, so that it is full of the white daylight, yet the blueish light from the outer room is reflected into it just enough to heighten the delicacy of the marble and to bestow on everything an unearthly aspect.
Queen Luisa was celebrated for her beauty, and the sculptor Rauch, who knew and adored her, has breathed it all into the stone. There she lay, as if asleep, her head easily pressing the pillow, her feet crossed and the outlines of her exquisite form veiled but not concealed by the thin tissue-like drapery. It covered even the little feet, but they seemed to define themselves all the more daintily through the muslin. There is no look of death about her face. She seems more like a bonny "Queen o' the May," reclining with closed eyes upon her flowery bed. The statue has been criticised by some on account of this entire absence of the "beauté de la mort." There is no transfigured or glorified look to it. It is simply that of a beautiful woman in deep repose. But it seems to me that this is a matter of taste, and that the artist had a perfect right to represent her as he most felt she was. The king's statue is clothed in full uniform, and he looks very striking, too, lying there in all the dignity of manhood and of kingship, with the drapery of his military cloak falling about him. His features are delicate and regular, and he is a fit counterpart to his lovely consort. Against the back wall an altar is elevated on some steps, and there is an endless fascination in leaning against it and gazing down on those two august forms stretched out so still before you. On either side of the statues are magnificent tall candelabra of white marble of very rich and beautiful design, and appropriate inscriptions from the German Bible run round the carved and diapered marble walls. Altogether, this garden-park, with its river, its Mausoleum, its avenue of hemlocks, and its glorious statues of the king and queen, is one of the most exquisite and ideal conceptions imaginable. As we returned it was toward sunset. The evening wind was sighing through the tall trees and the waving grasses. An indefinable influence hovered in the air. The supernatural seemed to envelop us, and instinctively we hastened a little as we retraced our steps.
When we emerged from the hemlock avenue Uncle S., I thought, seemed rather relieved, for the contemplation of a future life is not particularly sympathetic to him! After he had asked me if I did not think the Mausoleum "sehr schön (very beautiful)," and had ascertained that I did think so, he restored his equilibrium by taking out another cigar, which he lighted, and we leisurely made our way through the garden to our droschkies and drove home. It was quite dark as we were coming through the Thier-Garten, and it seemed like a forest. The stars were shining through the branches overhead, and their soothing light gave the last poetic touch to a lovely day.