The River Vltava rises away down in the south among the mountains of the Bohemian Forest. It has its happy infancy in "green days in forest," leaping over rocks, playing with pebbles, and generally disporting itself until it comes out into the world and moves among men. Not empty handed either, for it carries the sound of the forest and the rhythm of running water to those that have their being on its banks; if you doubt it, come and hear Smetana's work at the National Theatre reflected in the waters of Prague. The Vltava arrives at Prague reinforced by its tributary, the Berounka, and flows almost due north until it meets the Castle Hill. Then it makes a bold sweep due east, turns north and west again, and so makes a peninsula of Castle Hill; then it resumes, with many windings, its northward course. Nothing could have been better arranged than this bold sweep encircling the Hradšany and the wooded slopes of Letna; it is this feature that adds so much interest to the attractive composition of Prague. This must also have impressed that far-seeing lady, Libuša—it inspired her as it has inspired many people since.
The psychology of rivers has not been sufficiently studied. Most people just call a river blue, or golden or muddy, and pass on to other subjects. In reality every river of importance has a definite character all its own; so, for that matter, has every stream of running water, however insignificant it may seem. Our ancestors recognized the fact, but preferred to endow brooks and streams with a definite personality in the form of nymphs, pixies, or whatever they were called. The Cross has driven these harmless and pathetic little beings out of the world they lived in; only a few were allowed to linger, such as Isa, who till quite recently came ashore from the Danube between Passau and Vienna because she felt so lonely, poor dear! Then there is Undine, but she only appears on the operatic stage, and that but rarely. Under our present strenuous existence, where all is bent towards material success, there is no place for the sprites whose voices the ancients heard in the twilight silence. How could any properly constituted nymph play hide-and-seek with the moonbeams, or cast an eye upon a handsome boatman, from under the well-regulated bank of a river of to-day? As far as present-day mortals are concerned, any stream means water-power, any river means a waterway for commerce, and those thus engaged after the day's work turn away from river and stream without waiting to hear what they have to say when the din of industry dies down and the voice of the running water can be heard again.
There must be a certain and strong connection between a river and the people that live on its banks; one surely reacts upon the other, and in the process the character of both develops. Not only the sky, but the works of man, are reflected in rivers, have been so reflected since man began to work at all; so the character of a people must be influenced by rivers: witness the lazy reflections of the "Ponte Vecchio" in the golden Arno, the comfortable parks and lawns and country houses mirrored by the Thames until it gradually becomes busy, and very dirty, on its way to join the sea, with a sigh of relief after such a very strenuous "last lap."
The river at Prague is worthy of careful study, but whatever I may suggest as to its influence on the people of Prague, I still advise you to come here and judge for yourself. Remember, its name is "Vltava," out of which the Germans had made "Moldau," by which you have probably known it till now; but the map of Europe has been readjusted lately, names have changed back to their original version, and so the river at Prague has resumed definitely its Slavonic designation, which, though not given on any map, yet lived in the memory of the people.
An atmosphere of serenity seems to me to cling to the memory of Charles's reign, a sort of "world went very well then" feeling. Certainly Charles was doing his best, and his serenity and singleness of purpose were reflected in the soul of his people, as were the works of his hands reflected in the waters of the Vltava. Some historians credit Charles with deep and sinister designs, such as raising a vast Slav Empire to counter the growing ascendancy of Germany. This seems rather nonsensical. Charles was a good King of Bohemia, albeit German by race and French by upbringing, and was doing his best for his country. He saw distinctly, as very few people only have seen before or since, that Bohemia and its capital, Prague, was admirably suited to form the centre of a large Empire; he therefore developed the resources of his country in order to fit it for the part it should play. Charles is also accused of Pan-Slavism, a wide and generally misinterpreted term; indeed, he spoke Czech well, unlike his father John, and encouraged literary effort in that language—it was his duty to do this, and not to force French or German on his people as he might have tried to do. Again, the fact of his having founded the Benedictine monastery at Emaus for the purpose of reviving the traditions of the former monastery of St. Prokop! To this end came monks from Dalmatia, Croatia, Bosnia, all Slavs who brought back to Bohemia the Cyrillac alphabet and the Slavonic liturgy. The Pope had granted express permission at the request of Charles, who had pointed out that it was of little use preaching to his people in Latin. The Pope had, indeed, stipulated that Emaus should be the only congregation to use Slavonic rites within the frontiers of Bohemia.
Charles was probably the sort of man who would walk about on foot among his people, and I like to think of him crossing the bridge he built when going about his business, and there was plenty of that. First of all, the Royal Castle, where he seems to have resided, was badly in need of repair; at the same time there were several churches building on the right bank, and Charles would surely go to see how they were getting on. Then again, the New Town was growing up and being walled in, and the New Town Hall was in course of construction. This latter building is another pleasant monument to "the Father of his Country," as it rears its graceful saddle-roofed tower, with the characteristic pointed turrets, over the trees and flowering shrubs that make of the Charles Square such a delectable resting-place. Vyšehrad was also having its ancient defences repaired and strengthened, and the sides of the hill rising up out of the Old Town, Vinohrad, were being turned into vineyards and gardens by order of the King. Charles was also in the habit of attending learned discourses at the University, or of dropping in at lectures. Then there were many grave affairs of the State to keep him anxiously busy. I can almost see him, a stoutish, sturdy man of round and kindly countenance, passing across the bridge, reflecting deeply on many difficult questions. There were, for instance, the zealous preachers Conrad Waldhauser and Milič of Kroměřiže, who were causing such a stir. These two worthies were holding forth in the churches against the luxury and immorality of the time, with such effect that well-known, great and gaudy sinners were moved to acts of public repentance and women to cast off their jewellery and to dress themselves in sober fashion. All this was very beautiful and edifying, but it was not likely to last, and what with the ill-will of the Pope and the opposition of the monastic orders it took Charles all his tact and ability to steer a course among the rocks and rapids of imperial and Bohemian affairs. For all Charles's efforts the outlook was losing its air of serenity—was, in fact, becoming ominously cloudy towards the end of his reign. The papal conflict had brought about the Great Schism in the Western Church; this led to an aggravation of the Church Reform movement in Bohemia. In fact, the storm was rising which was to sweep over Bohemia, thence over all Central Europe, leaving it eventually broken and desolate, under the hand of Habsburg. At this moment, when a strong and steady hand was wanted more than ever, Charles died. He was only sixty-two, and might have been good for a few more years. However, he had prepared to meet events that might follow on his death, and had secured the succession to his son Wenceslaus, fourth and last Bohemian King of that name. Wenceslaus was the son of Anne of Schweidnitz, third wife of Charles; he had been crowned King of Bohemia at the age of two, his succession to the throne of Germany had been secured, so Wenceslaus, though only seventeen years old, started with the odds in his favour. There were plenty of troubles about which must have puzzled the young King considerably: rival Popes were hurling bans, bulls, excommunications, anathemas and such-like Church property at each other, and all the little dogs were barking at the heels of those precious pontiffs. Luckily young Wenceslaus could count upon a number of his father's old friends and councillors, and he started out trying to carry on his father's policy. He also took a line, a private one of his own, which was harmless enough at the outset, but became inconvenient as time went on. Wenceslaus was all out for popularity among his people, especially among his Pragers. He would go about the city looking into minor matters of his people's welfare, so he would measure the mercer's cloth-yard and if it were not up to standard would crack the saucy knave's head therewith. He went among his people performing acts of charity; in fact, he generally disported himself right royally, if with an occasional lapse from discretion. Now this Wenceslaus drew the relations between England and Bohemia closer together. Wenceslaus had a sister Anne, who married our Richard II. Anne was surely a very dear lady—an expensive one, in fact—for Richard had to pay eighty thousand golden guldens to Wenceslaus within a fortnight of Anne's landing in England, and had also lent the genial Bohemian King a further sum of twenty thousand golden guldens, which went away to the Ewigkeit—at least England never saw them again.