From a Terrace in Prague

by B. Granville Baker

Another of Rudolph's hobbies was astronomy, and he certainly assembled some eminent scientists in that line about him. Prominent among these lights of learning was one whom I have already mentioned, Tycho de Brahe. It appears that this turbulent scientist had made his own country, Denmark, too hot to hold him; he and his family were practically exiled from home, and in his wanderings Tycho turned to the Court of Prague, was kindly, generously entreated by King Rudolph, and no doubt did good work in return. You may see Tycho's effigy over his tomb in the Tyn Church; you may remark that his effigy shows little trace of a nose to his face. Tycho went without one for many years, as he lost his when young, in a duel. Keppler was also one of Rudolph's guests, a man of very different calibre, and certainly one of the most eminent astronomers of all times. There were, no doubt, any number of lesser lights in that line during those quaint old days when men turned to the starry heavens to learn the fate in store for them. Astronomy and alchemy were often mixed up together in those days, or rather astronomy seemed to get mixed up with one's daily life to such an extent that no princely household was complete without its pet astronomer. If things had gone a bit wrong of a morning, perhaps that "tired feeling" mixed with a touch of gout, and the evening had brought a domestic worry or two, you just walked round to your astronomer's for some indication concerning the future. After bumping about in dim religious gloom among stuffed crocodiles and such-like accessories to science of those days, you discovered your astronomer deeply engaged in describing cabalistic figures on parchment; he would raise his eyes with a far-away look, as if no henchman had hurried round a few minutes earlier to say that "the old man was carrying on something awful," your astronomer would descend to earth for a space and then at his master's command reascend to get thoroughly mixed up with the stars.

To those days of the later sixteenth century we may trace all manner of quaint customs, beliefs and observances. People were getting thoroughly into the way of thinking for themselves instead of believing what they were told, and they started many ingenious conceits whereon to pin their faith or perhaps strengthen it. I do not know that those quaint conceits were particularly helpful; personally I could not derive comfort from a belief popular in Bohemia, that King David sits in the moon playing on the harp. My sympathy would go out too strongly for my own comfort, towards David evoking melody in such a lonely spot, far from all his lady friends; I might even imagine him sighing for Saul's hurtling javelin to break the monotony. To these days belongs also the institution of the rosary by Pope Gregory XII, in memory of the victory of Christendom at Lepanto in 1571. The rosary was indeed known as early as the eleventh century, but not in universal use.

While Rudolph was busy with his alchemy, astronomy, and, I am happy to say, with literature as well, he resided in the Hradšany most of his time, and so the Mala Strana enjoyed all the amenities of a Court, the "certain liveliness" that pertains thereto having shifted from the Old Town to the left bank of the river. I have sought vainly for something interesting in the way of local colour, but can find nothing that even suggests the ingerence of a "fardingale" into the local history of Rudolph's reign. Instead of the gentler influence, I find only descriptions of swashbucklers, lackeys and bottlewashers, "ruffling" it in imitation of their masters. Here again we have indication of Italy's refining influence, a new invention which came rapidly into vogue, and unlike most of them, came to stay—the facciolette. What though the roystering pseudo-gallant had no shirt to which he might attach a fine collar, he must have his "facilet," as the chronicler spells it—in short, a handkerchief. Then again the tooth-pick came in for serious observation; it was considered an outward and visible sign of internal creature comfort, and was worn behind the ear when not in action. Tooth-pick practice is still going strong in Prague.

By way of attributing something good to Rudolph, I will make him responsible for a garden, said to have been very beautiful, which occupied some ground at the higher westward end of the "Stag's Moat." Here was a pleasance, where gallants and fair ladies disported themselves and watched the antics of wild animals. It was in this garden that Schiller placed the little drama he describes in Der Handschuh. Schiller gives the Spanish version of the story, where the gallant smacks the lady's face with the glove he had retrieved for her from among the lions, and then struts away for evermore. Romantic, but ill-tempered, whereas the local version here is that the gallant married the lady—perhaps she became insistent; anyway, a useful if commonplace ending.

I gave you an instance of Rudolph's statecraft in that little matter of the "Passauer," and am not inclined to give you any more. His doings and those of his Habsburg successors brought so much suffering to Bohemia and Prague that I would rather be excused from giving any account of them. We have heard of Rudolph's brother Matthias, and how under him the strain put upon the people of Bohemia grew too severe, and how the Estates cut the Gordian Knot by throwing the King's lieutenants out of a window on the Hradšany. They happened to fall soft, on a midden, and got away unhurt. As a diplomatic action, this measure taken by the Estates lacked finesse, but it had one advantage over the usual diplomatic transactions in their devious course, that it was direct and final in its effect, namely, to precipitate a great devastating war, and to leave Bohemia hopelessly enchained for close on three centuries.

We have seen the "Winter King"[1] pass this way with his English wife, pause here to be crowned, and then after a short year's reign, fly from the country that trusted him when his army and the cause he was called upon to stand for went under in a sea of blood on the White Mountain. It is only about an hour on foot to the battlefield where the army of Protestant Bohemia, after retiring before the Imperialist host, made its final, fatal stand. After all, Frederick's short reign was only an interlude: the hand of the Habsburg had closed over Bohemia when Ferdinand I ascended its throne in 1526 by virtue of his marriage with Anna, and also, as I have said, by the free use of Austrian gold; and the victory won by Charles V at Mühlberg in 1547 had almost crushed the cause of Protestantism out of existence.

The battlefield where the independence of Bohemia was lost in November 1620 lies on a plateau, as background to which stands a peculiar building. Surrounded by a park and overlooking undulating country stands the "Star." It is a former royal hunting-box, built several centuries before the battle and planned as a six-pointed star. It has no architectural beauty; it is in appearance a somewhat ungainly landmark and must have been pretty uncomfortable to live in, even for the less exacting royalties of the Middle Ages, but it stands on what, for the Bohemian, should be holy ground. The forces of the Holy Roman Empire, aided by Bavarians and Spaniards, were arrayed against the army of Frederick, the "Winter King," which stood for religious freedom. Perhaps the Protestant forces were not united, they were composed of Czechs, Moravians, Germans and Hungarians, perhaps that their King had left them somewhat hurriedly, at any rate the spirit of the old covenanters, Hus and Žiška, no longer informed the Bohemian Army. The first to break were the Hungarians, and the conduct of the others was not up to tradition; only a small force of Moravians under Count Šlik refused to yield. They took their stand against the wall of the Star Park, along which the dead at some places lay ten or twelve high, according to contemporary writers.

Then the Jesuit-ridden Habsburg entered Prague and laid his heavy hand on all Bohemia, almost to the undoing of its people. But it is a wonderful thing, that power of a strong race to survive treachery and oppression until the time comes when it can reassert itself.

There are many accounts of this battle, most of them obviously biassed, so, for instance, the Imperialists declare that victory was won in the space of an hour, whereas Bohemian historians say that the fighting continued without a break from morning till late afternoon. The Imperialists ascribed their victory to the intervention of Our Lady. Some fifty years after their defeat the Bohemians erected a church and monastery to St. Mary on the White Mountain. You may see this church, looking somewhat dilapidated—I should say ashamed of itself—as it stands there a monument to the Bohemian nation's self-abasement.

We have witnessed the sequel to the defeat of Bohemia on the White Mountain, the execution of Bohemian nobles and other leaders on the open space between the Old Town Hall and the Church of Our Lady of Tyn. In the words of Gindely the historian: "These melancholy executions mark the end of the old and independent development of Bohemia. Members of the most prominent families of the Bohemian nobility, eminent citizens and learned men, in fact all the representatives of the culture of the land, ended here, and with them their cause. The destiny of the country was henceforth in the hands of foreigners, who had neither comprehension of nor sympathy with its former institutions."