This whole building is full of interest from its age and historical associations. It was built in the fifteenth century, has been in the hands of comedians, of a sisterhood; Marat held his horrible meetings here; Mary of England lived here after the death of her husband, Louis XII., and you can still see the chamber of the “White Queen,” with its ivory cabinets, vases, and queer old musical instruments. Visitors are requested not to touch anything, but we couldn't resist the temptation of striking just one chord on a spinet. Such a cracked voice the poor thing had! It sounded so dead and ghostlike and dreary, we hurried away as fast as we could. Don't be alarmed, and think I am going to write up all the history of the place. I haven't the least idea of doing such a thing; only this I can tell you,—the Hôtel de Cluny affords an excellent opportunity to test your knowledge of history; and if you ever stand where we did, and send your thoughts wandering among past ages, may your dates be more satisfactory than were ours!
The ruins of an old Roman palace, of which only a portion of the baths remain, adjoin the museum. There is a great room, sixty feet long, all of stone, and very high, which was used for the cold baths. The other baths are all gone, but if you imagine hot and warm and tepid ones as large as the cold, it certainly gives you a profound admiration for the magnitude of the ancient bath system. If Julian the Apostate, who built the palace, they say, could see us as we go peering curiously about, asking what this and that mean, and the names of stone things that were probably as common in his day as sewing-machines are now, wouldn't he laugh? We looked over the shoulder of a painter who was making a delightful little picture of a part of the ruins, the stone pavement and staircase, then a beautiful arch through which we could look into the open air, and see the warm sunshine, the great lilac-bushes, and a tall old ivy-covered wall beyond. The contrast between the cold gray interior and the bright outer world was very effective.
Strange old place where Cæsars have lived, and through which early kings of France and fierce Normans have swept, plundering and ruining, and where, to-day, by the fragments of the massive ivy-covered walls and under the trees in the pleasant park, happy little children play, and nurses chatter, and life is strong, and fresh and warm, even while we are thinking of the dead past!
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BADEN-BADEN.
Baden is a little paradise. It seems like a garden with the freshness of May on every flower and leaf. The long lines of chestnut-trees are rich with bright, pink blossoms,—solid pink, not pink-and-white like ours at home. You walk beneath them through shady avenues, where the young grass is like velvet, and every imaginable shade of refreshing green lies before your eyes. There is the tender May-leaf green of the shrubs, another of the soft lawns, that of the different trees, of the more distant hill-slopes, and, beyond all, the deepest intensified green of the Black Forest rising nobly everywhere around. A hideous little bright-green cottage, prominent on one of the hills, irritates us considerably, not harmonizing with its deep background of pines, and we long at first to ruthlessly erase it from the picture; but finally remembering the ugly little thing is actually somebody's home, our better nature triumphs, and we feel we can allow it to remain, and can only hope the dwellers within think it prettier than we do.
There are already many visitors here, though it is as yet too early and cool for the great throng of strangers to be expected, and the vast numbers of people come no more who used to frequent the place before the gaming was abolished by the emperor a few years ago, through Bismarck's especial exertions, it is said; from which it is to be inferred that Baden's pure loveliness is less attractive to the world at large than the fascination of the gaming-tables. We hear everywhere around regrets for the lost charm, for the gayety, excitement, brilliancy; and it is impossible to avoid wishing, not certainly that play were not abolished, but at least that we could have come when it was at its height to see for ourselves the strange phases of humanity that were here exhibited, and just how naughty it all was. Now the waiters shake their heads mournfully, as if a glory and a grace were departed, and say, “No, it isn't what it used to be,—nothing like it!” and there seems to be a “banquet-hall-deserted” atmosphere pervading the rooms in the Conversation House. To be sure there is music there evenings, and a fashionable assembly walking about; and there is music, too, in the kiosk, and a goodly number of gay people chatting, eating, and drinking at the little tables in the open air; and people gather in the early mornings to drink the waters, as they always have done, but, after all, the tribute of a memory and a regret seems to be universally paid to the vanquished god of play, who is helping poor mortals cheat somewhere else.
The Empress of Germany is here, and, after long-continued effort, we have seen her. How madly we have striven to accomplish this feat; how we have questioned servants and shopkeepers; how we have haunted the Lichtenthal Allee, that long, lovely, shady walk where her Majesty is said to promenade regularly every day; how often we have had our garments, but not our ardor, dampened for her sake; how she would never come; and how finally, in desperation, we seated ourselves at a table under a tree near her hotel, devoured eagerly with our eyes all its windows, saw imperial dogs and imperial handmaidens in the garden, and couriers galloping away with despatches, saw the coachmen and footmen and retainers, but for a long time no empress,—all this shall never be revealed, because self-respect imposes strict silence in regard to such conduct.
We must have looked somewhat like a picture in an old Harper's Magazine where two hungry newsboys stand by the area railing as dinner is served, and when the different dishes are carried past the windows one regales himself with the savory scents, while the other says something to this effect: “I don't mind the meats, but just tell me when the pudding comes and I'll take a sniff.”
“Augusta, please, dear Augusta, come out!” entreated we; but she came not. When a carriage rolled round to the door, we were in ecstasies of expectation, convinced she was going out to drive, but instead came a gentleman, servants, and travelling-bags.