From the Lakes of Killarney to the Golden Horn

by Henry M. Field

The next day we drove to Charlottenburg, to visit the old palaces and the exquisite mausoleum of the beautiful Queen Louise, and on our return stopped to take our dinner at the Flora—an enclosure of several acres, laid out like a botanical garden. A large conservatory, called the Palm Garden, keeps under cover such rare plants and trees as would not grow in the cold climate; and here one is in a tropical scene. This answers the purpose of a Winter Garden, as great banks of flowers and of rare plants are in full bloom all the winter long; and here the rank and fashion of Berlin can gather in winter, and with the air filled with the perfume of flowers, forget the scene without—the naked trees and bitter winds and drifting snows—while listening to musical concerts given in an immense hall, capable of holding several thousand people. These are the festivities of winter. But now, as it is midsummer, the people prefer to be out of doors; and here, seated among the rest, we take our dinner, entertained (as sovereigns are wont to entertain their royal guests at State dinners) with a band of music in the intervals of the feast, which gives a new zest, a touch of Oriental luxury, to our very simple repast.

At Dresden we were at the Hôtel Bellevue, which is close to the Elbe, and there was a public garden on the bank of the river, right under our windows. Every evening we sat on the terrace attached to the hotel, and heard the music, and watched the pleasure boats darting up and down the river.

But of all the cities of Germany, the one where this out-door life is carried to the greatest perfection, is here in Vienna. We arrived when the weather was very hot. For the first time this summer in Europe we were really oppressed with the heat. The sun blazed fiercely, and as we drove about the city seeing sights, we felt that we were martyrs suffering in a good cause. We were told that the heat was very unusual. The only relief and restoration after such days was an evening ride. So as the sun was setting we took a carriage and made the circuit of the Ring-strasse, the boulevards laid out on the site of the old walls, ending with the Prater, that immense park, where two years ago the Great Exposition was held, and where the buildings still stand. This is the place of concourse of the Viennese on gala days, when the Emperor turns out, and all the Austrian and Hungarian nobility, with their splendid equipages (the Hungarians have an Oriental fondness for gilded trappings), making a sight which is said to be more dazzling than can be seen even in the Hyde Park of London, or the Bois de Boulogne at Paris. Just now, of course, all this fashionable element has fled the city, and is enjoying life at the German watering places. But as there are still left seven or eight hundred thousand people, they must find some way to bear the heats of summer; and so they flock to the Prater. The trees are all ablaze with light; half a dozen bands of music are in full blast, and "all the world is gay." It is truly "a midsummer night's dream." I was especially attracted to a concert garden where the band, a very large one, was composed of women. To be sure there were half a dozen men sprinkled among the performers, but they seemed to have subordinate parts—only blowing away at the wind instruments—while all the stringed instruments were played by delicate female hands. It was quite pretty to see how deftly they held the violins, and what sweet music they wrung from the strings. Two or three young maidens stood beside the bass-viols, which were taller than themselves, and a trim figure, that might have been that of a French vivandière, beat the drum. The conductor was of course a woman, and marshalled her forces with wonderful spirit. I don't know whether the music was very fine or not (for I am not a judge in such matters), but I applauded vigorously, because I liked the independence of the thing, and have some admiration, if not sympathy, for the spirit of those heroic reformers, who wish to "put down these men."

But the chief musical glory of Vienna is the Volksgarten, where Strauss's famous band plays, and there we spent our last night in Vienna. It is an enclosure near the Palace, and the grounds belong to the Emperor, who gives the use of them (so we were told) to the son of his old nurse, who devotes them to the purpose of a public garden, and to musical concerts. Besides Strauss's band, there was a military band, which played alternately. As we entered it was executing an air which my companions recognized as from "William Tell," and they pointed out to me the beautiful passages—those which imitated the Alpine horns, etc. Then Strauss came to the front—not Johann (who has become so famous that the Emperor has appropriated him to himself, so that he can now play only for the royal family and their guests), but his brother, Edward. He is a little man, whose body seems to be set on springs, and to be put in motion by music. While leading the orchestra, of some forty performers, he was as one inspired—he fairly danced with excitement; it seemed as if he hardly touched the earth, but floated in air, his body swaying hither and thither to the sound of music. When he had finished, the military band responded, and so it continued the whole evening.

The garden was illuminated not only with gas lamps, but with other lights not set down in the programme. The day had been terribly hot, and as we drove to the garden, dark masses of cloud were gathering, and soon the rain began to come down in earnest. The people who were sitting under the trees took refuge in the shelter of the large hall; and there, while incessant flashes of lightning lighted up the garden without, the martial airs of the military band were answered by the roll of the thunder. This was an unexpected accompaniment to the music, but it was very grateful, as it at once cleared and cooled the air, and gave promise of a pleasant day for travelling on the morrow.

I might describe many similar scenes, though less brilliant, in every German city, but these are enough to give a picture of the open-air life and recreations of the German people. And now for the moral of the tale. What is the influence of this kind of life—is it good or bad? What lesson does it teach to us Americans? Does it furnish an example to imitate, or a warning to avoid? Perhaps something of both.

Certainly it is a good thing that it leads the people to spend some hours of every day in the open air. During hours of business they are in their offices or their shops, and they need a change; and anything which tempts them out of doors is a physical benefit; it quiets their nerves, and cools their blood, and prepares them for refreshing sleep. So far it is good. Every open space in the midst of a great population is so much breathing space; the parks of a city are rightly called its lungs; and it is a good thing if once a day all classes, rich and poor, young and old, can get a long draught of fresh, pure air, as if they were in the country.

Next to the pleasure of sitting in the open air, the attraction of these places is the music. The Germans are a music-loving people. Luther was an enthusiast for music, and called any man a fool, a dull, heavy dolt, whose blood was not stirred by martial airs or softer melodies. In this he is a good type of the German people. This taste is at once cultivated and gratified by what they hear at these public resorts. I cannot speak with authority on such matters, but my companions identified almost every air that was played as from some celebrated piece of music, the work of some great master, all of whom are familiar in Germany from Mozart to Mendelssohn. The constant repetition of such music by competent and trained bands, cannot but have a great effect upon the musical education of the people.

And this delightful recreation is furnished very cheaply. In New York to hear Nilsson, opera-goers pay three or four dollars. But here admission to the Volksgarten, the most fashionable resort in Vienna, is but a florin (about fifty cents); to the Flora, in Berlin, it was but a mark, which is of the value of an English shilling, or a quarter of a dollar; while many of the public gardens are free, the only compensation being what is paid for refreshments.

One other feature of this open-air life and recreation has been very delightful to me—its domestic character. It is not a solitary, selfish kind of pleasure, as when men go off by themselves to drink or gamble, or indulge in any kind of dissipation. When men go to these public gardens, on the contrary, they take their wives and their sisters with them. Often we see a whole family, down to the children, grouped around one of these tables. They sit there as they would around their own tea-table at home. The family life is not broken by this taking of their pleasure in public. On the contrary, it is rather strengthened; all the family ties are made the closer by sharing their enjoyments together.