I have referred before to the great regiments of soldiers mounted and on guard at all times in Germany. But nowhere outside of Berlin are they so thick as in Munich. This little kingdom of Bavaria is full of them. Thousands of troops are in line. Every male must serve three years continuously; every man between the age of twenty-one and forty-five must go with his regiment into camp or barracks several weeks each year, no matter if the harvest rots in the fields or the customers desert the shops, leaving the unsold wares on shelves. The service takes three of the best years of a young man’s life. You can see young soldiers with their hot-looking uniforms, until you feel everybody is “soldiering” for a living. You meet these young officers everywhere, most of them fine-looking fellows—good figures—in what, I suppose, they think handsome-looking uniforms. On the street, salutes between officers and men are perpetual; the hand being raised to the temple and held there a second. Their politeness impresses you as much more sincere than the French. At hotels the landlord, wife, and servant join in wishing you a good night’s sleep, while the “Deutsche Mädchen ‘Bitte schöne’s’” everything. The most polite I ever knew, with one exception, at Hotel Windsor in London: the maid there thanked us for bringing us a pitcher of hot water. The young German is much more stylish and prepossessing in appearance than his fraulein. A young officer in his shining uniform, white kids, long sword clanking on the walk, raising his hand in a condescending salute to a lower in rank or with affable grace to a superior, is pleasant to see.
One always turns to the strains of the military band and views the mounted musicians, as well as the uniformed soldiers, mounted as if born to the saddle, with invariably fine horses that prance in the sunshine. The clatter of their hoofs on the cobble pavement, the jingle of bit and sabre, an occasional word of command, the onward sweep of the well-trained cavalcade, continued for so long a time that I turned to a gentleman on the sidewalk and said, “How many men are in line?” He shrugged his shoulders in that detestable fashion, an imitation of the French, I suppose. I then said, “Wie viel?”—“Zehn tausend.” I then remarked, “What a foolish waste of time and money”; he no doubt would have responded to this if he could.
Their chief use (the soldiers), as far as I could see, was to make pageants in the streets and to furnish music for the public squares.
The Isar River is one of the curiosities of Munich. It is chiefly noted for running rapidly, and for being nowhere near the battlefield of Hohenlinden, the poet to the contrary notwithstanding. They say it is a river sometimes as white as milk, at others as green as grass; and it is probably the only river of its size in the world that has no boats on it; nor may one bathe in it, on account of the swiftness of the current. Its principal use is for people to drown themselves in. They do use it, however, for the Isar is turned into this beautiful English Garden. Art takes hold of it and turns it to use, causing it to flow into more than one stream with its mountain impetuosity, forming lakes gracefully overhung with trees, which present ever-changing aspects of loveliness as you walk along its banks.
There are always idlers everywhere. Everybody has leisure in Europe. One can easily learn how to be idle and let the world wag. They are not troubled with “Americanitis.” They have found out that the world will continue to turn over every twenty-four hours without their valuable aid. They give so many hours to recreation and amusement.
Munich has developed remarkably in commerce and art. As an industrial town it is celebrated principally for its enormous breweries. A German statistician—Germans seem to be mostly statisticians—has recently calculated that the tramways of Munich get two thirds of their income in conveying people to the cafés from their homes and places of business. Once a Münchener finds a café to his taste, he goes there the rest of his life, and is followed by his progeny, no matter how inconvenient or how far distant. The women spend afternoons in their favorite cafés, taking off their wraps and bonnets and doing a little knitting or crocheting. This industry is indulged in even on the Sabbath. Here we see peasant women mere beasts of burden, carrying great loads of wood on their backs up stairways, and doing all kinds of the heaviest menial service. Woman and her status is really the most interesting study in all Bavaria. But the short time one has there, he can only note the most striking things. Dogs come in, in importance—regular summer dogs, so long that one chills while they pass in and out of doorways. Dogs everywhere, following after the streetcars, long trails of dogs, where owners are passengers. They seem a little lower than the children and a little higher than woman; but Munich, like the rest of the world, is changing. “Americanisiert,” they say, but there are still a few places which retain many old forms and customs and curious sights. Munich attempts to be an architectural reproduction of classic times. In order to achieve any success in this direction it is necessary to have the blue heavens and golden sunshine of Greece. Its prevailing color is gray, but its many-tinted and frescoed fronts go far to relieve this cheerless aspect. The old portion of the city has some remains of other days of splendor, as it abounds in archways and rambling alleys, that suddenly become broad streets, then contract again; portions of old wall and city gates, old feudal towers standing in the market-place, still remain. But the Munich of to-day is as if built to order. King Ludwig I.’s flower-wreathed bust stands in these days to remind them that he gave the impulse for all this. The new city is laid out on a magnificent scale of distances, with wide streets, fine open squares, and plenty of room for gardens and art.
CHAPTER VIII
OBER-AMMERGAU and the great Passion Play have been much talked about. Ministers, priests, and laymen have discoursed and “stereopticoned” this wonderful play, to say nothing of the graphic descriptions of the mighty army of club-women fortunate enough to be an eye-witness to this great event. It has been so much better told and illustrated, I hesitate to make my poor effort, but more to preserve it in my memory as a little keepsake, cherished most fondly, than to entertain others, I will review it.