In Europe there are two kinds of watering-places: those where baths are taken or waters drunk for the use of health, and those which, being delightfully situated, attract crowds of visiters merely for the purpose of agreeable pastime. The waters of the Pyrenees, of the Tyrol, and some of the Brunnens of Germany, belong to the former class; but by far the greatest number are properly comprised under the head of “Baths of Luxury and Amusement.” And, indeed, it is a luxury to use such baths in such places, and surrounded by such comforts! Among the model waters of the world are those of Germany. They unite in themselves all the advantages of the others, and surpass them in the profundity of thought and research with which they are organized and embellished. There is a high, lofty enthusiasm in that hardy race of Germans, which one would not naturally seek behind those listless blue eyes, flaxen hair, drum heads and quadrangular faces, which have won for them the characteristic appellation of têtes-carrées; and yet how beautifully are their classic lore, their wild romanticism, and their modern merriment, illustrated at their Brunnens! They are complete little worlds in themselves—miniature planets, scarcely perturbed by the revolutions of other bodies. In a week you can pass through the whole of them, from Hesse Homburg and Baden-Baden to Wiesbaden, Emms and Langenschalbach, and yet each of these bears a distinct physiognomy, and is complete within itself. Wonderful totality of the Germans—harmonious agreement of taste, fancy and reality, to be found at a German watering-place, and no where else in Germany! The republicanism and philosophy of the Germans, driven from the residences of princes, have taken refuge at the Brunnens, where they have established the democracy of high life—the cosmopolitism of education and good breeding, and the individual independence which is sometimes in vain sought in other commonwealths! I will give here, by way of example, a short description of the principal advantages of Baden-Baden—deservedly the most fashionable watering-place now in Europe—to show what a fashionable resort of that land can be made; and of what improvements our own are capable, if people had a mind to be free and easy, at least as long as the thermometer ranges from eighty to a hundred.
I shall not trouble my readers with a description of the various routes that lead to Baden from Paris, London, or any other place they choose to start from. They will find it laid down on every map of Germany, not far from Strasburg and the Rhine, and the postillions in their high-boots, leather inexpressibles, short-jackets and glazed hats, with bright brass bugles dangling to their sides, on which they often charm their horses and annoy their English passengers, are so accustomed to the road that they are sure to carry you there within the time prescribed by law, (4 miles to the hour,) if you will promise not to disappoint them with the drink-geld. A German postillion gets money merely for drink, and hence his douceur is called drink-money—the English translation of the above idiom. This only I will say: that if you take the rail-road from Carlsruhe to Baden-Baden, you have already a foretaste of the comforts that await you. Of course you take first class cars, balanced on extra steel springs, where, stretched on a rose-wood sofa, carved à la Renaissance, with a large looking-glass before you, and an elegant table between, you may either read, take notes, take a collation or enjoy an agreeable tête-à-tête, as taste or opportunity may prompt you. These cars are never crowded, and you are in them as in a lady’s boudoir, treading softly on the carpet. Instead of the shrill whistle, the hunter’s, respectively the postillion’s bugle, apprises you of your arrival, the door is opened, and the conductor, doffing his cap with the Grand Ducal arms, informs you that you have reached the place of your destination. There is no trouble about the luggage, which is all marked and registered, and sent to your hotel by the agents of the road, for another drink-geld, regulated by a tariff.
And now as to the hotels, of which there are about twenty or thirty in the place. The first question is: how large an apartment do you want? Do you require two, three, four, five, six or more rooms? with the windows looking into the garden or on the street? There are some rooms higher up with a fine view of the mountains—some with a balcony, &c. These rooms are not merely places to sleep in; they are as completely furnished as those of your own house, with large glasses, sofas, lounges, fauteuils, and every convenience of the town or residence you have just left. You are in the country without missing any of the comforts of the city. There are two excellent tables d’hôte, one at an early and one at a late hour, (5 o’clock,) to suit your habits; breakfast in your rooms when you ring; supper from seven or eight in the evening till four or any o’clock the next morning, à la carte. Of course when you dine in your room you command your dinner à la carte also, but you better leave that to the taste of your host. Every hotel has baths attached to it, which you may command at any hour, and physicians who explain to you their effect on the constitution, and with whom you may advise as to your case. If you dine at the table d’hôte you are sure to have a band of music, which has at least the effect of promoting conversation, if it does not refresh your memory with the most popular pieces of the last opera. There is no public parlor; but the accommodations are such that you may receive your friends in your own room. The public parlor is the Conversation House, or Kursaal, where you see every body—not only “the boarders of your hotel,” but the whole society of the place, which meets there twice a day, and is to the visiters of Baden what the capitol in Washington is to strangers in that city. This, of course, prevents the formation of cliques or sets, or coteries that are, for instance, formed at Saratoga, in regard, God save the mark! to the boarding-place you may be at, and enables you to be in good society without being observed; meeting your acquaintances, and yet obliged to recognize none unless you choose to do so. During the season there are some two or three thousand people every day at the Conversation House, which, of an evening, I can compare to nothing better than the levee of our President, with this exception only, that there is less of a jam, and of course less confusion.
The Conversation House itself is a very tasteful and elegant building; and some idea may be formed of the costliness of its furniture, when I state that the painting of the walls of a single saloon in it has cost fifty thousand francs. There are music and dancing, concerts and theatrical representations connected with the Conversation House, and only one marplot, which the government is about to suppress—the gaming-table. The principal games played are Rouge and Noire, or trente et quarante, Roulet and Hazard, introduced lately from Crockford’s. But it is not considered good taste to gamble, though there is usually a large gallery of spectators; and a lady at the gaming-table is, indeed, a most sorry spectacle. Every body has a right to enter the Conversation House gratis, from the time it is opened till it is closed; provided the person, male or female, is properly dressed; and it is the fashion to be dressed as simply as possible, and for the ladies never to wear diamonds. Balls and concerts are given in separate rooms by subscription; but even there it is considered bad taste and absolutely vulgar, to appear in full dress. I have seen Prince Gallitzin waltzing with the Duchess of Béthune, he dressed in a linen jacket, and she wearing red morocco shoes! The only hair-dress which is not absolutely ridiculous in a lady, consists of natural flowers. It is the intention that all shall enjoy themselves equally, and that nothing shall provoke remarks. The height of vulgarity, in a watering-place, is to be distinguished. It is understood that all social obligations and distinctions are suspended or cancelled at the watering-place, and that no obligation there incurred need be recognized in the city. There is, therefore, no fear of making disagreeable acquaintances, and the agreeable ones must be renewed in town.
But what I have thus far stated is but half the real pleasure enjoyed at a German watering-place, or the comfort that you can find there, if you like to stay there for a season. In that case you had best hire an étage (a whole floor of a house, usually from five to ten rooms, with a kitchen, &c.) or a whole house for yourself, all which you find already furnished with kitchen utensils, crockery, silver, in short, every thing that you have left at home, with even servants, if you desire, to wait on you; all by the week, month, or the whole season. In a similar manner may you hire your carriage by the day, week, month, or season, your saddle-horse, or a donkey to ride over the mountains. You are, in fact, surrounded by every convenience of London or Paris, and yet, in half an hour’s drive, amidst the peasantry of the most laughing villages of Germany.
Baden is not without its Italian Corso. Every afternoon, that is from 6 o’clock till dark, ladies and gentlemen drive from Baden to Lichtenthal, a distance of not more than two English miles, but which, by art, is so arranged as to convey the idea of a much longer jaunt. You drive all the time through a most beautiful alley of horse-chestnuts; but you are not fatigued with the tiresome monotony of a straight line, and its diminishing perspective. The line you follow is serpentine, with unequal curves on both sides, so as to lengthen your course and still keep you in the valley bounded on both sides by semi-circular mountains. In this manner you enjoy every possible scenery, and every advantageous position to view it. Now the old castle, which you have just left, again bursts on your sight; then the landscape seems to be changed into an open prairie, bound on both sides by craggy rocks; then you find yourself suddenly traversing a flower-garden, traveling along between rose-bushes raised to the height of from eight to ten feet; and all at once you are again, as if by magic, buried within the dark foliage of a dense oak forest. Thus the scenery varies till you have come to the nunnery of Lichtenthal, where you may alight and take some refreshment in the hotel opposite, or if you are fond of clear, mountain streamlets, taste the cool water of the rills that trickle down the mountains; some blowsy children being always ready to present you with a tumbler-full on a waiter, with a bunch of flowers placed by the side of it, for which you are expected to make a small return. Germany is essentially the country of flowers and music, and you can indulge in both of them, during the season, at Baden-Baden. By the side of the alley of horse-chestnuts, which is wide enough for two or three carriages to drive abreast, there is another for cavaliers on horseback, so that ladies and gentlemen can practice all the arts of refined coquetry whilst admiring the beauties of nature, and enjoying the fragrant air with which this romantic valley is constantly blessed. On the left hand, following the gurgling brook which meanders through the valley, is a gravel-walk, sufficiently near the drive for the promenaders to observe and to be observed, and with its animated groups, much contributing to the variety of the scene. There is no social difference observed between those who drive and those who walk, parties frequently alighting from their carriages to join the pedestrians, and carriages being ready on both ends of the promenade to convey them. Whichever way you turn, social distinctions vanish—the life you lead seems to be all romance; you have left the cares of the world behind you, and are willing to look upon all men as honest and true, and on all women as angels. Neither are you answerable for your doings at the watering-place, except to your own conscience—all that occurs there is a mere episode, you live, as it were, in a parenthesis. What a pretty parenthesis one lives in at Saratoga with a “corps of reporters” at one’s elbow to note one’s acts, and chronicle one’s fancies! But this very freedom from social trammels is often the cause of the most lasting affections, as those trees frequently strike the deepest roots which are early exposed to the blast.
You have now returned from the Corso to the Conversation House, which on one side is leaning against the mountains, having in front a rich park, and under the trees numerous stalls, where ladies may indulge in the entertaining vocation of shopping, to ruin either husbands or gallants. The shops, however, are now closed; the moon has risen, and with her electro-galvanic power, is silvering the old walls of the castle, perched, like an eagle’s nest, on the mountain. As you pass on, her playful light twinkles through the leaves, and paints grotesque figures on ladies’ shawls and bonnets, which are not to be imitated either by Nancy or Paris embroidery, and are handsomest when falling on plain gauze or muslin, slightly veiling the sylph-like forms that flit between the trees.
In front of the Conversation House is the orangery, with the golden fruit of Hesperus suspended from its dark green branches; an ocean of light from lamps placed between the trees, gives a magic appearance to the crowd that floats between them; and a scientific orchestra of from twenty-four to thirty instruments, diffuses harmony through the cool evening breeze, till its melodious notes die with faint echo in the mountains.
In that promenade, though not measuring more than six or eight hundred paces, you seem to take an optical trip through Europe. You hear every language spoken, and behold every possible costume, from the straight-laced Englishman to the turbaned Turk and the ample-folded Armenian. The Italian, French, Spanish, English, Russian, German, and Oriental tongues are here mingling with one another without producing the least confusion, or making any one believe that he is not at home. The Englishman, with his two left hands, so manly in public life, and so peevish and awkward in society, almost unbends; the fiery Spaniard forgets his Prado and the dark eyes of Madrid; the mocking Frenchman leaves off his bons-mots; the Russian thaws from his icy despotism; and the enthusiastic Italian himself swears that this would have been a scene for the love of Petrarca. But the thoughtful German, with his abstractions and enthusiasm running in rich veins deep beneath the surface, flies from the throng, and climbing up the footpath of the mountain, carved in the rock by patient taste, breathes soft vows to willingly listening ears, in the sweet solitude of moonlight.
Connected with the Conversation House is a restaurateur, who is at the same time a limonadier and glacier. There is nothing that the Café de Paris, the Maison d’or, Tortoni, the Rocher de Cancale, or the Trois frères Provençaux can furnish, that you do not find on the carte of this practical epicure; while instead of the glass-boxes in which you are obliged to dine or sup, in Paris, you are here served in a spacious gallery, ornamented with plants and flowers from the four quarters of the globe, a thousand times reflected in gigantic mirrors. Every thing here seems to be arranged by the hands of a kind fairy, and the repasts themselves are served with a promptitude and a precision as if the spirits attending you were obeying the magic wand of an enchanter.