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The Brandenburger Thor Page 11
One is never sure what distinguished statesmen or prince of royal blood is sitting near by. While we were breakfasting one morning a gentleman dressed in an ordinary business suit approached and sat alone at a table close at hand. We learned later that he was the Prime Minister of Russia.
The activities and diversions of the day would be incomplete without a stroll after dinner down the pleasant Kaiserstrasse. At this evening hour all the visitors to Marienbad pass in leisurely review. The Austrian officers, erect and soldierly, make quite a striking appearance. Our attention was also attracted to the monks of Tepl, with their long black cloaks and broad-brimmed hats. They are the owners of Marienbad, and live in a monastery situated a few miles from the village. About two centuries ago the monks of Tepl began to realize the commercial possibilities of their springs. Forests were cut away; streets were laid; marshes blossomed into gardens and green lawns; splendid buildings were erected for patrons who wished to take the various baths, and to-day Marienbad is a village of hotels and villas. Last year there were about forty thousand visitors. The monks whom we saw looked sleek and well-fed. They lead an easy life, hunting, fishing, and managing their lucrative property. The monastic vow of poverty has probably long since ceased to mean much of a hardship.
This fact of a modern village being controlled by a wealthy religious organization dating as far back as 1133 is most unique. It is doubtful if a parallel case can be found anywhere. The town shows in many ways the influence of its monastic administration. Licensed gambling halls, which are so prevalent in all of the French watering places, do not exist here. There is no night life. After ten o'clock in the evening the streets begin to look deserted. Amusement places of doubtful character have thus far found no footing in this simple village life. Considering the thousands of idle and pleasure-loving Europeans who throng every year to Marienbad, it seems remarkable that the general tone of the place should have been kept so high.
CHAPTER II
MARIENBAD TO TRAFOI
Even a congenial environment like that of Marienbad began to lack interest when we looked at our motor itinerary and saw awaiting us such rich experiences as climbing above the clouds over the snowbound Stelvio, or the sight of Carcassonne, tower-girt and formidable behind feudal walls. The call of the white road was irresistible when it led through the purple valleys of the Pyrenees to beautiful Biarritz on the Atlantic and to San Sebastian in Spain, where the Spanish king and queen hold summer court. The perfect day of blue skies added its persuasive voice.
We were again on the road. The villas of Marienbad withdrew behind the mountains, and we settled down to the complete enjoyment of the ride through Bohemia and southern Germany to Munich. On either side were quaint scenes of Bohemian life. Every little farm hamlet had its pond of geese, with a goose girl tending her flocks. One of them threw us a flower. Her action meant more to us than she thought; it was a happy omen for the rest of the trip. Peasant women were toiling barefooted in the fields, or trudging along the road, bending under heavy burdens of wood. This human element in the scene was impressive. Here, as everywhere, the great drama of human life was being played. But the role of the actors was such a humble and pathetic one, so much of the land was given over to unfruitful fields, half cleared of stumps! There were no such pictures of content and prosperity as one finds everywhere in Germany and Holland. The houses were scarcely more than huts.
We halted in some of the towns to take a first lesson in the Czeck or Bohemian dialect. The store signs were mysterious, with their hieroglyphics. One shop contained sewing machines, and the word "Singowiski" above the door hinted that this might be the Bohemian translation of Singer sewing machines. Road signs were not always visible, and less often intelligible. Then we were obliged to ask the way. If the source of our information was a town official he usually spoke in German, otherwise in Bohemian, an answer which did not relieve us of our uncertainty.
The German frontier was reached about noon. Our Triptyque received the customary official stamping at the Zoll-amt. To our great relief, no questions were asked about Pichner Torte, a very delicious kind of cake made only in Austria, and so good that tourists always lay in ample supplies. Such articles as a rule are heavily taxed at the Austrian frontier.
Just at this moment Looloo, our French bull terrier, became sick. The shock of coming so suddenly into German territory was probably too much for her sensitive French temperament, but she soon revived after eating a piece of French dog biscuit. We lunched at a Gasthaus in the small town of Furth im Walde. The first word on the wall which caught our attention was "Ausstellung." That was enough to make us feel that we were once more in the Fatherland. The Germans seem to be always holding or advertising exhibitions and fairs. "Ausstellung" and "Practisch" need have no immediate fear of losing their place in the vocabulary of the average German. There was no doubt of our being in Germany. We would have known it from the trim, clean farms. Order and thrift were in evidence, every stick of every wood pile in place—all such a contrast to Bohemian untidiness.
Once more in the land of the Kaiser, and motoring through picturesque Bavaria, slow changing and old-fashioned, the mediæval part of modern Germany, a region of small towns and peasant farms. We were often delayed to pay the Zoll of a few pfennigs. The impost was not onerous, but it was inconvenient to stop so often. Frequently a little girl or small boy would come out to collect our pfennigs, and would hold up flowers for us to purchase. On one occasion we saw an aged collector of tolls apparently overburdened by official cares, his head sunk in slumber, and a large beer stein on a table near him. The picture was so characteristic of the slow-moving life around us!
Our motor flight through this fascinating region of Germany afforded opportunity to observe how the different towns had striven for a style of architecture original and unique. The houses had much warmth of color, much more than one would see in northern Germany. But then Bavaria is of course closer to Italy, and to the vivid landscapes, the bright sunny skies of the southland, and this difference in climate is naturally reflected in the life of the people. It is not surprising that the great artists of Germany should have come from the south.
We remember vividly the town of Straubing, where we stopped to buy gasoline. In the middle of the street an old-fashioned clock tower rose above the red-tiled roofs and gabled houses. Many of the homes had attractive window gardens; red and blue were the prevailing colors. No one was in a hurry; life moved with a leisurely swing. Baedeker barely mentions Straubing, but we doubt if Nurnberg or Munich could show a street more typically south German or better worth the artist's brush.
At this point should be mentioned the happy discovery of the lunch box which thoughtful friends had stowed away with the baggage. There had been so much to attract our attention that we had overlooked it. Our motor appetites were equal to the occasion; fruit, cakes, and cold chicken sandwiches received no mercy. It is unnecessary to add that scenery and sandwiches went well together, especially such scenery and such sandwiches.
The landscapes were not more varied than the weather. At times the road was wet where a shower had just preceded us. All day the sunshine had brightened and faded. Now we noticed a battalion of dark clouds massing heavily above us; little by little the blue sky surrendered to the storm king; the artillery of heaven thundered into action. It was worth a wetting to see the storm sweep toward us and then fade into the gorgeous sunset which closed the day. The church spires of Munich were luminous in the golden light. Swiftly we sped down the long, straight road into the city. When we stopped before the comfortable Regina Palast Hotel our speedometer registered one hundred and eighty-five miles, the longest run of the trip. The country ahead of us was to prove too interesting for any attempt at long-distance records.
