Sunday is the great day on the continent—the free day, the happy day. One can break the Sabbath in a hundred ways without committing any sin.
We do not work on Sunday, because the commandment forbids it; the Germans do not work on Sunday, because the commandment forbids it. We rest on Sunday, because the commandment requires it; the Germans rest on Sunday because the commandment requires it. But in the definition of the word “rest” lies all the difference. With us, its Sunday meaning is, stay in the house and keep still; with the Germans its Sunday and week-day meanings seem to be the same—rest the tired part, and never mind the other parts of the frame; rest the tired part, and use the means best calculated to rest that particular part. Thus: If one’s duties have kept him in the house all the week, it will rest him to be out on Sunday; if his duties have required him to read weighty and serious matter all the week, it will rest him to read light matter on Sunday; if his occupation has busied him with death and funerals all the week, it will rest him to go to the theater Sunday night and put in two or three hours laughing at a comedy; if he is tired with digging ditches or felling trees all the week, it will rest him to lie quiet in the house on Sunday; if the hand, the arm, the brain, the tongue, or any other member, is fatigued2 with inanition, it is not to be rested by addeding a day’s inanition; but if a member is fatigued with exertion3, inanition is the right rest for it. Such is the way in which the Germans seem to define the word “rest”; that is to say, they rest a member by recreating, recuperating4, restoring its forces. But our definition is less broad. We all rest alike on Sunday—by secluding5 ourselves and keeping still, whether that is the surest way to rest the most of us or not. The Germans make the actors, the preachers, etc., work on Sunday. We encourage the preachers, the editors, the printers, etc., to work on Sunday, and imagine that none of the sin of it falls upon us; but I do not know how we are going to get around the fact that if it is wrong for the printer to work at his trade on Sunday it must be equally wrong for the preacher to work at his, since the commandment has made no exception in his favor. We buy Monday morning’s paper and read it, and thus encourage Sunday printing. But I shall never do it again.
The Germans remember the Sabbath-day to keep it holy, by abstaining6 from work, as commanded; we keep it holy by abstaining from work, as commanded, and by also abstaining from play, which is not commanded. Perhaps we constructively7 break the command to rest, because the resting we do is in most cases only a name, and not a fact.
These reasonings have sufficed, in a measure, to mend the rent in my conscience which I made by traveling to Baden-Baden that Sunday. We arrived in time to furbish up and get to the English church before services began. We arrived in considerable style, too, for the landlord had ordered the first carriage that could be found, since there was no time to lose, and our coachman was so splendidly liveried that we were probably mistaken for a brace8 of stray dukes; why else were we honored with a pew all to ourselves, away up among the very elect at the left of the chancel? That was my first thought. In the pew directly in front of us sat an elderly lady, plainly and cheaply dressed; at her side sat a young lady with a very sweet face, and she also was quite simply dressed; but around us and about us were clothes and jewels which it would do anybody’s heart good to worship in.
I thought it was pretty manifest that the elderly lady was embarrassed at finding herself in such a conspicuous10 place arrayed in such cheap apparel; I began to feel sorry for her and troubled about her. She tried to seem very busy with her prayer-book and her responses, and unconscious that she was out of place, but I said to myself, “She is not succeeding—there is a distressed11 tremulousness in her voice which betrays increasing embarrassment12.” Presently the Savior’s name was mentioned, and in her flurry she lost her head completely, and rose and courtesied, instead of making a slight nod as everybody else did. The sympathetic blood surged to my temples and I turned and gave those fine birds what I intended to be a beseeching13 look, but my feelings got the better of me and changed it into a look which said, “If any of you pets of fortune laugh at this poor soul, you will deserve to be flayed14 for it.” Things went from bad to worse, and I shortly found myself mentally taking the unfriended lady under my protection. My mind was wholly upon her. I forgot all about the sermon. Her embarrassment took stronger and stronger hold upon her; she got to snapping the lid of her smelling-bottle—it made a loud, sharp sound, but in her trouble she snapped and snapped away, unconscious of what she was doing. The last extremity15 was reached when the collection-plate began its rounds; the moderate people threw in pennies, the nobles and the rich contributed silver, but she laid a twenty-mark gold piece upon the book-rest before her with a sounding slap! I said to myself, “She has parted with all her little hoard16 to buy the consideration of these unpitying people—it is a sorrowful spectacle.” I did not venture to look around this time; but as the service closed, I said to myself, “Let them laugh, it is their opportunity; but at the door of this church they shall see her step into our fine carriage with us, and our gaudy17 coachman shall drive her home."
Then she rose—and all the congregation stood while she walked down the aisle18. She was the Empress of Germany!
No—she had not been so much embarrassed as I had supposed. My imagination had got started on the wrong scent19, and that is always hopeless; one is sure, then, to go straight on misinterpreting everything, clear through to the end. The young lady with her imperial Majesty20 was a maid of honor—and I had been taking her for one of her boarders, all the time.
This is the only time I have ever had an Empress under my personal protection; and considering my inexperience, I wonder I got through with it so well. I should have been a little embarrassed myself if I had known earlier what sort of a contract I had on my hands.
We found that the Empress had been in Baden-Baden several days. It is said that she never attends any but the English form of church service.
I lay abed and read and rested from my journey’s fatigues21 the remainder of that Sunday, but I sent my agent to represent me at the afternoon service, for I never allow anything to interfere22 with my habit of attending church twice every Sunday.
There was a vast crowd in the public grounds that night to hear the band play the “Fremersberg.” This piece tells one of the old legends of the region; how a great noble of the Middle Ages got lost in the mountains, and wandered about with his dogs in a violent storm, until at last the faint tones of a monastery23 bell, calling the monks24 to a midnight service, caught his ear, and he followed the direction the sounds came from and was saved. A beautiful air ran through the music, without ceasing, sometimes loud and strong, sometimes so soft that it could hardly be distinguished—but it was always there; it swung grandly along through the shrill25 whistling of the storm-wind, the rattling26 patter of the rain, and the boom and crash of the thunder; it wound soft and low through the lesser27 sounds, the distant ones, such as the throbbing28 of the convent bell, the melodious29 winding30 of the hunter’s horn, the distressed bayings of his dogs, and the solemn chanting of the monks; it rose again, with a jubilant ring, and mingled31 itself with the country songs and dances of the peasants assembled in the convent hall to cheer up the rescued huntsman while he ate his supper. The instruments imitated all these sounds with a marvelous exactness. More than one man started to raise his umbrella when the storm burst forth32 and the sheets of mimic33 rain came driving by; it was hardly possible to keep from putting your hand to your hat when the fierce wind began to rage and shriek34; and it was not possible to refrain from starting when those sudden and charmingly real thunder-crashes were let loose.
I suppose the “Fremersberg” is a very low-grade music; I know, indeed, that it must be low-grade music, because it delighted me, warmed me, moved me, stirred me, uplifted me, enraptured35 me, that I was full of cry all the time, and mad with enthusiasm. My soul had never had such a scouring36 out since I was born. The solemn and majestic37 chanting of the monks was not done by instruments, but by men’s voices; and it rose and fell, and rose again in that rich confusion of warring sounds, and pulsing bells, and the stately swing of that ever-present enchanting38 air, and it seemed to me that nothing but the very lowest of low-grade music could be so divinely beautiful. The great crowd which the “Fremersberg” had called out was another evidence that it was low-grade music; for only the few are educated up to a point where high-grade music gives pleasure. I have never heard enough classic music to be able to enjoy it. I dislike the opera because I want to love it and can’t.
I suppose there are two kinds of music—one kind which one feels, just as an oyster39 might, and another sort which requires a higher faculty40, a faculty which must be assisted and developed by teaching. Yet if base music gives certain of us wings, why should we want any other? But we do. We want it because the higher and better like it. We want it without giving it the necessary time and trouble; so we climb into that upper tier, that dress-circle, by a lie; we pretend we like it. I know several of that sort of people—and I propose to be one of them myself when I get home with my fine European education.
And then there is painting. What a red rag is to a bull, Turner’s “Slave Ship” was to me, before I studied art. Mr. Ruskin is educated in art up to a point where that picture throws him into as mad an ecstasy41 of pleasure as it used to throw me into one of rage, last year, when I was ignorant. His cultivation42 enables him—and me, now—to see water in that glaring yellow mud, and natural effects in those lurid43 explosions of mixed smoke and flame, and crimson44 sunset glories; it reconciles him—and me, now—to the floating of iron cable-chains and other unfloatable things; it reconciles us to fishes swimming around on top of the mud—I mean the water. The most of the picture is a manifest impossibility—that is to say, a lie; and only rigid45 cultivation can enable a man to find truth in a lie. But it enabled Mr. Ruskin to do it, and it has enabled me to do it, and I am thankful for it. A Boston newspaper reporter went and took a look at the Slave Ship floundering about in that fierce conflagration46 of reds and yellows, and said it reminded him of a tortoise-shell cat having a fit in a platter of tomatoes. In my then uneducated state, that went home to my non-cultivation, and I thought here is a man with an unobstructed eye. Mr. Ruskin would have said: This person is an ass9. That is what I would say, now.
Months after this was written, I happened into the National Gallery in London, and soon became so fascinated with the Turner pictures that I could hardly get away from the place. I went there often, afterward47, meaning to see the rest of the gallery, but the Turner spell was too strong; it could not be shaken off. However, the Turners which attracted me most did not remind me of the Slave Ship.
However, our business in Baden-Baden this time, was to join our courier. I had thought it best to hire one, as we should be in Italy, by and by, and we did not know the language. Neither did he. We found him at the hotel, ready to take charge of us. I asked him if he was “all fixed48.” He said he was. That was very true. He had a trunk, two small satchels49, and an umbrella. I was to pay him fifty-five dollars a month and railway fares. On the continent the railway fare on a trunk is about the same it is on a man. Couriers do not have to pay any board and lodging50. This seems a great saving to the tourist—at first. It does not occur to the tourist that somebody pays that man’s board and lodging. It occurs to him by and by, however, in one of his lucid51 moments.
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1
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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recuperating
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| v.恢复（健康、体力等），复原( recuperate的现在分词 ) | |
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secluding
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| v.使隔开，使隔绝，使隐退( seclude的现在分词 ) | |
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6
abstaining
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| 戒（尤指酒），戒除( abstain的现在分词 )； 弃权（不投票） | |
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7
constructively
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| ad.有益的，积极的 | |
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8
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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10
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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11
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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13
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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14
flayed
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| v.痛打( flay的过去式和过去分词 )；把…打得皮开肉绽；剥（通常指动物）的皮；严厉批评 | |
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15
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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hoard
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| n./v.窖藏，贮存，囤积 | |
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gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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21
fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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25
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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29
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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31
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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32
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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mimic
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| v.模仿，戏弄；n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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39
oyster
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| n.牡蛎；沉默寡言的人 | |
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40
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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42
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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43
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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44
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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45
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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46
conflagration
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| n.建筑物或森林大火 | |
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47
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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48
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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49
satchels
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| n.书包( satchel的名词复数 ) | |
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50
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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51
lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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