IF a preliminary glance at Switzerland suggested to me a high individuality, primarily Teutonic but secondarily national and distinctive1, all I saw afterwards in Germany and Holland with which I contrasted it, confirmed my first impression. I believe that the Swiss, for all that they speak the German language and have an architecture that certainly has much in common with that of medieval Germany, are yet of markedly diverging3 character. They struck me in the main as colder, more taciturn, more introspective and less flamboyant4 than the Germans. The rank and file, in so far as I could see, were extremely sparing, saving, reserved. They reminded me more of such Austrians and Tyrolians as I have known, than of Germans. They were thinner, livelier in their actions, not so lusty nor yet so aggressive.
The new architecture which I saw between Lucerne and the German frontier reminded me of much of that which one sees in northern Ohio and Indiana and southern Michigan. There are still traces of the over-elaborate curlicue type of structure and decoration so interesting as being representative of medieval Teutonic life, but not much. The new manufacturing towns were very clean and spruce with modern factory buildings of the latest almost-all-glass type; and churches and public buildings, obviously an improvement or an attempt at improvement on older Swiss and Teutonic ideals, were everywhere apparent. Lucerne itself is divided into an old section, honored and preserved for its historic and commercial value, as being attractive to travelers; a new425 section, crowded with stores, tenements5 and apartments of the latest German and American type; and a hotel section, filled with large Anglicized and Parisianized structures, esplanades, small lounging squares and the like. I never bothered to look at Thorwaldsen’s famous lion. One look at a photograph years ago alienated6 me forever.
I had an interesting final talk on the morning of my departure from Lucerne with the resident manager of the hotel who was only one of many employees of a company that controlled, so he told me, hotels in Berlin, Frankfort, Paris, Rome and London. He had formerly7 been resident manager of a hotel in Frankfort, the one to which I was going, and said that he might be transferred any time to some other one. He was the man, as I learned, whom I had seen rowing on the lake the first morning I sat out on my balcony—the one whom the wild ducks followed.
“I saw you,” I said as I paid my bill, “out rowing on the lake the other morning. I should say that was pleasant exercise.”
“I always do it,” he said very cheerfully. He was a tall, pale, meditative8 man with a smooth, longish, waxen countenance9 and very dark hair. He was the last word as to toilet and courtesy. “I am glad to have the chance. I love nature.”
“Are those wild ducks I see on the lake flying about?”
“Oh, yes. We have lots of them. They are not allowed to be shot. That’s why they come here. We have gulls10, too. There is a whole flock of gulls that comes here every winter. I feed them right out here at the dock every day.”
“Why, where can they come from?” I asked. “This is a long way from the sea.”
“I know it,” he replied. “It is strange. They come426 over the Alps from the Mediterranean11 I suppose. You will see them on the Rhine, too, if you go there. I don’t know. They come though. Sometimes they leave for four or five days or a week, but they always come back. The captain of the steamer tells me he thinks they go to some other lake. They know me though. When they come back in the fall and I go out to feed them they make a great fuss.”
“They are the same gulls, then?”
“The very same.”
I had to smile.
“Those two ducks are great friends of mine, too,” he went on, referring to the two I had seen following him. “They always come up to the dock when I come out and when I come back from my row they come again. Oh, they make a great clatter12.”
He looked at me and smiled in a pleased way.
The train which I boarded at Lucerne was a through express from Milan to Frankfort with special cars for Paris and Berlin. It was crowded with Germans of a ruddy, solid variety, radiating health, warmth, assurance, defiance13. I never saw a more marked contrast than existed between these travelers on the train and the local Swiss outside. The latter seemed much paler and less forceful by contrast, though not less intellectual and certainly more refined.
One stout14, German lady, with something like eighteen packages, had made a veritable express room of her second-class compartment15. The average traveler, entitled to a seat beside her, would take one look at her defenses and pass on. She was barricaded16 beyond any hope of successful attack.
I watched interestedly to see how the character of the people, soil and climate would change as we crossed427 the frontier into Germany. Every other country I had entered had presented a great contrast to the last. After passing fifteen or twenty Swiss towns and small cities, perhaps more, we finally reached Basle and there the crew was changed. I did not know it, being busy thinking of other things, until an immense, rotund, guttural-voiced conductor appeared at the door and wanted to know if I was bound for Frankfort. I looked out. It was just as I expected: another world and another atmosphere had been substituted for that of Switzerland. Already the cars and depot17 platforms were different, heavier I thought, more pretentious18. Heavy German porters (packträger) were in evidence. The cars, the vast majority of them here, bore the label of Imperial Germany—the wide-winged, black eagle with the crown above it, painted against a pinkish-white background, with the inscription19 “Kaiserlicher Deutsche Post.” A station-master, erect20 as a soldier, very large, with splendiferous parted whiskers, arrayed in a blue uniform and cap, regulated the departure of trains. The “Uscita” and “Entrata” of Italy here became “Eingang” and “Ausgang,” and the “Bagaglia” of every Italian station was here “Gepäck.” The endless German “Verboten,” and “Es ist untersagt” also came into evidence. We rolled out into a wide, open, flat, mountainless plain with only the thin poplars of France in evidence and no waterways of any kind, and then I knew that Switzerland was truly no more.
If you want to see how the lesser21 Teutonic countries vary from this greater one, the dominant22 German Empire, pass this way from Switzerland into Germany, or from Germany into Holland. At Basle, as I have said, we left the mountains for once and for all. I saw but few frozen peaks after Lucerne. As we approached Basle they seemed to grow less and less428 and beyond that we entered a flat plain, as flat as Kansas and as arable23 as the Mississippi Valley, which stretched unbroken from Basle to Frankfort and from Frankfort to Berlin. Judging from what I saw the major part of Germany is a vast prairie, as flat as a pancake and as thickly strewn with orderly, new, bright forceful towns as England is with quaint24 ones.
However, now that I was here, I observed that it was just these qualities which make Germany powerful and the others weak. Such thoroughness, such force, such universal superintendence! Truly it is amazing. Once you are across the border, if you are at all sensitive to national or individual personalities25 you can feel it, vital, glowing, entirely26 superior and more ominous27 than that of Switzerland, or Italy, and often less pleasant. It is very much like the heat and glow of a furnace. Germany is a great forge or workshop. It resounds28 with the industry of a busy nation; it has all the daring and assurance of a successful man; it struts29, commands, defies, asserts itself at every turn. You would not want to witness greater variety of character than you could by passing from England through France into Germany. After the stolidity30 and civility of the English, and the lightness and spirit of France, the blazing force and defiance of the Germans comes upon you as almost the most amazing of all.
In spite of the fact that my father was German and that I have known more or less of Germans all my life, I cannot say that I admired the personnel of the German Empire, the little that I saw of it, half so much as I admired some of the things they had apparently31 achieved. All the stations that I saw in Germany were in apple-pie order, new, bright, well-ordered. Big blue-lettered signs indicated just the things you wanted to know.429 The station platforms were exceedingly well built of red tile and white stone; the tracks looked as though they were laid on solid hardwood ties; the train ran as smoothly32 as if there were no flaws in it anywhere and it ran swiftly. I had to smile as occasionally on a platform—the train speeding swiftly—a straight, upstanding German officer or official, his uniform looking like new, his boots polished, his gold epaulets and buckles33 shining as brightly as gold can shine, his blond whiskers, red cap, glistening34 glasses or bright monocle, and above all his sharp, clear eyes looking directly at you, making an almost amazing combination of energy, vitality35 and superiority, came into view and disappeared again. It gave you a startling impression of the whole of Germany. “Are they all like that?” I asked myself. “Is the army really so dashing and forceful?”
As I traveled first to Frankfort, then to Mayence, Coblenz and Cologne and again from Cologne to Frankfort and Berlin, and thence out of the country via Holland, the wonder grew. I should say now that if Germany has any number of defects of temperament36, and it truly has from almost any American point of view, it has virtues37 and capacities so noteworthy, admirable and advantageous39 that the whole world may well sit up and take notice. The one thing that came home to me with great force was that Germany is in no way loose jointed40 or idle but, on the contrary, strong, red-blooded, avid41, imaginative. Germany is a terrific nation, hopeful, courageous42, enthusiastic, orderly, self-disciplining, at present anyhow, and if it can keep its pace without engaging in some vast, self-destroying conflict, it can become internally so powerful that it will almost stand irresistible43. I should say that any nation that to-day430 chose to pick a quarrel with Germany on her home ground would be foolish in the extreme. It is the beau ideal of the aggressive, militant44, orderly spirit and, if it were properly captained and the gods were kind, it would be everywhere invincible45.
When I entered Germany it was with just two definite things in mind. One was to seek out my father’s birthplace, a little hamlet, as I understood it, called Mayen, located somewhere between the Moselle and the Rhine at Coblenz,—the region where the Moselle wines come from. The other was to visit Berlin and see what Germany’s foremost city was really like and to get a look at the Kaiser if possible. In both of these I was quickly successful, though after I reached Frankfort some other things transpired46 which were not on the program.
Frankfort was a disappointment to me at first. It was a city of over four hundred thousand population, clean, vigorous, effective; but I saw it in a rain, to begin with, and I did not like it. It was too squat47 in appearance—too unvarying in its lines; it seemed to have no focal point such as one finds in all medieval cities. What has come over the spirit of city governments, directing architects, and individual enterprise? Is there no one who wants really to do the very exceptional thing? No German city I saw had a central heart worthy38 of the name—no Piazza48 del Campidoglio such as Rome has; no Piazza della Signoria such as Florence has; no Piazza San Marco such as Venice has; not even a cathedral center, lovely thing that it is, such as Milan has. Paris with its Gardens of the Tuileries, its Champs-de-Mars, its Esplanades des Invalides, and its Arc de Triomphe and Place de l’Opéra, does so much better in this matter than any German city has dreamed of doing. Even London has its splendid focal point about the431 Houses of Parliament, St. Paul’s and the Embankment, which are worth something. But German cities! Yet they are worthy cities, every one of them, and far more vital than those of Italy.
I should like to relate first, however, the story of the vanishing birthplace. Ever since I was three or four years old and dandled on my father’s knee in our Indiana homestead, I had heard more or less of Mayen, Coblenz, and the region on the Rhine from which my father came. As we all know, the Germans are a sentimental49, fatherland-loving race and my father, honest German Catholic that he was, was no exception. He used to tell me what a lovely place Mayen was, how the hills rose about it, how grape-growing was its principal industry, how there were castles there and grafs and rich burghers, and how there was a wall about the city which in his day constituted it an armed fortress50, and how often as a little child he had been taken out through some one of its great gates seated on the saddle of some kindly51 minded cavalryman52 and galloped53 about the drill-ground. He seems to have become, by the early death of his mother and second marriage of his father, a rather unwelcome stepchild and, early, to escape being draughted for the Prussian army which had seized this town—which only a few years before had belonged to France, though German enough in character—he had secretly decamped to the border with three others and so made his way to Paris. Later he came to America, made his way by degrees to Indiana, established a woolen-mill on the banks of the Wabash at Terre Haute and there, after marrying in Ohio, raised his large family. His first love was his home town, however, and Prussia, which he admired; and to his dying day he never ceased talking about it. On more than one occasion he told me he would like to go back, just to432 see how things were, but the Prussian regulations concerning deserters or those who avoided service were so drastic and the likelihood of his being recognized so great that he was afraid of being seized and at least thrown into prison if not shot, so he never ventured it. I fancy this danger of arrest and his feeling that he could not return cast an additional glamour54 over the place and the region which he could never revisit. Anyhow I was anxious to see Mayen and to discover if the family name still persisted there.
When I consulted with the Cook’s agent at Rome he had promptly55 announced, “There isn’t any such place as Mayen. You’re thinking of Mayence, near Frankfort, on the Rhine.”
“No,” I said, “I’m not. I’m thinking of Mayen—M-a-y-e-n. Now you look and see.”
“There isn’t any such place, I tell you,” he replied courteously56. “It’s Mayence, not very far from Frankfort.”
“Let me see,” I argued, looking at his map. “It’s near the junction57 of the Rhine and the Moselle.”
“Mayence is the place. See, here it is. Here’s the Moselle and here’s Mayence.”
I looked, and sure enough they seemed reasonably close together. “All right,” I said, “give me a ticket to Berlin via Mayence.”
“I’ll book you to Frankfort. That’s only thirty minutes away. There’s nothing of interest at Mayence—not even a good hotel.”
Arrived at Frankfort, I decided58 not to send my trunks to the hotel as yet but to take one light bag, leaving the remainder “im Gepäck” and see what I could at Mayence. I might want to stay all night, wandering about my father’s old haunts, and I might want to go down the Rhine a little way—I was not sure.
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The Mayence to which I was going was not the Mayen that I wanted, but I did not know that. You have heard of people weeping over the wrong tombstones. This was a case in point. Fortunately I was going in the direction of the real Mayen, though I did not know that either. I ran through a country which reminded me very much of the region in which Terre Haute is located and I said to myself quite wisely: “Now I can see why my father and so many other Germans from this region settled in southern Indiana. It is like their old home. The wide, flat fields are the same.”
When we reached Mayence and I had deposited my kit-bag, for the time being I strolled out into the principal streets wondering whether I should get the least impression of the city or town as it was when my father was here as a boy. It is curious and amusing how we can delude59 ourselves at times. Mayence I really knew, if I had stopped to consider, could not be the Mayen, where my father was born. The former was the city of that Bishop-Elector Albert of Brandenburg who in need of a large sum of money to pay Rome for the privilege of assuming the archbishopric, when he already held two other sees, made an arrangement with Pope Leo X—the Medici pope who was then trying to raise money to rebuild or enlarge St. Peter’s—to superintend the sale of indulgences in Germany (taking half the proceeds in reward for his services) and thus by arousing the ire of Luther helped to bring about the Reformation in Germany. This was the city also of that amiable60 Dominican Prior, John Tetzel, who, once appealing for ready purchasers for his sacerdotal wares61 declared:
“Do you not hear your dead parents crying out ‘Have mercy on us? We are in sore pain and you can set us free for a mere62 pittance63. We have borne you, we have trained and educated you, we have left you all our property,434 and you are so hard-hearted and cruel that you leave us to roast in the flames when you could so easily release us.’”
I shall always remember Mayence by that ingenious advertisement. My father had described to me a small, walled town with frowning castles set down in a valley among hills. He had said over and over that it was located at the junction of the Rhine and the Moselle. I recalled afterward2 that he told me that the city of Coblenz was very near by, but in my brisk effort to find this place quickly I had forgotten that. Here I was in a region which contained not a glimpse of any hills from within the city, the Moselle was all of a hundred miles away, and no walls of any medieval stronghold were visible anywhere and yet I was reasonably satisfied that this was the place.
“Dear me,” I thought, “how Mayence has grown. My father wouldn’t know it.” (Baedeker gave its population at one hundred and ten thousand). “How Germany has grown in the sixty-five years since he was here. It used to be a town of three or four thousand. Now it is a large city.” I read about it assiduously in Baedeker and looked at the rather thriving streets of the business heart, trying to visualize64 it as it should have been in 1843. Until midnight I was wandering about in the dark and bright streets of Mayence, satisfying myself with the thought that I was really seeing the city in which my father was born.
For a city of so much historic import Mayence was very dull. It was built after the theories of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries with, however, many modern improvements. The Cathedral was a botch, ornamented65 with elaborate statues of stuffy66 bishops67 and electors. The houses were done in many places in that heavy scroll68 fashion common to medieval Germany.435 The streets were narrow and winding69. I saw an awful imitation of our modern Coney Island in the shape of a moving circus which was camped on one of the public camping places. A dull heavy place, all told.
Coming into the breakfast-room of my hotel the next morning, I encountered a man who looked to me like a German traveling salesman. He had brought his grip down to the desk and was consuming his morning coffee and rolls with great gusto, the while he read his paper. I said to him, “Do you know of any place in this part of Germany that is called Mayen?—not Mayence.” I wanted to make sure of my location.
“Mayen? Mayen?” he replied. “Why, yes. I think there is such a place near Coblenz. It isn’t very large.”
“Coblenz! That’s it,” I replied, recalling now what my father had told me of Coblenz. “To be sure. How far is that?”
“Do you know how the trains run?” I asked, getting up, a feeling of disgusted disappointment spreading over me.
“I think there is one around half-past nine or ten.”
“Damn!” I said, realizing what a dunce I had been. I had just forty-five minutes in which to pay my bill and make the train. Three hours more! I could have gone on the night before.
I hurried out, secured my bag, paid my bill and was off. On the way I had myself driven to the old “Juden-Gasse,” said to be full of picturesque71 medieval houses, for a look. I reached the depot in time to have a two-minute argument with my driver as to whether he was entitled to two marks or one—one being a fair reward—and then hurried into my train. In a half hour we436 were at Bingen-on-the-Rhine, and in three-quarters of an hour those lovely hills and ravines which make the Rhine so picturesque had begun, and they continued all the way to Coblenz and below that to Cologne.
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1
distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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diverging
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| 分开( diverge的现在分词 )； 偏离； 分歧； 分道扬镳 | |
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flamboyant
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| adj.火焰般的，华丽的，炫耀的 | |
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tenements
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| n.房屋，住户，租房子( tenement的名词复数 ) | |
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alienated
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| adj.感到孤独的，不合群的v.使疏远( alienate的过去式和过去分词 )；使不友好；转让；让渡（财产等） | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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gulls
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| n.鸥( gull的名词复数 )v.欺骗某人( gull的第三人称单数 ) | |
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Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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barricaded
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| 设路障于，以障碍物阻塞( barricade的过去式和过去分词 )； 设路障[防御工事]保卫或固守 | |
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depot
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| n.仓库，储藏处；公共汽车站；火车站 | |
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pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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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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dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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arable
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| adj.可耕的，适合种植的 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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resounds
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的第三人称单数 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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struts
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| （框架的）支杆( strut的名词复数 )； 支柱； 趾高气扬的步态； （尤指跳舞或表演时）卖弄 | |
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stolidity
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| n.迟钝，感觉麻木 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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buckles
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| 搭扣，扣环( buckle的名词复数 ) | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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jointed
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| 有接缝的 | |
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avid
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| adj.热心的；贪婪的；渴望的；劲头十足的 | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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militant
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| adj.激进的，好斗的；n.激进分子，斗士 | |
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invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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transpired
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| （事实，秘密等）被人知道( transpire的过去式和过去分词 )； 泄露； 显露； 发生 | |
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squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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51
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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52
cavalryman
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| 骑兵 | |
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53
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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54
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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55
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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56
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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57
junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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58
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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59
delude
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| vt.欺骗；哄骗 | |
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60
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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61
wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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62
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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63
pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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64
visualize
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| vt.使看得见，使具体化，想象，设想 | |
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65
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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67
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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68
scroll
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| n.卷轴，纸卷；(石刻上的)漩涡 | |
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69
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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70
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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71
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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