Rambles in Germany and Italy in 1840, 1842, and 1843/Part 3/Letter 3
LETTER III.
The Traun.—The Gmunden-see.—Ishl.—St. Wolfgang Lake.—Salzburg.
The train of the railroad started at two in the afternoon for Gmunden: we thus had a few hours to spare. One of our party climbed the heights above Linz, to feast his eyes on the view which had enchanted me the preceding evening. There is no circumstance in travelling, consequent on my narrow means, that I regret so much, as my being obliged to deny myself hiring a carriage when I arrive at a strange town, and the not being able to drive about everywhere, and see everything. I wandered about the town, and stood long on the bridge, drinking in the beauty of the scene, till the soul became full to the brim with the sense of delight. The river is indeed magnificent; with speed, yet with a vastness that renders speed majestic, it hurries on the course assigned to it by the Creator. Never, never had I so much enjoyed the glory of earth. The Danube gives Linz a superiority over a thousand scenes otherwise of equal beauty. Standing on the bridge, above is a narrow pass, hedged in by high sombre rocks, and the river sweeps, darkening as it goes, beneath the gloomy shadows of the precipices; below, it flows in a mighty stream through a valley of wide expanse, till you lose sight of it at the base of distant mountains. I should liked to have stayed some days at Linz: I grieved also not to be going by steam to Vienna.
Our drive by the railroad to Gmunden was delightful. We had a little carriage to ourselves. Our road lay through a valley watered by a stream, and adorned by woods; it was a sequestered home-felt scene; while the high distant mountains redeemed it from tameness. After the sandy deserts of Prussia, and the burnt-up country round Dresden, the freshness and green of a pastoral valley, the murmur of streams and rivulets, the delightful umbrage of the trees, imparted a sense of peace and amenity that lapped me in Elysium. We changed the train at Lambach, a quiet shady village. We had bargained that we should be allowed to visit the falls of the Traun on our way. It was evening before we reached the spot, and the falls are nearly a mile from the road; we had no guide, but were told we could not miss the way. Our path lay through a wood, and as twilight deepened we sometimes doubted whether we had not gone astray through the gloom of the thicket. You know that a mile of unknown road, with some suspicion hovering in the mind as to whether you are in the right path, becomes at least three, or rather one feels as if it would never end. We came at last to the brink of the precipice above the river, and descended by steps cut in the rock. We thus reached the lower part of the fall. With some difficulty, it being so late, the Miller was found, and meanwhile we clambered to the points of rock from which the cascade is viewed. It was dim twilight, with the moon quietly moving among the summer clouds, and shedding its silver on the waters. The river winding above through a wooded ravine comes to an abrupt rocky descent, over which it falls with foam and spray. The drought had reduced the supply of water; a portion also is carried off for the purpose of traffic—a wooden canal being constructed to allow the salt barges to ascend and descend the Traun without interruption from the cascade. This canal is on an inclined plain, and it would be very delightful to rush down: we could not, as there was no boat; but for six swanzikers (six eightpences) the sluices were shut and the water, blocked up, turned to feed and augment the fall. The evening hour took from the accuracy of our view, but added immeasurably to its charm; the mysterious glittering of the spray beneath the moon; the deep shadows of the rocks and trees; the soft air and dashing waters—here was the reward for infinite fatigue and inconvenience; here we grasped an hour which, when the memory of every discomfort has become almost a pleasure, will endure as one of the sweetest in life. Our carriage all the time was waiting for us by the road-side, so we tore ourselves away. We procured a boy with a lantern to guide us on our return through the wood; and, reaching the road, away we sped along the rails. Our moonlit view, as we went, was pregnant with a sense of placid enjoyment, being picturesque but gentle in its features of wood, village, and glimmering stream; while the dark and gloomy Traunstein rose frowning before our path. We reached Gmunden late, and found a very comfortable inn; it had a court in the middle and an open balcony on the different floors, into which a number of cell-like rooms opened. We had a good supper of fish from the lake, and the comfortable promise of a steam-boat at eleven the next morning; so there was no need for anxiety with regard to early rising.
We fared sumptuously this morning on fish and game; our bill was therefore comparatively high—thirteen florins; it had been the same at Linz. The cost of the railroad to Gmunden, for which we had a carriage for four to ourselves and a place in one of the diligences of the train for my maid, was thirteen florins; we had to pay three extra for our luggage.
But enough of these matters. Now for another scene, which will ever dwell in my memory, coloured by the softest tints, yet sublime—the lake of Gmunden. As the steamer carried us away from the town, which appeared noisy and busy after Bohemia, we might believe that we broke our link with vulgar earth—the waters spread out before us so solitary, so tranquil. The lofty crags of the Traunstein rose on our left—bare, abrupt, and dark——while the sunlight varied its shadows as we moved on; opposite, the lake was bounded by grassy hills, speckled with villages and spires, with here and there a cove, half shut in by precipitous rocks, half accessible through shady thickets, with green sloping sward down to the water’s edge. These bays had a sequestered appearance, as if the foot of man had never desecrated their loneliness. By one of those unexplainable impulses of the mind, which spring up spontaneously and unlooked for, a sense of the beauty of the Greek mythology was awakened in me, more vivid, more real than I had ever before experienced. As the poet[1] says, I could, while looking
“On that pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;"
of dryad hiding among the trees; of nymph gazing at her own beauty in the lucid wave; of an immortal race—in short, the innocent offspring of nature, whose existence was love and enjoyment; who, freed from the primæval curse, might haunt this solitary spot. Why should not such be? If the earthly scales fell from our eyes, should we not perceive that “all the regions of nature swarm with spirits,[2]” and affirm, with Milton, that—
“Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth
Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep.”
It is easier for the imagination to conjure such up in spots untrod by man, so to people with love and gratitude what would otherwise be an unsentient desert. Not that I would throw contempt on the pleasures of the animal creation, nor even on those of tree, or herb, or flower, which merely enjoys a conscious life, and in its pride of beauty feels happy, and, as it decays, peacefully resigns existence. But this does not satisfy us, who are born to look beyond the grave, and yearn to acquire knowledge of spiritual essences.
I cannot tell you the sacred pleasure with which I brooded over these fancies, which were rather sensations than thoughts, so heartfelt and intimate were they. I scarce dared breathe, and longed to linger on our way, so not so quickly to put from my lips the draughts of happiness which I imbibed.
You may remember that this was the spot that poor Sir Humphry Davy visited during his last painful illness: many hours he beguiled fishing in the streams that fall into the lake. Happy, or in sorrow, I hope to return, and spend a summer in this neighbourhood: joy would be more than doubled, and grief softened into resignation, amidst scenes which, among many beautiful, exercised a power over my imagination I never felt before. How deeply I regret not having spent the season here instead of at Kissingen and Dresden; but last summer in Wales so blended the idea of deluges of rain with mountain scenery, that the search of health, a wish to see some friends, and a longing to behold strange cities, made us prefer the North. Regret is useless now. Shall I ever have a sunny summer, when I may choose at will a retreat? If I have, it will be spent here.
The scenery round the lake increased in wildness and sublimity as we lost sight of Gmunden. I was very sorry when our one-hour’s voyage was over, and we landed at Ebensee. Here a sort of large car waited for the passengers, and we drove up a wooded glen, through which the Traun flowed—a mountain torrent, broken by rocks—to Ishl. This is a fashionable bathing-place: it is situated in a deep valley, surrounded by hills; though beautiful, it had not the charm of the scenes we had just left; indeed, a lake amidst mountains must always exceed a grassy valley: there is a magic charm in the notion of a cot on the verdant, wooded banks of a lonely lake—the boat drawn up in a neighbouring cove—the sheltering mountains gathering around. However, Ishl presents excellent head-quarters for excursions in this neighbourhood.
We here seriously discussed our future progress. A desire to visit an Italian lake, as yet unknown, made us select the Brenner pass and the Lago di Garda for our entrance into the Peninsula. The extreme beauty of the country in which we are, makes us desire to see as much of it as possible; and various names, the lake of Hallstadt and Bad Gastein, hung before, to lure us towards them. But we cannot linger; and, on making inquiries, it seems that, unless we make excursions perfectly independent of our ultimate bourne, we cannot visit these spots,—in short, that to do so we ought to spend a summer, choosing some head-quarters, from which to diverge in different radii; but that to go to Venice, we must abide by a known and frequented road.
I gave up the idea of a prolonged stay in this neighbourhood with exceeding regret; but when resolved to proceed, many difficulties presented themselves. The people of the hotel at Ishl, which was large, new, clean, and good, but at the moment nearly empty, were resolved that we should spend at least one night there; and neither post-horses with carriage, nor voituriers, could be procured,—being a fine day, they declared that every horse had been taken out by various parties of visitors for picnics and excursions. This was a renewal of the scene at Schandau. We ought to have yielded at once, and been satisfied to make an agreement for setting out the following morning; but we were stubborn, and much time was very disagreeably taken up by the struggle; and the dogged obstinacy and rude sullenness of the people exasperated some among us very much. They had the best of it however, and we were forced to resign ourselves to remain the night: a change then came, almost magical; the people, late so rude, were all courtesy; and sullenness turned into obligingness. Nor were they bent on extortion: our bill altogether was seventeen florins.
Being now at peace in our minds, we wandered for some time beside the Ishl. If we had been transported suddenly to this spot, we had been enchanted; but we had passed through more beautiful scenery to reach it. There were a good many visitors: among them, Maria Louisa, a woman who might have been respected among women; but she forfeited her privilege.
The drive from Ishl to Salzburg was delightful. The road, for a considerable space, bordered the St. Wolfgang Lake. At the head of the lake, the horses rested for an hour; and my friends took a boat, and went on it to bathe. I joined them afterwards. There was not the same charm in this lake as in the Gmunden-see. I cannot tell you why; for I find no language to express differences which are immense to our perceptions, and yet vary little in the description. Both present a wide expanse of water, surrounded by precipitous mountains or grassy banks. This, too, was grand, and solitary, and beautiful, but less softly inviting—less, as it were, holy in its calm, and, at the same time, less cheerful in its aspect—than the Gmunden-see.
What will you say to me when I say that Salzburg surpassed all? It has indeed been pronounced to be the most beautiful spot in Germany. Wherefore? It has not the majestic Danube, as at Linz, sweeping under dark, overhanging cliffs, and winding through a spacious valley, till lost to sight beneath distant mountains: it has not a lake sheltered by hills, with bay and inlet sacred to the sprites. It is observed that one of the most admirable features of a scene is where lofty mountains and an extensive plain unite. This is rare: usually mountains inclose a ravine, or valley, or lake; and the scenery around Salzburg is a specimen on the grandest scale in the world of this mixture.
Imagine a vast, fertile, various plain, half-encircled by mighty mountains—those near the town are abrupt cliffs, which tower above, crowned by castle and convent—with a river sweeping round their base; others, high and picturesque, but of softer forms, and wooded; and then, high above all, craggy, gigantic Alps—not the highest, for at this summer season scarcely a north-turned peak has preserved its snow, but still stupendous—some showing their dark, beetling sides, like Cader Idris, but on a larger scale; others, with what in Switzerland are called aiguilles, their spire-like peaks seeking the upper skies. Remember, we saw all this beneath a bright sun, the air so dry and pure that every crag and cleft was distinct on the face of the hills at an immense distance. The plain itself has a richer and more cheerful and rural appearance than any I have seen since I left England. The beauty of its meadows and gardens, the frequency of its country-houses, the indescribable variety of the landscape, enchant the eye. What a summer might here be spent!—what a life, I would say, had not society and home a claim;—were it not a dream that we can be happy only in the contemplation of nature, removed from all intercourse with our equals. But you see the magic circle: Linz, Gmunden, Ishl—these are in Styria—then the district called the Salzkammergut. Such is the region in which I design, if I am ever able, to pass some long months, and to enjoy even more than I have ever yet done, the delight of exploring scenery unrivalled in the world. Yes; though the thought of Italy reproaches, and for life, I should not hesitate to choose between the two; yet there is something more sublime, more grand, more mysterious, in this Alpine region; which, as far as I have seen, I infinitely prefer to Switzerland.
As we approached Salzburg, we found the fields and green uplands near the town alive with people. Horse-racing was going on; and the whole population had poured out to see it, reproaching our dusty carriage and our fatigue by the gaiety of the equipages and the holiday trim of the spectators. I do not know anything more humbling to one’s self-conceit than arriving travel-tired and soiled amidst a crowd of well-dressed people; so we looked another way, and went right on to the inn. We found that the inauguration of the statue of Mozart and the anniversary of the century after his birth had been celebrated by three days of holiday at Salzburg—this, the last. It was a great pity we had not arrived the day before to hear one of his Operas; but we were too late. As a token of veneration for this greatest of all composers, Mr. P endeavoured to gain admission to the organ on which Mozart had played for years; but the absence of the person in authority prevented his success.
The inn of the Erzherzog Carl is very good; but our duties pressed on us. We could not linger, and we must make arrangements for our further progress. We ascertained here a fact, which we suspected before, that the addition which our party had received at Dresden, however delightful in other respects, spoiled the financial economy of our journey. Persons travelling in Austria without a carriage can, if four in number, secure a separat wagen, and obtain a clean carriage to convey them post the whole way, at a slight advance on the price of the eilwagen; but we were five—we must, therefore, have two carriages, and the expense was doubled. We did not find a voiturier much cheaper. Had we gone post, we should have gone by Villach, and reached Venice in four or five days. But we had set our hearts on the Lago di Garda, and that decided us. We made a bargain for two calèches, with a pair of horses to each, to take us over the Brenner to Trent, in five days and a half, for a hundred and forty florins.[3] We have now left the Münz and schein money, and have passed from the Austrian to the Bavarian florin: this is a gain—the former is two shillings, the latter two francs; and they are worth the same in expenditure. Settling this affair occupied us, at intervals, during the whole evening. We rambled a little about the town, which is remarkable for a large handsome square, with a fountain, built of white marble, and said to be the finest in Europe: it would be finer had it more water. The statue of Mozart is placed in another part of the square: it is of a large size, and striking. On account of the festival, there was no possibility of visiting the lions—every body was out, and all things closed. We wandered beyond the town, on the margin of the Salzer—an impetuous torrent, rushing at the foot of romantic crags. It is a region of enchanting beauty, which I shall leave with great regret. Still, it is much to have had this sort of flash-of-lightning view of the lovely scenes we have lately passed through; and I hope, some day, to visit them again at leisure.
- ↑ Wordsworth.
- ↑ Addison.
- ↑ On this subject only Murray’s Hand-book seems to run faulty—a lower price for voiture travelling is always named than I have found it possible to attain. It is easy to allege that we were imposed upon. It may be so; but it was difficult to believe this in some instances, where the bargain was made for us by friends, natives of the country. In the Hand-book of Italy this is the more remarkable, and I can speak with greater certainty. I do not know how it may be with a single man taking his place,—one among many, as it may chance,—but for a party, like ourselves, taking a whole carriage, the expense in proportion is far higher than he mentions.