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ALSACE-LORRAINE By George Wharton Edwards “Section 7”
Page 117 Colmar
Page 118 (Intentionally blank)
Page 119 Leaving the attractive cross-country road, here and there embowered by large trees bordering the fertile farm lands, we turned into a wide, wellpaved avenue, which at length was continuously lined by rows of neat white modern-looking houses of stucco, but of no particular character or interest. This avenue led through the Public Garden to the Grande Place, or "Champs de Mars," which seemed well nigh deserted, save for a few sleepy coachmen lolling upon the seats of some archaic-looking cabs, patiently waiting for fares. Past the bronze monument to the great Admiral Bruat by the sculptor Bartholdi, who modeled our Statue of Liberty in the harbor of New York, and turning the corner all at once we were in the midst of the bustle of a busy city. There were lines of street peddlers with barrows noisily calling out their wares; trolley cars with clanging gongs and grinding, creaking wheels, all laden with people; long lines of workmen liberated for the noon hour from the factories thronged the sidewalks, and before the nu
Page 120 merous cafes prosperous-looking people sat at small iron tables, drinking and smoking. Threading the Rufachers Strasse, we passed with some difficulty through the thronging multitude into the Kleber Strasse, and so on to the ancient inner town, in great contrast to the modernity of the other and newer part. There we found narrow, picturesque streets and byways, and buildings of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries grouped about the old cruciform Gothic church of St. Martin. Here were dim shady ways, lined with ancient houses painted in faded tones of rose and green, with tiled roofs hidden by the leafy branches of tall trees in the courtyards.
Always these old towns grew up around the great churches, and perhaps nowhere is this fact brought home to one more clearly than in Colmar. If St. Martin's Church has not the splendors of Strassburg Cathedral to offer, it certainly is a notable example of the ogival period in Alsace, and occupies the first rank among the sacred edifices of the Province. Of course, as may be imagined and expected, it suffered greatly during the Reformation; its precious glass was destroyed, its sacristy pillaged, and its chime of bells carried off. The Revolution demolished its carved stalls and altars, and the splendid oaken confessionals were broken up and sold for kindling wood. The Revolutionaries, so we are told, placed statues of Voltaire and Rousseau in the nave, and exalted the "God of Reason" in the temple from whose
Page 121 summit "shone a great bonfire in an iron basin, visible j for miles around."
Near at hand is a small square in which is the Dominican Church of the thirteenth century. Here was silence and shadows; old high walled houses with laceadorned windows; old walls of mellowed brick, pierced by mysterious low, small doors painted green, and adorned with highly polished and inviting brass knockers. Here old cloaked women, lace-capped, stopped to gossip in the shadows, while overhead in the sunlight doves flew about the cornices and gables. One heard the distant rumbling notes of a great organ, punctuated by the laughter and cries of children playing somewhere behind the walls. The ancient Place aux Recollets contains the celebrated "Arcades," the habitation of the Protestant pastors. It is a good example of seventeenth century construction, so architects say – with pointed turrets, and festooned gable.
Near it is the "Douane," or custom house, belonging to a more ancient period, some say the fifteenth century. Its history covers a multitude of uses, and at one time, in the eighteenth century it served as Hotel de Ville. Today it is used as a museum of antiquities. It is remarkable for two different styles of architecture, the most ancient of which offers, with its beautiful balustrade, so fine and so simple in design, a most precious example of the Gothic art of the end of the fifteenth century in
Page 122 Alsace. Colmar is indeed rich in ancient halls and houses. The list is too long to include in one chapter. There is the so-called "Maison des Tetes," of the purest Renaissance, celebrated for its embellishment of masks and grimacing heads which ornament the columns of the windows, the two balconies of the tourelle, and the portal. There is the Maison Pfister, formerly the Sign of the Chapeau, of the date 1537, perhaps the most curious in all Alsace, with its quaint wooden gallery, its "cage d'escalier," or staircase, and its "encore" belled tower ornamented, gilded, and frescoed with religious paintings. There are also the Maison Macker, late Gothic period; the Vaisseau d'Or, of the sixteenth century; the Renaissance portal of the Maison Hillenmeyer, and, the Maison Adolph, all meriting detailed description, and of undoubted character. Many of the houses of Colmar bear emblazoned inscriptions on their fronts in old Latin or ornate German, -.as, for example, "Deus dedit incrementum, Deus quoque custodiet," says one. "Pax intrantibus, salus exeuntibus," says another. "Accrescat domui res simul et decus, egregiis factis debita gloria," and "Soli Deo gloria." Then in the old German: "Ehe veracht als gemacht" (Easier to criticise than to execute). "Fide, sed vide, drau aber schau wem" (Beware in whom thou confidest). "Der Gott vertraut, ist wohl gebaut" (Who
Page 123 so confides in God is well built). "Ich baue fur mich, sih du fur dich" (I build for myself, look out for thyself)'. Generally when there is no inscription over the door, it will be found on the lintel, or there will be some sort of shield or escutcheon bearing the arms or the emblem of the householder; or again, the house will be named for some object, flower or animal. Thus one finds the house of the Bear, the house of the Rose, or that of the Lily, each with its painted or sculptured emblem.
In the little street of the Augustans is pointed out the house in which Martin Schongauer, the painter, was born, and where the great Voltaire lived and labored over his "Annals of the Empire" in 1753. Here dwelt the powerful Society of the Corporations, a body composed of the governing heads of the various trades of the province. Superficial as was of course our view of the old town, Colmar seemed all sufficient unto herself. Behind the small panes of their shop windows the merchants seemed to wait for customers without any visible impatience, much as their ancestors must have done in days long gone. Movements in the streets were unhurried. People gossiped in the open doors. The costumes of the peasants seemed to be of the same cut as that in the old prints, as far as we could judge. We were told that many of the younger people went over the border into France after the annexation, rather than
Page 124 live under German rule, but I must confess that there seemed to be plenty of young people in the town during the days we spent there.
There were certainly a great many German soldiers in uniform everywhere, and many times I heard them conversing in French in the cafes where they gathered. I confess that I was surprised at this, for I had been told that the use of the French tongue was forbidden to the soldiers in Alsace.. But when I asked the proprietor of the cafe about it, he only shrugged his shoulders, and with uplifted eyebrows exclaimed enigmatically: "It is forbidden to give information against the Government."
But certainly I heard the French tongue in use at Colmar quite as much as the German. Behind the museum, where the old people congregated, at the base of the Statue of the poet Pfeffel, in the crowded center of the town; on the banks of the river where the washwomen were at work in long lines, their voices and their laughter heard above the noise of their paddles so deftly wielded, I heard French spoken without any attempt at concealment. Likewise in the somewhat grimy dining room of the "Schwarzes-Lamm" in the Rapp Platz, where we had a culminating surprise in the excellence of the table d'hote, and where amid the onion-scented gathering at the long, clean table the people grouped cheerfully, while a flushed-faced buxom handmaiden laid before us a remarkable succession of the most varied and well
Page 125 cooked dishes. There was a tender filet, an airy souffle, some delicious artichokes with butter sauce, and coffee that was fragrant and real. Here in this small hostelry of the sign of the Black Lamb, with the German flag flying over the door and two German officers at the end of the long table, the only ones who spoke German were the landlord and the flush-faced handmaiden who passed the viands. The officers addressed us quite civilly, when they found that we were Americans, and not English, as they had fancied, asking if we had seen the great Saint Martin's Church, and if we did not greatly admire the fifteenth century stained glass? One, the younger, and a handsome blond giant of a fellow disclosed the fact that he had been an art student in Berlin, and was able to criticise intelligently the painting by Martin Schongauer in the Sacristy, "The Madonna in an Arbor of Roses." He spoke of the retouching of the painting as adding harshness to the already harsh manner of the painter. It was he who directed us to the old abbey church, containing a remarkable collection of early German paintings, where works of Mathias Grunewald (1529), the chief Rhenish paintel', were to be seen. It was here that Bartholdi was born and lived before he went to Paris to study sculpture. The young officer knew all about this, but modestly said that he had never had the honor of meeting Bartholdi. He thereafter discoursed learnedly with Lady Anne, concerning the early
Page 126 German School of painting, mentioning too quite casually the fact that Erwin of Steinbach was the originator of Strassburg Minster, and insisting that the details of the Gothic architecture were no mere slavish copying of existing examples. We were both surprised at his learning, as well as his modest bearing, which was quite at variance with what we had been led to expect. Afterwards, when the meal was over and most of the gathering had departed, including the two officers, our host informed us that the young officer was a nobleman, a "Hochzeit."
The next day we had the pleasure of riding out to a small town, Eguisheim, where the fete called "Le Mestig" in Alsace takes place every year. Here there is a very badly restored palace (called "Pfalz") of the eighth century, and an old castle called the Dreien-Eguisheim, with three great stone towers visible for miles around. These towers are known severally as the "Dagsburg," the "Wahlenburg," and the "Wekmund," and collectively as the "Drei Exen." Like all fetes in Alsace, this "Mestig," so called, began with a banquet at the inn, and, we were told, one in almost every large household. At the inn table, which was crowded, we had difficulty in getting seats, but at length room for us was good-humoredly made by the already crowded holiday folk. There was noodle soup in plenty, which was noisily consumed, rabbit and hare stuffed with pudding, and an enormous roast
Page 127 of pork, which was carved by mine host at a side table. There were many family reunions, and cousins and friends of the villages kissed and embraced each other in unaffected heartiness. Many of the villagers wore archaic and amusing costumes, were generally burdened with large baskets, and the elders were armed with large horn-handled umbrellas of various faded tones of green and brown cotton, evidently treasured heirlooms. Advantageously placed at the windows of the second floor front salon of the inn, which overlooked the small "place d'armes," we watched the preparations at ease. It is said that officially no fete can begin until the gendarme gives the word. That word cannot be given, understand, until he is satisfied by examination that the German flag is properly displayed according to the law as set forth in his little glazed black oilcloth-covered manual, which he carries in his belt. That German flag, he must see personally, is to be hoisted to its place above all others. He must see to it, too, that no tri-color of France is visible anywhere. He must assure himself that no toy balloons bearing the prescribed tri-color are on sale at any booth, nor must there be any gingerbread cakes bearing the blue, white and red colors of France exposed for sale during the fete. It may seem incredible to the tourist, but Germany was said to be in great danger, and should any of these rules be ignored no one knows what would happen. The danger is, that in spite of the great line of forts
Page 128 armed with monster Krupp cannon, which guard AlsaceLorraine from France; in spite of the hundreds of thousands of German soldiers that occupy the lost provinces, should any of these rules be disregarded by the gendarme who is stalking solemnly from booth to booth in the square under our eyes, in performance of his duty to the Fatherland, the country might be lost to Germany-so untrustworthy were these people! And all through the act of one small boy blowing a blast on a small gingerbread whistle bearing the surreptitiously blazoned tricolor in blue, red and white sugar!
But the gendarme finds all in order, and gives the word to the leader of the town band, who is most anxiously awaiting it. This band of eight, carrying severally a bass drum; a snare ditto; a large brass (battered) horn; a trombone ditto; a fife; a bagpipe; a cornet, and a chime of bells on a pole, preceded a long procession of personages in archaic costume, each wearing upon the breast of his long-tailed black frock coat several medals dangling from red and green ribbons. These were followed by some men who, we were told, were to wrestle for prizes given by the authorities each year.
Upon the steps of the town hall stood M. the Mayor in a tall silk hat and full evening dress, wearing his sash of office across his breast. To him proceeded a young girl dressed all in white and wearing a beribboned headdress. With a pretty curtsey, she gave him a cake,
Page 129 wrapped in scalloped white paper, and received from him a kiss upon each cheek. The leader of the band now raised his baton; there came a blare of sound and rattle of drum, and the fete (or Mestig) was formally pronounced open. The band, vying with each other as to which should make the loudest discord, made a tour of the square. The wrestlers wrestled barefooted on a space railed off near the fountain; the local fire company, in brass helmets and horsehair plumes, dragging an absurd red pump, trundling noisily on four small iron wheels, marched and countermarched beneath our windows until we applauded them; and everyone ate spiced cakes and drank all the wine they could hold, all the afternoon. At night there was to be a grand ball, but we did not stay to see it. This was a real and typical Mestig, so the inn-keeper said, and he added that we "might voyage throughout Alsace-Lorraine and not see one so good," and in truth he was right, we never did.
We were told of another fete which is celebrated in Alsace during the month of January of each year. This is called the fete of the Emperor, and the crown officer of each village vies with the neighboring one as to which shall make the most patriotic display on that occasion. There is, to begin with, it appears, the singing of the Emperor's hymn; then the "Wacht am Rhein," and to finish, a most tiresome discourse, setting forth the virtues and greatness of the Emperor, at the end of which the lis
Page 130 teners are expected to shout loudly, "Hoch!" "But," said my informant with a wink, "the little ones have learned to open their mouths wide without making one sound!" This shows how the people love the conquerors -how loyal they are to them, how brave the people, young and old, are in the face of the enemy who occupies their beloved land.
For the Alsatians, the fete they love best is that of the 14th of July-the national fete of their own France. This they celebrate with all their hearts and souls in every hamlet, village, town and city throughout the land - but in silence - until they reach the town of Nancy, over the border. On that day, from early dawn, all the roads leading across the frontier are crowded with the faithful, journeying there in all kinds of vehicles, and some even on foot, with one common goal, one purpose in mind, to reach Nancy for the fete. For this they screw and toil and pinch throughout the year, but they consider the money well spent....
But to return to Colmar, with which we were occupied for several days most delightfully.
The town contains many monuments, in which the history of the whole region has been written. The museum, for instance, not because of its pictures, or its treasures of illuminated books, but because of its own artistic glory. This ancient structure, which includes a church, a cloister, and the conventual buildings, was formerly the
Page 130 Dominican convent,·all of the thirteenth century – a vast quadrilateral structure with upright ogival windows. Beside it, the theatre occupies the emplacement of the hostelry.
The convent, the most illustrious among all those in Colmar, is that called the "Unterlinden," built by two pious widows, Agnes de Hergenheim and Agnes de Mittelhelm in 1232. Later it was enlarged and transferred, under the rule of Saint Augustin, and called "Uf Muhlen." After the pillage it passed to the property of Saint Dominique. There were, it seems, eight nuns to inhabit it, all coming from humble families in the neighboring villages. "Very soon," says the chronicle, "their piety, their zeal, the sufferings which they bore, reduced them to docile spirits, to whom were granted visions and ecstasies, which made them famous throughout the land." In the annals of mysticism they held first place. One cannot read without profound emotion the book of Catherine Guebwiller, "Flame of Sanctity," telling how she entered the convent at the tender age of ten, and wrote for seventy years the lives of the first sisters. This manuscript, the original of which is the property of the Library of Bale, expresses in mystic language the rules of the order, and the letters addressed by the Savant Dom Pitre to Pere Lacordaire. And with what enchantment did she evoke the spirit of the life she led there.
"The letters set before us vividly the picture of the
Page 132 regular promenade held daily by the visionaries as they paced the dim galleries, two by two, now appearing in some chance golden sunbeam, only to vanish among the vines and shadows of the arcade. They were clad in robes of thick white cloth, and wore upon their meekly inclined heads long black veils. They saw visions, these gentle women. Elizabeth of Lennheim 'beheld a great white light' as she prayed, and though ignorant, found afterwards that she could 'read fluently the words of the Bible.' Margaret of Colmar saw, on the day of the Pentecost, as she was chanting the 'Veni Creator,' a dazzling celestial fire burning. Gertrude de-Reinfelden and the Lady Adelaide d'Epfig were exhorted on their death beds by an angel. For Agnes de Hergenheim, the songs of birds, the hum of insects, the thousand and one noises of nature, seemed a hymn of praise offered to the Deity. She said: 'To me the blooming rose seems the image of ardent and chaste love, as the lily typifies innocence.' Thus these holy women lived within these cloisters until the Revolution put an end to their visions and ecstasies. The convent was closed, and the sisters scattered. The last of them is said to have died at the age of eighty-seven in 1855. When Pere Lacordaire came to Strassburg as preacher he hastened to the bedside of the sister Henriette Spiess, who was even then passing away. 'He wished to behold with his own eyes,' says M.
Page 133 Paul Acker in his charming chronicle,* one of these "mystic flowers" whose perfume had embalmed all Christian Europe.' "
These old walls to-day enclose all that is left of the former treasures of the art of Colmar, and the custode was delighted to show us the ancient seats; the portraits of the stolid-looking presidents of the sovereign council; the rusty old battle-axes and halberds, and the battle flags of the town. We were more interested perhaps in the sword of General Rapp, the defender of Dantzig, and the last French flag that flew over Colmar when the Germans violated the place in 1871. The old custode regarded me narrowly as he pointed it out, and when I saluted it, removing my hat, tears rose in his eyes. Brushing them away, he laid his right hand upon his heart, backed away from me, brought his heels together with a click, and saluted with all the manner of a grenadier of the Guard.
In the old parish church we found an admirable painting of the Virgin "Madonna in an Arbor of Roses," and a "terrific" crucifixion by Mathias Grunewald, which was formerly over the great altar of the church of the Antonites at Isenheim. This was the masterpiece of the painter, who was renowned as the chief Rhenish artist painter of the sixteenth century, and who worked mainly *"Colmar," par Paul Acker. Paris.
Page 134 at Mayence and Aschaffenburg. This painting was the chief treasure of the old abbey church. "Nothing," says an eminent critic, "can surpass the sentiment of horror aroused by the presentment of the 'Great Tragedy.' The livid figure of the Christ against the starring sky; the drooping head; the clenched hands . . . the work of an extraordinary realist and colorist."
There were also numerous panels, the work of Martin Schongauer, he whom the French call "Ie beau Martin," who was born in Colmar, probably about 1480. It is said that Albert Durer learned from Schongauer, "who invented it," the art of drawing and engraving on wood. Long after the latter's death, it is said the German artists of the period of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries copied his mannerisms and his pictures. At any rate, he gave to the town its crown of art in the series of panels in this old church hidden away in Alsace.
Colmar is certainly a most charming spot in which to tarry; each day brought forth some pleasant experience among the people. When one thinks of it, it is as a small corner of earth, fragrant with memories of a glorious past and quite untouched by those modern German architects who have laid profane hands upon well nigh every other town in the province. As it is, it presents an image of great charm and character.
The present writer is conscious of his inability to render in a manner satisfactory to himself his impressions
Page 135 of what he has seen, for the abundance of matter is almost overwhelming after journeying over these lovely winding roads, along the tree bordered streams, each place repeating its charms, "like the successive states of an etched plate," to borrow one of Miss Wharton's artistic similes. The road widens here and there, and as often contracts, leaving the stream now and then to run along beneath frowning crags, beyond which the river again appears coquettishly sparkling behind fringes of old gray willow trees that bend thirstily over it. Long shadows are stealing down the sides of the tree-clad hills, and again the singing river shows, now golden in the sunbeams. Our driver, who had lapsed into silence, now turned round on his seat and pointed with his whip.
"See there, Monsieur and Madame"-he was pointing to an enormous dark, bare rock on the right hand, towering high in the air - "V'la Roche aux Corbeaux." He cracked his whip skilfully and loudly, and a black crowd of crows rose from the rock; there must have been hundreds of the noisy cawing creatures, which careered about for some moments before settling once more on the rock. Our driver looked as if he expected to be rewarded for this entertainment, and "clicked" up the old horse with a smile of triumph. He seemed disappointed and puzzled when we talked of the delicious green of the meadow below with the dancing river, and the banks all purple with early autumn crocus. Here we got out and
Page 136 dallied for a while, climbing the wooded hillside and gathering the rich treasures of Gueldres rose berries of every exquisite tint growing here in fresh beauty.
In a hollow on the left was a half-ruined mill. The cliff rose abruptly behind it, thickly wooded. The mill seemed niched in its dark deserted corner, and a fine white mist that rose from the rushing deep water clung about the thatch of the lonely house. We asked if anyone lived there. Our driver shook his head, looking serious. "lvIa foi, no," said he, "I should think not, it has been empty since I was a young lad." "What happened to the people?" Lady Anne asked, scenting a story. "Heh, Madame? - Well, he speculated and ruined himself. Then he died, and voila! his wife died too." He touched up the old horse with the whip and drove along as if he thought that we should be satisfied with this statement, but Lady Anne's interest was not nearly quieted.
"But," said she, "it looks like a good spot for mill business. Why is it empty -.why did not some one take it after they died?"
"Ah, bah! so they did, one or two, you understand. But no one stays there, and, you see, it is going fast to ruin. Seems as if a curse was on it."
We looked at one another; there was certainly a ghost at the bottom of this story. "Come now," 1 said, feel
Page 137 ingly, "is the mill haunted? Perhaps there is some evil spirit that frightens the people away." He laughed-a hearty guffaw; then he turned round upon us, giving a keen look to see if I was in earnest. "Ma foi, Monsieur and Madame," he cried, "there may be a ghost for all I know; but if there is, 'tis the ghost called 'lack o' money' that keeps people away from such a tumble-down old place" - and then he busied himself with the reins, and would say no more. But Lady Anne says that she is sure that there is a story connected with the old mill, and that if I had not been so persistent about the matter, had been a trifle less insistent with him, that he might have told us, for the peasant is ever wary of what he calls "blague," at the least hint of which he shuts up like the proverbial clam.
[End of Section 7]
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