Perhaps one reason why not so many people visited Spain was because the traveller had to rely more on himself than in almost any other country in Europe. ‘Full and accurate information as to means of communication, the postal arrangements, the hours at which galleries and museums are open, and the like can seldom be obtained even in the hotel-offices. Waiters, porters, and other servants are of absolutely no use in this matter, partly owing to their illiteracy and partly to their complete indifference to anything beyond their own particular sphere. Enquiries in the street, unless of the very simplest nature, should be addressed only to well-dressed people. It is desirable to avoid all contact with the members of the lowest classes who haunt the footsteps of the stranger in towns like Burgos, Avila, Toledo, Granada, and Côrdova, offering their advice and services as guides. In dealing with guides, cabmen, and the like it is advisable to come to a clear understanding beforehand, even where there is a fixed tariff.’
Baedeker carries an accurate and detailed section on bullfighting, which is finally disapproving. Cock fighting was also popular in Spain, ‘especially among the less reputable classes, but it is attended by so much disgusting brutality that the tourist is advised to have nothing to do with it’.
The 1913 Baedeker is still one of the best guidebooks to Spain, which I profitably carried on my meanderings in the 1950s and 1960s. I still prefer it to modern editions, whose coloured illustrations leave nothing either to the intellect or the imagination, and which don’t even give idiosyncratic opinions for the rootless cosmopolitan such as myself to wonder at.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE ROAD TO THE EAST
Until Thomas Cook’s first organized parties set out for Egypt in 1869 it was not easy to go much beyond the beaten tracks of Western Europe. An independent tour for yourself and family, or for yourself alone, to less civilized or wilder places, demanded a great deal of money, as well as enterprise and energy. In the early part of the century, such a journey resembled an expedition, as related by Alexander Kinglake in his Eōthen, a popular book on eastern travel.
Murray’s handbooks for the East began to appear in the late 1840s, providing help and instruction to those gentleman-scholars and others who, having seen Rome, wanted to visit the classical sites of Greece, the holy places of Palestine, or the Egyptian wonders in the Valley of the Nile.
To reach such countries by steamship from England, via the Mediterranean, soon became comparatively easy, but those who decided to go overland found many difficulties in their path, though Murray (and gradually improving maps) helped them to find their way. Even so, when Harry de Windt wrote Through Savage Europe sometime before the Great War, and was asked: ‘Why “savage” Europe?’ he replied, ‘Because the term accurately describes the wild and lawless countries between the Adriatic and Black Seas.’ He might well have said the same of the area today.
The traveller setting out overland some sixty years before de Windt, and hoping to get to Constantinople relatively unscathed, would need Murray’s Southern Germany and Austria of 1858, as well as Greece and Turkey, both of 1854. From these three volumes he would derive much practical information, as well as an adequate amount of interesting matter to read, leading him to agree with Thackeray as he jogged along that: ‘Much delight and instruction have I had in the course of the journey from my guide, philosopher, and friend, the author of “Murray’s Hand-book”’.
Even as early in his journey as southern Germany, our traveller ‘must by no means expect to meet with splendid hotels. Except in the chief towns, the inns are generally built on low vaults; the entrance serves for man and beast; and an oppressive odour of the stable often pervades them. The extreme disregard to cleanliness and sweetness, which is most annoying and disgusting to Englishmen, merits the utmost reprobation. The Germans themselves do not seem to be aware of it: let it be hoped that their increased intercourse with the English will introduce a taste for cleanliness, and a greater appreciation of it. In the bed-rooms, the small provision made for washing, usually confined to a small shallow pie-dish, a caraffe or tumbler of water, and a handkerchief for a towel, proclaim the nature of German habits in this respect, and shows how easily the desire for ablution is satisfied.’
By now one could pass fairly quickly through the country by train. ‘The middle and wealthy classes travel almost exclusively in the second class, of which fact the traveller may easily satisfy himself by observing the very small number of first-class places in each train, and that even these are usually unoccupied, unless the conductor happens to have filled them with his friends.’
It was more than likely that the traveller’s route lay through Bavaria, in which case he would have been interested in the following observations on beer, which the Bavarian is said to like inordinately, and to which ‘he seems even more addicted than the natives of other parts of Germany … The conversation of the people constantly runs upon the amount and the quality of the annual brewing; it is a subject of as important discussion as the vintage or harvest in other countries … A genuine beer-drinker will contrive to swallow 10 to 12 measures, each holding much more than a quart English. Notwithstanding this attachment to beer, it may be said that drunkenness is not prevalent – at least it is not offensively visible – the principal reason being that it is not easy even for a Bavarian to swallow sufficient to produce intoxication.’
Should the traveller stop off for a few days at Nuremberg, he may take a ride on the first railway completed for locomotives in Germany, to the nearby town of Fürth, where about a quarter of the population of 15,000 are Jews, who ‘being interdicted by an illiberal law from settling, or even sleeping, in Nuremberg, have made the fortune of Fürth by their industry and perseverance. They possess a college of their own here, a separate court of justice, 2 Hebrew printing establishments, and several schools and synagogues, and enjoy privileges denied them in other parts of the Continent. The town may be considered a German Birmingham …”
On coming to Austrian territory the traveller is treated with great civility, and ‘asked for his passport, and requested to declare if he had any contraband articles. Those expressly forbidden, and not admitted even on payment of duty, are playing-cards, almanacs, tobacco, snuff, cigars, and sealed letters. All books interdicted by the censor are at once confiscated; those about which a doubt exists are retained to be examined by the censor … As a general rule, it is worth the traveller’s while, on entering a new territory, to give the douaniers a couple of francs, by which he will obtain civility and despatch.’
The traveller is reminded: ‘The same offences that would subject him to police interference in his own country would of course be attended with similar consequences in Austria; and if he were to get up in a coffee-room in Vienna and abuse the Austrian government, there is no doubt that he would find a gentleman from the police waiting at his own door in readiness to conduct him to the frontier. But to a mere traveller the police regulations are not more oppressive than in most other continental countries, and the officers by whom they are administered are usually distinguished for the civility and politeness with which they treat strangers, especially Englishmen, provided they themselves are treated as gentlemen.’
Apart from the usual scenery and art treasures to be seen in Austria, a visit to one of the many salt-mines is highly recommended. In the works where the commodity is processed: ‘The increase of temperature causes the thin iron pan to heave and twist, and … Sometimes a hole is burned in the bottom, or a crack is produced; and as it is not possible to put out the fire merely on account of it, a man is sent into the pan to seek out the leak. This is a hazardous enterprise, as he runs the risk of being nearly stifled by the vapour, and of being boiled alive if he lose his footing. For this purpose he is shod with a pair of high pattens, not unlike two stools, upon which he wades through the boiling brine.’
Austrian inns are said to be rather better than those in Germany, as are the restaurants. On arriving at one in some remote area in the mountains, ‘the new com
er must not expect to be ushered in by a trim waiter with napkin tucked under his arm. He will most probably have to find his own way, under a low archway, by a passage which, though boarded, serves for the ingress and egress of horses and carriages, to the public room, which he will perhaps have to share with the people of the village; unless, as sometimes happens, there is an inner or better apartment for guests of distinction. It is generally a low apartment, with vaulted roof, supported on massive buttresses; at the door he will find a little cup for holy water; not far off hangs a crucifix, sometimes with a figure as large as life, and the walls are ornamented with stags’ horns, or a chamois head, probably trophies of the rifle of mine host.’
The scene thus set is not unlike that of the opening of a 1930s horror movie, for after describing the furniture the writer goes on: ‘Several sleepy-looking peasants will usually be seen seated on benches around the tables of unpainted wood, half enveloped in the smoke of their pipes, nodding over several huge beer-glasses with pewter lids. In the corner stands an unwieldy stove, the general point of attraction in cold weather. If the stranger, in search of some member of the establishment, extend his researches, he may perhaps find his way into the kitchen, in the centre of which, below a gaping chimney, is a raised platform paved with stones all scorched and black. Upon this culinary altar a wood fire is blazing, over it hangs a caldron, while around it, 2 or 3 busy females will be assembled, each tending some department of cookery, and too busy to notice the stranger.’
Perhaps our traveller is induced to tap his stick on the wall, for eventually the waitress makes her appearance, and very pleased he must have been to see her: ‘She is a bustling, active damsel (often the landlord’s daughter), with ruddy cheeks, and a good-humoured smile for everybody, very trimly dressed, and bearing about her the symbols of her office, a bunch of keys on one side, and a large leathern purse on the other. Through her active mediation the traveller’s wants (provided they are not extravagant) are soon attended to, and in half an hour the trout and chamois are smoking on the board, and, with the never-failing friendly salutation of “I wish you a good appetite,” he is invited to commence his repast. Sometimes mine host himself appears and seats himself by the stranger’s side, as it would be considered rude to leave him alone during dinner in this country – a piece of old-fashioned politeness which an Englishman, if not prepared for it, might call impertinence. As he rises from the table, the guest is probably wished a “good digestion”; and for the douceur of a 5-Kreutzer piece when settling his bill, the waitress will smother his hand with kisses – for here the expression “I kiss your hand,” in return for a favour, is not confined to the word, but is followed by the act; and as he leaves the house a hearty greeting of “glückliche Reise!” from the whole household, will follow his departing steps, provided he has conducted himself properly.’
Murray lavishes praise on the welcome which travellers receive in out-of-the-way inns of Austria and the Tirol, which he likens more to the reception of a friend than of a passing guest: ‘… there seems an anxious and disinterested study on the part of the inmates to make the stranger comfortable, and not to contrive how to get the most out of him, as in Switzerland.’ He emphasizes that there is no cringing or obsequiousness, ‘and the traveller must not return the attempts made to please him with complaints or dissatisfaction, else there is a chance of his being left supperless’.
The bedroom, however, is not as good as Murray would have wished, for it is often ‘destined for 10 or 15 tenants at one time, and the beds not always provided with clean sheets, unless a little coaxing be employed to put the Kellnerinn into good humour, and thus obtain the concession of this point. As a general rule, however, the cleanliness of the inns of Tyrol, Austria, and parts of Styria, is most praiseworthy, as will forcibly occur to the mind of the traveller as soon as he crosses the frontier of Italy, and sighs with regret for the clean sheets which he has left behind.’
In Vienna the hotel charges were stated to be higher than in most other German capitals. Those of the first class were: ‘Hotel Munsch, very good and comfortable, but charges high and portions small; Kaiserin Elizabeth, kept by a most obliging and attentive host; well conducted and moderate for Vienna; Erzherzog Karl, a fashionable hotel, much frequented by the English, and dear, but excellent cuisine, and in a central situation, near the theatres; Stadt London, good, clean, civil people, fair cuisine, “Times” taken.’
After some molly-coddling in the capital our traveller will pursue his leisurely way along the great mountain range towards the Balkans, no doubt agreeing with Murray that: ‘The strong religious feeling of the people is very remarkable; but who can live among the high Alps and not be impressed more than elsewhere with the dependence of man upon the Ruler of the elements? The pine riven by the lightning, the cottage burned by it, the winter’s avalanche remaining through the summer unmelted in the depths of the valley, the line of desolation it has caused in its course, marked by the prostrate forest with the stumps only standing like straw in a stubble-field, the hamlet buried by the landslip or swept away by the mountain torrent, are subjects of every-day occurrence.’
Perhaps the favourite pastime of rifle-shooting started the occasional avalanche, for such a sport is found ‘nowhere to the same extent as in Tyrol, whose inhabitants may be called the Kentuckians of Europe. Bred to the use of the weapon from their boyhood, and priding themselves above measure in the skilful exercise of it, and in accuracy of aim, they furnished an admirable corps of sharpshooters.’
In the 1890 edition of the handbook Murray has some amendments to the above: ‘Up to the last few years the Tyrolese were supposed to be amongst the best shots in the world, but the English marksman has now completely eclipsed him in both precision and distance’, a competition, I suppose, only finally decided between the trenches of the Great War.
The Tirolese were also said to take delight in gymnastic exercises, for a Sunday afternoon or a fête day ‘usually terminates in a wrestling match, which, in some parts of the country, is coupled with a species of pugilistic encounter not unlike an American gouging-match. Almost every Tyrolese peasant wears a very thick ring of silver or iron on the little finger of the right hand, and a fist so armed inflicts cruel wounds. Such savage combats not unfrequently terminate in the loss of an eye, ear, or nose, such acts of violence not being considered unfair or contrary to the laws of the sport. The old men are umpires, and take a pleasure in stimulating the combatants.’
The greatest passion of the Austrian mountaineers is music and the dance. ‘They appear born with a taste for music: a violin or a guitar is a part of the furniture of every cottage, and not unfrequently a piano. The enthusiasm, almost approaching to frenzy, with which the dance is kept up, in spite of the heat and crowd, from noon till night, is truly surprising. The partners often seize each other by the shoulders, in an attitude not unlike hugging.’
Further east the Styrian inns are ‘generally comfortless, the people disobliging; and one feature, which strikes the traveller more than any other, and is, as far as I know, unexampled in Europe, is the extraordinary precautions taken against house-breaking, by the invariable use of strong iron stanchions in the smallest windows of the most trifling cottages, whilst iron shutters and bars are common, even in small villages. Highway robbery, though less frequent than formerly, is by no means unknown, and military posts are established for the protection of travellers on the great road from Laibach to Trieste. The use of ardent spirits (Slivovitz) is fearfully universal.’
The Bohemian inns, except in Prague, the large towns and the spas, are ‘dirty, and very inferior to those in Austria Proper. In part of Moravia and Galicia they are filthy hovels, perfectly wretched …’
Baedeker tells us that in Prague there are ten synagogues, the one in the Altneuschule being ‘a strange-looking, gloomy pile of the 12th century, the oldest synagogue in Prague, having been founded, according to tradition, by the first fugitives from Jerusalem after its destruction. The large flag
suspended from the vaulting, and extending across the whole synagogue, was presented by Ferdinand III, in recognition of the bravery of the Jews during the siege of Prague by the Swedes in 1648.’
Murray says that the Jews of Prague were settled in the locality before the destruction of Jerusalem, making it the oldest Hebrew settlement in Europe. ‘In 1290 the Jews were almost exterminated by the fanaticism of the ignorant populace, stirred up by rumours of their having insulted the Host – a prevalent accusation – which caused an almost universal massacre of them throughout Germany. Indeed the history of the Jews in Prague is a dark chapter of that of Christianity. It is one uninterrupted narrative of tyranny, extortion, and blood on the one side, and of long-suffering on the other. Till the end of the last century, Charles IV, Rudolf II, and Joseph II appear the only rulers who held out any protection to this devoted race.’
For part of his journey to the east the traveller may have referred to Captain Spencer’s Turkey, Russia, the Black Sea, and Circassia, 1854. In this he would have learned that before the 1848 Revolution against the Austrian tyranny, the cities of Hungary ‘could boast of palaces and public buildings, which would be admired for the beauty of their architecture even in the meridian of London and Paris; stagnant moats, which shed around their pestilential exhalations, were filled up and converted into public promenades; a magnificent suspension bridge, thrown across the Danube, connected Pest and Buda; while hospitals and benevolent institutions, richly endowed, had been established to relieve the wants of the poorer part of the population. If we penetrated into the rural districts, they also exhibited all the indications of prosperity – comfortable farm-houses, villages, and roadside inns, everywhere met the view, together with an improved system of agriculture.’