Winter lingered on into the beginning of the week of Resurrection. On Tuesday in Holy Week wild gusts from the north drove powdered snow in scurries across the uplands through the broad streets and into narrow alleys, where it lingered during two breathless days until with Good Friday came glorious sunshine, dispelling the last traces of winter storms.

As if to attune themselves to the change from winter's bondage to generous life, from the season of Lent to the Day of Resurrection, the people of Prague, as is their wont, called music to their aid. On Palm Sunday, as the last light of a grey day faded away, the church dedicated to Saint Henry, standing austerely apart from the traffic of the streets, was filled with the sweet sadness of Pergolesi's "Stabat Mater." From the organ-loft came the soul-searching harmony of two voices, a pure white soprano and a rich vibrant contralto, which spread about the lofty building, penetrated to the secluded corners where the scent of incense lingers, and then seemed to lose itself in the shadowy arches of the roof, merging, as it were, into the memories of centuries of prayer and praise.

There was that feeling of impending relief from pain, then as of a healing touch when glorious sunshine ushered in Easter Sunday. Larks poured out their soul into a cloudless sky over the battlefield of the White Mountain, the pale green of larches showed up bravely among the riot of live purple and crimson and the flashing trunks of birches, over the wall that confines the park of the Star. The Star itself, that singular monument, a former hunting-box of Bohemian Kings and built in the shape of a six-pointed star, is undergoing renaissance: it is being arranged as a museum for the Czecho-Slovak legionaries. The little brook that makes such a long detour on its way to join the Vltava, pa.s.sing through the rocky gorge and the winding valley of the Sharka, was very emphatic on the subject of spring's arrival, and its voice must have penetrated to secluded nooks and crannies, rousing sluggard forms of life from winter sleep. Spring was a.s.serting itself with all the glorious certainty of youth, and was calling aloud to all and sundry to come out and witness a brave display in the many gardens of Prague.

I doubt whether any other town in Europe is so well equipped with gardens as is Prague for its size. Chiefest among these is the Stromovka, on the northern slope of the Letna Hill. Your best approach is from the direction of the castle by a broad and shady avenue which leads you first down, then up again to a little plateau where stands a building called Zamek. This building is said to be an old hunting-box of Bohemian royalty: it certainly tries its best to look ancient, but fails to convince you. Then by shady winding ways down the slope to a broad valley deep in verdure. A little stream, which broadens into a lake, keeps up the necessary moisture, and the gra.s.s and the weeping willows in their loveliness offer it their silent thanks. The trees on the northern slope grow high: they had to do so to meet the sunshine.

There are broad, shady drives and rides, and many seats, also two restaurants, with at least one band playing heartily of an afternoon.

But the beauty spot in all this loveliness is right in the centre--a rose-garden. It is no use trying to describe this rose-garden; only a poet could do that, so all I say is, Come and see for yourself.

Other public gardens I would mention, at least the larger ones--Kinsk, Nebozizek, Riegrovy--but there are a number of others, smaller ones, with shady nooks and plenty of seats. These gardens are dispersed about the town in its workaday quarters; at midday--in fact, at any time of day--you may see the workers enjoying a rest and also whatever kindly fruits of the earth happen to be in season--in July your path is paved with cherry-stones.

There are rows of trees along many of the streets; there are many private gardens of palace, hospital, monastery or convent, adding the freshness of their verdure to the beauty of Prague.

No wonder, then, that with so much loveliness about them the people of Prague should be gay and intent on enjoying life amid such surroundings.

On a Sunday or feast-day you have music all round you. Look over the holiday city from your terrace, you will see happy well-dressed crowds moving to one or other place whence rise the strains of music. From one side you hear the solemn notes of the fanfarade from Libua; a little farther away a very cheery bra.s.s band is stirring its audience with a rattling march--impossible to keep your feet still; then while the bra.s.s band pauses for breath and beer the insistent cadence of a dreamy valse floats up to meet you.

Finest of all was Stromovka. Here weeping willows trailed their weeds of daintiest green; here vigorous chestnut buds threw out their strong scent; here osier-beds were a living tangle of gold and crimson reflected brokenly in the lake where frogs made merry, the frogs being about the only wild animals left in the Stromovka. Things were very different in this park when it was known as the Thiergarten, Hortus Ferarum, as long ago as the days of King John, the knight-errant ruler of Bohemia. It appears that bison, "aurochs," were kept here, and it is recorded that the sole surviving specimen died in 1566, which fact Archduke Ferdinand, the Kaiser's lieutenant, reported to Emperor Maximilian; he was thereupon ordered to ask the Duke of Prussia to oblige with a new couple of bison.

The Stromovka was at one time described as "where the ox preaches on a sack of straw," which description was probably meant to be humorous. The connection comes about by the fact that the tailors of the town held their revels in the Thiergarten every Tuesday in Easter week, and it seems that a sack of straw was necessary to their happiness. This sack, of the finest white linen, was sewn up with great neatness and adorned with bows of ribbon, red, blue, yellow, green and white, by the apprentices. The sack was further decorated with a design representing a la.s.s and a lad.

There seems to have been no particular object for the sack, as it was only fastened to a pole round which danced young men and maidens. As the gay Czechs of the present day are ready to dance without any such fortuitous aid, it may be presumed that there was some meaning in the idea of carrying a sack about and then dancing round it; but the chronicler does not mention this point--he probably missed it.

Not to be outdone by the tailors, the cobblers of Prague had their day on the Wednesday after Easter, and went for their diversion in an opposite direction, namely, to Nusle, which lies tucked away behind Vyehrad. The cobblers' feast-day was called "Fidlovatchka," which has a cheery ring, and tradition gives the following origin: The cobblers' guild had built a pair of boots, a most excellent pair of boots, for Emperor Joseph, who himself had learnt their craft. Every cobbler's apprentice in Prague had contributed of his labour to this pair of boots. In token of grat.i.tude the Emperor had given to the guild a little tree, silver-plated, on which were displayed specimens, also in silver, of all the implements used in the cobbler's handicraft. This imperial present was displayed at the cobblers' guildhall and held in high honour.

Now as it happened the cobblers' apprentices seem to have been afflicted more than those of other guilds by the complaint called by the Germans "Blue Monday," which being interpreted meaneth "the morning after the night before." It was of necessity observed as a holiday. Masters insisted on abolishing this holiday, apprentices insisted on its retention. The latter removed the silver-plated tree from its sanctuary and carried it, to the strains of music and with much vociferation, to a mill, now no longer, at Nusle, at which place the adventure had been planned.

Not a single apprentice was to be found in Prague: needless to say, they had the enthusiastic support and inspiring company of all the cobblers'

errand-boys.

The apprentices kept up the feast for several days until their funds were exhausted; they then stripped the imperial tree of its ornaments and sold them. When they had arrived at the stage known as _au sec_ they pa.s.sed the time in fighting. Eventually a deputation of masters came out, a conference was held, the "Blue Monday" feast was reinst.i.tuted, and the apprentices returned to Prague, carrying, in place of the imperial tree, a maypole--premature, no doubt, but it probably best expressed their feelings.

The very learned will tell us that the maypole custom of the Prague cobblers dates back to much remoter times than those of Emperor Joseph, and may draw attention to the habit prevalent in Saxony and other neighbouring countries with an originally strongly Slav population of displaying a birch-tree at the beginning of May. The learned will then dive down into Slavonic mythology, which process to the dilettante in such matters, is like "going in off the deep end"--you never know when or where you may come up again.

At any rate, it appears that the cobblers' apprentices chose to call their maypole "Fidlovatchka," and that they carried it about on their feast-day, the Wednesday after Easter. Tradition has it that they all smoked in turn, from a giant pipe capable of holding two pounds of tobacco. Here a fastidious chronicler draws the curtain.

The habit of the Prague apprentices in the matter of keeping the feast remains much the same to-day; moreover, it is not their exclusive right or privilege. I know few other places in the world where people are more ready to make merry on the least provocation. I do not know why this is, nor have I a.n.a.lysed the Czech disposition towards festivities; I do know that it is contagious. Perhaps it is due to the fact that the Church of Rome encouraged the converted Hussites to keep things merry and bright on every available saint's day so as to deaden all recollection of Hus's martyrdom, but this is a deeper matter which we will discuss later. The fact is that the Czech is by nature gay and cheerful and an expert merrymaker, as who would not be in a country like Bohemia, with its grand natural beauties, its wealth of music and poetry--and its beer?

The Government has recently abolished all holidays but a few of the very obvious ones, such as New Year's Day, Good Friday, and May Day. I do not think that this paternal decree will make the least difference to the cheery Czech; in fact, only a day or so after the decree was pa.s.sed into law the event was celebrated by a very hearty tribute, lasting two days, to a national saint, followed by a day's strike organized by those who protest against all such obsolete notions as saints' days. Everyone was satisfied; everyone's opinion had been freely expressed, and everyone had enjoyed three holidays in one week, thus, by the way, exceeding the allowance for the whole year. Oh yes! the Czechs know what they are about when it comes to merrymaking.

Such a day of merriment is March 7th, very much of a feast-day indeed--the birthday of President Masaryk. Were I a Czech or Slovak, I should celebrate right heartily at least once a week the birthday of the present President, for he is one of the few great men among the swarm that arrived at the top as a result of the World War.

CHAPTER III

Deals in order of seniority with two of the hills on which Prague stands. First in order, Vyehrad, with its memories of Libua and her supernatural gift. Refers also to one Premysl, Libua's chosen consort, and the long line of rulers his descendants. Tells of how the foundations of the Hradany were laid according to Libu's instructions. Tries to describe the Hradany as seen to-day, inadequately be it admitted, but ill.u.s.trations are added in order to help the reader's comprehension of this crowning glory of Prague. Tells a story or two about sentries, one of which at least is intended to thrill. There is also mention of one Czech, of his discovery of the hill Rip. This chapter shows also how by degrees the descendants of Premysl emerged from the mist of legend with the dawn of Christianity over these Slavonic tribes.

Duke Mnata and his wife Strzezislava flit across the stage. Then we linger on Borivoj and note that German influence begins to make itself felt. St. Methodius is also mentioned, as is one Svatopluk, Prince of Moravia. Finally we arrive at properly authenticated Princes of Bohemia, each labelled and dated correctly, St. Wenceslaus and his brother Boleslav. Mentions also a saintly lady Ludmilla and her daughter-in-law Dragomira in vivid contrast. Family dissensions among the Premysls which lead to such unpleasant happenings as the murder of St. Ludmilla and the consequent banishment of Dragomira by her son Wenceslaus, of whom there is so much to relate that he is worthy to open a fresh chapter.

Let us lift up our eyes unto the hills, the hills on which stands Prague, and if help do not come at once we may at least hope for inspiration; the beauty of the scene alone a.s.sures us. Look out from your terrace of a morning, a cloudless morning of early summer, and gainsay it if you can. The town is extending considerably, growing up the distant slopes on the far side of the river and trickling down into the little valleys, but the general outline of Prague is much the same as it has been for centuries; the eternal hills may be scarred and patched by us who have here no "abiding city," but they remain.

I have already mentioned the hills on which Prague was built, and had decided that they are five in number, not seven as is popularly alleged.

I have counted those hills several times over, and make their number five, and quite sufficient too; another two hills would mar the composition. At the risk of repeating myself, I maintain that Prague can well afford to be original and forgo any imitation of other cities by insisting on standing on seven hills; a truly great city should not descend to servile flattery. Paris, for example, undoubtedly a great city, is quite content to stand on two hills, Montmartre and Montparna.s.se, the latter quite worn flat by the levelling tendencies of modern times.

It is now time that we delved down into the history of Bohemia, and in this we gain inspiration from the hills of Prague, the works of man that crown them and the traditions, legends, shreds of history that cling to them. Of these hills that of Vyehrad is ent.i.tled to hold seniority in the history of Prague. It takes a place somewhat akin to that held by the Capitoline Hill of Rome. It was from here that the city started, though this hill has little left of former grandeur and shows nothing to compare with Rome's monuments to a glorious past. A crumbling block of masonry, the story of which is quite unknown, a round chapel dating from the days when Christianity was young among the Slavs and still found ready martyrs in its cause even among princes, and an _enceinte_ of brick fortifications, stone-faced and in Vauban's best style, battered by Frederick the Great's guns, are all that Vyehrad has to show by way of relics of a stormy past.

Vyehrad is about the first striking view you obtain of Prague as the _train de luxe_ brings you round a bend before crossing the railway bridge over the Vltava. Travellers seeing Prague for the first time are apt to mistake this hill of Vyehrad for the castle. I did so myself; my delight, therefore, at the first sight of Prague's crowning glory, the Hradany, was all the greater.

Seen against the evening sky, Vyehrad looks very imposing; it is at its best by winter twilight, when the heavy ma.s.s is dully reflected on the surface of the frozen river. Then you may gain some idea of what this rugged promontory stands for in the life-history of a race that has pa.s.sed through great tribulation. Two Gothic spires point to the skies, rising from a church which, despite its newness, seems more in accord with the spirit of Prague than do the copper domes of Jesuit structures; but then this church is built on foundations so ancient as to defy investigation by the most a.s.siduous chroniclers. No doubt those spires are right enough in their way, but they are almost painfully modern and unromantic compared to a square bit of crumbling masonry that clings limpet-like to the crags of Vyehrad overhanging the river at the feet of the twin church towers. For here, according to legend, is the cradle of the city of Prague. In popular parlance this bit of masonry is called Libua's bath, and hereby hangs a tale to introduce which we must hark back some fourteen centuries.

Some time in the sixth century--n.o.body seems to know exactly or to care much when it was--one Czech or Czechus was wandering about this land of Bohemia with a party of friends and relatives, probably a whole tribe of them. Czech seems to have had the country to himself; if he had met any strangers there would have been a fight, and we should have heard about it. It may therefore be a.s.sumed that the former occupants, probably lodgers only, had moved on. There was much movement going on in those early centuries of the Christian era, the main tendency being from north-east to south-west, from cold, damp and short-commons to warmth and plenty. Now we have sufficient reason to believe that Thuringians and Rugians abode for a while in Bohemia and parts of Bavaria, and Lombards in Moravia, and that these gentry, hearing of loot to be had in plenty farther south, left their temporary homes, crossed the Danube and made themselves unpopular elsewhere, leaving the lands of Bohemia and Moravia to anyone who cared to take them. This happened some time about the middle of the sixth century, which gives us something more definite to go upon as to Czech's place in time. Anyway, there were Czech, his friends and relations wandering at their own sweet pleasure over the rolling wood-clad landscape of Bohemia. On this excursion Czech espied from afar a peculiar shaped hill (not one of the hills of Prague) to which he promptly gave the appropriate name of Rip. Now this innocent-looking word is, by virtue of the sign placed over the R, p.r.o.nounced in a peculiar manner; between the initial consonant and the "i" you should insert a sound somewhat like that of the French "j" as in "jamais," for instance. Heaven and the Czechs only know what meaning you would convey did you neglect this euphonious concatenation of consonants and simply say "rip"--probably something to cover the young person with confusion; but rightly p.r.o.nounced, and with due regard to the soft but insistent sibilant, this mixture of sounds means--toadstool. It is all so simple when once you know: Rip = toadstool,--and there you are.

The description tallies too: the hill of Rip does look like a toadstool; I have seen it myself, and am prepared to support Czech's statement on oath. Anyway, Rip stands there still, much the same as when Czech discovered it, but for a chapel dedicated to St. George on its summit, the result of some one else's piety.

You can see Rip for miles round, as it has chosen a fairly level plain out of which to arise much like a mushroom on the lawn after a rainy night. No wonder, then, that Czech made straight for Rip, climbed to the top, looked around him, approved of what he saw, and decided to stay. He did, so did his friends and relatives and those that came after them, and no power on earth was able to shift them. The descendants of Czech are there still. One of these told me that the best and st.u.r.diest type of Czech is bred round about Rip; he was born thereabouts himself, and should know. I am prepared to believe it anyway, as my friend is certainly of the best and st.u.r.diest type of Czech.

That much for Czech and his descendants; we must now skip a century or two which even Cosmas of Prague was unable to fill out with legend, and return to the lady whose bath I have already referred to. Not that I believe the ruined bits of wall to have contained a lady's bathroom; I have tried to imagine Libua using the place for the morning tub, and have failed to conjure up any picture that would carry conviction.

However, I do not wish to prejudice the case; come out to Prague and judge for yourself.

Libua was one of three sisters, daughters of Krok, Prince of Bohemia, or at least some part of it, for frontiers in those very early days were even more elastic than those drawn by International Commissions. Anyway, there was Krok lording it over as much of Bohemia as he could control, from his fastness of Vyehrad. Of Libua's sisters, Kazi and Teta, nothing but their names is known even in legend; they pa.s.sed into oblivion on Krok's demise, for he ordained that Libua, his youngest daughter, should succeed him. Libua, according to legend, was a model of all the virtues, and as in those days there was no ever-ready Press lurking to pounce on historical inaccuracies, we may accept the statement of kindly Saga.

Libua had a rare gift, one which proved uncomfortable to other ladies of legend similarly endowed, uncomfortable both to themselves and their belongings, the gift of prophecy. She foretold the future greatness of Prague, and undoubtedly spotted a winner. This was not the only occasion either, for she did herself a good turn too by means of her supernatural power. As it happened, despite her possession of all the virtues, she had trouble with her subjects, who declared themselves weary of petticoat government and urged her to look round for a husband.

She did, calling to aid her uncanny gift. The discussion with her subjects probably took place in the open, high up on Vyehrad.

Libua, with that far-away gaze proper to all soothsaying, pointed out over the distant hills, saying, "Behind those hills is a small river called Belna, and on its bank a farm named Stadic. Near that farm is a field, and in that field your future ruler is ploughing with two spotted oxen. His name is Premysl, and his descendants will rule over you for ever. Take my horse and follow it; you will be led to the place."

The lady was not quite correct about Premysl and his descendants--they have ceased to rule over the Czechs, and are now replaced by a sovereign people; but she certainly was right in her description of her future husband and his surroundings. The search party, following Libua's horse, found Premysl busy at his plough, roped him in and brought him to their Princess. Legend again a.s.serts that Premysl made a first-cla.s.s husband and ruler (he probably did exactly as his wife told him) and his descendants reigned with varying fortunes, until the first years of the fourteenth century--a very good innings for the lineage of Premysl, the st.u.r.dy farmer, and that far-seeing lady Libua, his wife. During those centuries the Czechs had consolidated into an important kingdom; from a misty chaos of heathen Slavonic tribes had grown a people brave and generous, with a culture all its own, and above all with a surpa.s.sing gift of expressing itself in music.

It must not be supposed that Libua rested content with being wife to Premysl, just keeping house, mending clothes and minding the babies.

She continued her activities as directress of her people's fortunes, and is made responsible, among other matters, for choosing the site of the Hradany, the Castle of Prague, and this is what the chronicler has to say about it.

One day as Libua looked out from her fastness over the river towards the wooded heights to northward, she was moved by the gift of prophecy to which she was addicted when deeply stirred.

Her own abode, built by her father, hung upon that rocky crag called Vyehrad, and was probably by no means roomy; Krok, her father, had no doubt found it a convenient spot, being somewhat difficult of access in those days to armed visitors, who were likely to prove a disturbing element. The ancient Slav preferred to build in secluded spots, on heights amid forests for choice, there was so much to guard against in those dark ages, so the wooded heights that Libua looked out upon must have appealed to her strongly. Anyway, she decided to act, prefacing action by some quite useful sooth-saying. According to the chronicler Cosmas of Prague, who lived three or four centuries after Libua had pa.s.sed away, the following impressive scene was enacted: Libua, standing on a high rock on the Vyehrad in presence of her husband Premysl and the elders of the people, incited by the spirit of prophecy, uttered this prediction: "I see a town, the glory of which will reach the stars. There is a spot in the forest, thirty stades from this village which the River Vltava encircles, and which to the north the stream Brusnice secures by its deep valley; and to the south a hill, which from its rocks takes the name Petrin, towers above it. When you have reached this spot you will find a man in the midst of the forest, who is working at a door-sill for a house; even mighty lords bend before a low door. From this you shall call the town which you will build there 'Praha.'" The elders did as they were bid, and so Prague arose. The Czech name is Praha, the derivation possibly from _prah_= door.

The Hradany Hill was thus by Princess Libua indicated as the pinnacle on which should rest for ever the glory of Prague and of Bohemia. Glory is a doubtful gift and costly, and the history of Prague shows clearly that this is true. No doubt work was started at once on a castle to crown the hill. Libua probably saw to it that there was no time wasted. This would be some time about the middle of the eighth century, but history, as handed down from those days, is wrapped about with mystery and legend from the obscurity of which events gradually detached themselves. It was not till Christianity had got a firm hold of the Czech people that any half-way reliable records were kept.

We will take it for granted that it was Libua who, with the seer's eye penetrating the future, laid the foundations of that right royal pile, Prague's crown of glory, the Hradany. We have the authority of Cosmas for this; also Smetana composed an opera all about Libua, so all our doubts are dispelled. We have noticed the site, and that it is admirably adapted to defence, a rocky eminence rising like a promontory above the broad Vltava, its steep sides falling down to the river on the eastern side, and to deep-cut valleys to north and south. The position offers a wide view over the rolling plains to westward. It was from this side chiefly that the attackers came--Germans in the cause of the Holy Roman Empire, mercenaries of many nations that swelled the imperial hosts arrayed against Protestant Bohemia, marauding armies of Swedes, all these surged up against the walls and towers of Prague's Royal Castle. They broke and pa.s.sed away like the fleeting cloud shadows you may watch floating across the fields and wooded slopes of Jilove, Cerny Kostelec and Zbraslav to the blue hills of Hradein beyond.

But the castle still stands a sentinel over ancient Prague.

It must have been a pleasant post, that of sentry upon a look-out tower of the Castle of Prague. What with the ever-changing beauty of the landscape and the chance of noticing a hostile force approaching with colours flying and spear-heads a-glitter in the sun, with, moreover, a prospect of a fight, a sentry's life should have been a happy one. It would be expected of the sentry that he should not be so held by the fascination of the scene as to omit to report any unusual occurrence. I have known such a thing happen even to an otherwise well-regulated sentry. It was in Mandalay where from a wooden tower in the middle of Fort Dufferin a sentry held watch and ward over the town. One bright afternoon the town caught fire. The sentry was so much impressed by the grandeur of the scene that he quite forgot to report the matter, and a large part of the town was utterly destroyed. That man might have been qualified as an artist, an author or a poet; as a sentry he was disappointing.

There are no records of sentry yarns dating back to the really exciting times in the history of the Hradany; I have discovered only one, and that of a comparatively recent date. The event narrated happened in the autumn of 1753 at 11 p.m. The sentry was a grenadier; please note the accuracy of detail which should dispel any doubt as to the truth of the story--the grenadier touch is especially convincing. This grenadier, it would seem, was posted in the inner court of the castle, probably at the entrance to what is now the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and Propaganda (places of that kind want a deal of watching). The grenadier was probably as bored as any sentry can be up till midnight sharp, when things began to happen. First of all, the dark ma.s.s of the cathedral was suddenly brilliantly illuminated from within. Then from that little side entrance to the cathedral emerged a tall figure all in white. The sentry challenged, as a sentry should. No use. The tall figure strode up to the sentry, halted before him, cast a handful of corn at his feet and stalked back the way it came. Lights out!... The next night at the same hour the programme was repeated before a new sentry, also a grenadier: the former one had probably reported himself sick. On the second night the apparition cast down a handful of silver coin. The grenadier left them all lying on the ground--this is the only part of the story that strikes me as weak. On the third night, the military being represented as before, the tall figure reappeared with commendable punctuality. On this occasion the management had arranged a display of moonlight in order to show up the pallid features, blood-stained clouts and other accessories suitable to a first-cla.s.s apparition. Moreover, this being positively its last appearance in public, the tall figure spake: "1754 rich harvest, 1755 gold in plenty, 1756 blood in streams." And so it happened. In the year 1754 there was a record harvest in Bohemia, the year 1755 brought considerable wealth into the country (the handful of silver was probably something on account), and in 1756 the Seven Years'

War broke out. So the story must be true, all except that little bit about the grenadier leaving all the silver lying on the ground.