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Around the World on a Bicycle V1

T >> Thomas Stevens >> Around the World on a Bicycle V1




Luneville is a town I pass through, some distance nearer the border, and
the military display here made is perfectly overshadowing. Even the
scarecrows in the fields are military figures, with wooden swords
threateningly waving about in their hands with every motion of the wind,
and the most frequent sound heard along the route is the sharp bang!
bang! of muskets, where companies of soldiers are target-practising in
the woods. There seems to be a bellicose element in the very atmosphere;
for every dog in every village I ride through verily takes after me, and
I run clean over one bumptious cur, which, miscalculating the speed at
which I am coming, fails to get himself out of the way in time. It is
the narrowest escape from a header I have had since starting from
Liverpool; although both man and dog were more scared than hurt. Sixty-five
kilometres from Nancy, and I take lunch at the frontier town of Blamont.
The road becomes more hilly, and a short distance out of Blamont, behold,
it is as though a chalk-line were made across the roadway, on the west
side of which it had been swept with scrupulous care, and on the east
side not swept at all; and when, upon passing the next roadman, I notice
that he bears not upon his cap the brass stencil-plate bearing the
inscription, " Cantonnier," I know that I have passed over the frontier
into the territory of Kaiser Wilhelm.

My journey through fair Prance has been most interesting, and perhaps
instructive, though I am afraid that the lessons I have taken in French
politeness are altogether too superficial to be lasting. The "Bonjour,
monsieur," and "Bon voyage," of France, may not mean any more than the
"If I don't see you again, why, hello." of America, but it certainly
sounds more musical and pleasant. It is at the table d'hote, however,
that I have felt myself to have invariably shone superior to the natives;
for, lo! the Frenchman eats soup from the end of his spoon. True, it is
more convenient to eat soup from the prow of a spoon than from the
larboard; nevertheless, it is when eating soup that I instinctively feel
my superiority. The French peasants, almost without exception, conclude
that the bright-nickelled surface of the bicycle is silver, and presumably
consider its rider nothing less than a millionnaire in consequence; but
it is when I show them the length of time the rear wheel or a pedal will
spin round that they manifest their greatest surprise. The crowning glory
of French landscape is the magnificent avenues of poplars that traverse
the country in every direction, winding with the roads, the railways,
and canals along the valleys, and marshalled like sentinels along the
brows of the distant hills; without them French scenery would lose half
its charm.






CHAPTER VI.





GERMANY, AUSTRIA, AND HUNGARY.

Notwithstanding Alsace was French territory only fourteen years ago
(1871) there is a noticeable difference in the inhabitants, to me the
most acceptable being their great linguistic superiority over the people
on the French side of the border. I linger in Saarburg only about thirty
minutes, yet am addressed twice by natives in my own tongue; and at
Pfalzburg, a smaller town, where I remain over night, I find the same
characteristic. Ere I penetrate thirty kilometres into German territory,
however, I have to record what was never encountered in France; an
insolent teamster, who, having his horses strung across a narrow road-
way in the suburbs of Saarburg, refuses to turn his leaders' heads to
enable me to ride past, thus compelling me to dismount. Soldiers drilling,
soldiers at target practice, and soldiers in companies marching about
in every direction, greet my eyes upon approaching Pfalzburg; and although
there appears to be less beating of drums and blare of trumpets than in
French garrison towns, one seldom turns a street corner without hearing
the measured tramp of a military company receding or approaching. These
German troops appear to march briskly and in a business-like manner in
comparison with the French, who always seem to carry themselves with a
tired and dejected deportment; but the over-ample and rather slouchy-looking
pantaloons of the French are probably answerable, in part, for this
impression. One cannot watch these sturdy-looking German soldiers without
a conviction that for the stern purposes of war they are inferior only
to the soldiers of our own country. At the little gasthaus at Pfalzburg
the people appear to understand and anticipate an Englishman's gastronomic
peculiarities, for the first time since leaving England I am confronted
at the supper-table with excellent steak and tea.

It is raining next morning as I wheel over the rolling hills toward
Saverne, a city nestling pleasantly in a little valley beyond those dark
wooded heights ahead that form the eastern boundary of the valley of the
Rhine. The road is good but hilly, and for several kilometres, before
reaching Saverne, winds its way among the pine forests tortuously and
steeply down from the elevated divide. The valley, dotted here and there
with pleasant villages, is spread out like a marvellously beautiful
picture, the ruins of several old castles on neighboring hill-tops adding
a charm, as well as a dash of romance.

The rain pours down in torrents as I wheel into Saverne. I pause long
enough to patronize a barber shop; also to procure an additional small
wrench. Taking my nickelled monkey-wrench into a likely-looking hardware
store, I ask the proprietor if he has anything similar. He examines it
with lively interest, for, in comparison with the clumsy tools comprising
his stock-in-trade, the wrench is as a watch-spring to an old horse-shoe.
I purchase a rude tool that might have been fashioned on the anvil of a
village blacksmith. From Saverne my road leads over another divide and
down into the glorious valley of the Rhine, for a short distance through
a narrow defile that reminds me somewhat of a canon in the Sierra Nevada
foot-hills; but a fine, broad road, spread with a coating of surface-mud
only by this morning's rain, prevents the comparison from assuming
definite shape for a cycler. Extensive and beautifully terraced vineyards
mark the eastern exit. The road-beds of this country are hard enough for
anything; but a certain proportion of clay in their composition makes a
slippery coating in rainy weather. I enter the village of Marienheim and
observe the first stork's nest, built on top of a chimney, that I have
yet seen in Europe, though I saw plenty of them afterward. The parent
stork is perched solemnly over her youthful brood, which one would
naturally think would get smoke-dried. A short distance from Marlenheim
I descry in the hazy distance the famous spire of Strasburg cathedral
looming conspicuously above everything else in all the broad valley; and
at 1.30 P.M. I wheel through the massive arched gateway forming part of
the city's fortifications, and down the broad but roughly paved streets,
the most mud-be-spattered object in all Strasburg. The fortifications
surrounding the city are evidently intended strictly for business, and
not merely for outward display. The railway station is one of the finest
in Europe, and among other conspicuous improvements one notices steam
tram-cars. While trundling through the city I am imperatively ordered
off the sidewalk by the policeman; and when stopping to inquire of a
respectable-looking Strasburger for the Appeuweir road, up steps an
individual with one eye and a cast off military cap three sizes too
small. After querying, " Appenweir. Englander?" he wheels "about face"
with military precision doubtless thus impelled by the magic influence
of his headgear - and beckons me to follow. Not knowing what better course
to pursue I obey, and after threading the mazes of a dozen streets,
composed of buildings ranging in architecture from the much gabled and
not unpicturesque structures of mediaeval times to the modern brown-stone
front, he pilots me outside the fortifications again, points up the
Appenweir road, and after the never neglected formality of touching his
cap and extending his palm, returns city-ward.

Crossing the Rhine over a pontoon bridge, I ride along level and, happily,
rather less muddy roads, through pleasant suburban villages, near one
of which I meet a company of soldiers in undress uniform, strung out
carelessly along the road, as though returning from a tramp into the
country. As I approach them, pedalling laboriously against a stiff head
wind, both myself and the bicycle fairly yellow with clay, both officers
and soldiers begin to laugh in a good-natured, bantering sort of manner,
and a round dozen of them sing out in chorus "Ah! ah! der Englander."
and as I reply, "Yah! yah." in response, and smile as I wheel past
them, the laughing and banter go all along the line. The sight of an
"Englander" on one of his rambling expeditions of adventure furnishes
much amusement to the average German, who, while he cannot help admiring
the spirit of enterprise that impels him, fails to comprehend where the
enjoyment can possibly come in. The average German would much rather
loll around, sipping wine or beer, and smoking cigarettes, than impel a
bicycle across a continent. A few miles eastward of the Rhine another
grim fortress frowns upon peaceful village and broad, green meads, and
off yonder to the right is yet another; sure enough, this Franco-German
frontier is one vast military camp, with forts, and soldiers, and munitions
of war everywhere. When I crossed the Rhine I left Lower Alsace, and am
now penetrating the middle Rhine region, where villages are picturesque
clusters of gabled cottages - a contrast to the shapeless and ancient-looking
stone structures of the French villages. The difference also extends to
the inhabitants; the peasant women of France, in either real or affected
modesty, would usually pretend not to notice anything extraordinary as
I wheeled past, but upon looking back they would almost invariably be
seen standing and gazing after my receding figure with unmistakable
interest; but the women of these Rhine villages burst out into merry
peals of laughter.

Rolling over fair roads into the village of Oberkirch, I conclude to
remain for the night, and the first thing undertaken is to disburden the
bicycle of its covering of clay. The awkward-looking hostler comes around
several times and eyes the proceedings with glances of genuine disapproval,
doubtless thinking I am cleaning it myself instead of letting him swab
it with a besom with the single purpose in view of dodging the inevitable
tip. The proprietor can speak a few words of English. He puts his bald
head out of the window above, and asks: "Pe you Herr Shtevens ?" "Yah,
yah," I reply.

" Do you go mit der veld around ?" "Yah; I goes around mit the world."

"I shoust read about you mit der noospaper." " Ah, indeed! what newspaper?"

"Die Frankfurter Zeitung. You go around mit der veld." The landlord looks
delighted to have for a guest the man who goes "mit der veld around,"
and spreads the news. During the evening several people of importance
and position drop in to take a curious peep at me and my wheel.

A dampness about the knees, superinduced by wheeling in rubber leggings,
causes me to seek the privilege of the kitchen fire upon arrival. After
listening to the incessant chatter of the cook for a few moments, I
suddenly dispense with all pantomime, and ask in purest English the
privilege of drying my clothing in peace and tranquillity by the kitchen
fire. The poor woman hurries out, and soon returns with her highly
accomplished master, who, comprehending the situation, forthwith tenders
me the loan of his Sunday pantaloons for the evening; which offer I
gladly accept, notwithstanding the wide disproportion in their size and
mine, the landlord being, horizontally, a very large person. Oberkirch
is a pretty village at the entrance to the narrow and charming valley
of the River Bench, up which my route leads, into the fir-clad heights
of the Black Forest. A few miles farther up the valley I wheel through
a small village that nestles amid surroundings the loveliest I have yet
seen. Dark, frowning firs intermingled with the lighter green of other
vegetation crown the surrounding spurs of the Knibis Mountains; vineyards,
small fields of waving rye, and green meadow cover the lower slopes with
variegated beauty, at the foot of which huddles the cluster of pretty
cottages amid scattered orchards of blossoming fruit-trees. The cheery
lute of the herders on the mountains, the carol of birds, and the merry
music of dashing mountain-streams fill the fresh morning air with melody.
All through this country there are apple-trees, pear-trees, cherry-trees
In the fruit season one can scarce open his mouth out-doors without
having the goddess Pomona pop in some delicious morsel. The poplar
avenues of France have disappeared, but the road is frequently shaded
for miles with fruit-trees. I never before saw a spot so lovely-certainly
not in combination with a wellnigh perfect road for wheeling. On through
Oppenau and Petersthal my way leads - this latter a place of growing
importance as a summer resort, several commodious hotels with swimming-baths,
mineral waters, etc., being already prepared to receive the anticipated
influx of health and pleasure-seeking guests this coming summer - and then
up, up, up among the dark pines leading over the Black Forest Mountains.
Mile after mile of steep incline has now been trundled, following the
Bench River to its source. Ere long the road I have lately traversed is
visible far below, winding and twisting up the mountain-slopes. Groups
of swarthy peasant women are carrying on their heads baskets of pine
cones to the villages below. At a distance the sight of their bright red
dresses among the sombre green of the pines is suggestive of the fairies
with which legend has peopled the Black Forest.

The summit is reached at last, and two boundary posts apprise the traveller
that on this wooded ridge he passes from Baden into Wurtemberg. The
descent for miles is agreeably smooth and gradual; the mountain air blows
cool and refreshing, with an odor of the pines; the scenery is Black
Forest scenery, and what more could be possibly desired than this happy
combination of circumstances. Reaching Freudenstadt about noon, the
mountain-climbing, the bracing air, and the pine fragrance cause me to
give the good people at the gasthaus an impressive lesson in the effect
of cycling on the human appetite. At every town and village I pass through
in Wurtemberg the whole juvenile population collects around me in an
incredibly short time. The natural impulse of the German small boy appears
to be to start running after me, shouting and laughing immoderately, and
when passing through some of the larger villages, it is no exaggeration
to say that I have had two hundred small Germans, noisy and demonstrative,
clattering along behind in their heavy wooden shoes.

Wurtemburg, by this route at least, is a decidedly hilly country, and
the roads are far inferior to those of both England and France. There
will be, perhaps, three kilometres of trundling up through wooded heights
leading out of a small valley, then, after several kilometres over
undulating, stony upland roads, a long and not always smooth descent
into another small valley, this programme, several times repeated,
constituting the journey of the clay. The small villages of the peasantry
are frequently on the uplands, but the larger towns are invariably in
the valleys, sheltered by wooded heights, perched among the crags of the
most inaccessible of which are frequently seen the ruins of an old castle.
Scores of little boys of eight or ten are breaking stones by the road-side,
at which I somewhat marvel, since there is a compulsory school law in
Germany; but perhaps to-day is a holiday; or maybe, after school hours,
it is customary for these unhappy youngsters to repair to the road-sides
and blister their hands with cracking flints. "Hungry as a buzz-saw" I
roll into the sleepy old town of Rothenburg at six o'clock, and, repairing
to the principal hotel, order supper. Several flunkeys of different
degrees of usefulness come in and bow obsequiously from time to time,
as I sit around, expecting supper to appear every minute. At seven o'clock
the waiter comes in, bows profoundly, and lays the table-cloth; at 7.15
he appears again, this time with a plate, knife, and fork, doing more
bowing and scraping as he lays them on the table. Another half-hour rolls
by, when, doubtless observing my growing impatience as he happens in at
intervals to close a shutter or re-regulate the gas, he produces a small
illustrated paper, and, bowing profoundly; lays it before me. I feel
very much like making him swallow it, but resigning myself to what appears
to be inevitable fate, I wait and wait, and at precisely 8.15 he produces
a plate of soup; at 8.30 the kalbscotolet is brought on, and at 8.45 a
small plate of mixed biscuits. During the meal I call for another piece
of bread, and behold there is a hurrying to and fro, and a resounding
of feet scurrying along the stone corridors of the rambling old building,
and ten minutes later I receive a small roll. At the opposite end of the
long table upon which I am writing some half-dozen ancient and honorable
Rothenburgers are having what they doubtless consider a "howling time."
Confronting each is a huge tankard of foaming lager, and the one doubtless
enjoying himself the most and making the greatest success of exciting
the envy and admiration of those around him is a certain ponderous
individual who sits from hour to hour in a half comatose condition,
barely keeping a large porcelain pipe from going out, and at fifteen-minute
intervals taking a telling pull at the lager. Were it not for an occasional
blink of the eyelids and the periodical visitation of the tankard to his
lips, it would be difficult to tell whether he were awake or sleeping,
the act of smoking being barely perceptible to the naked eye.

In the morning I am quite naturally afraid to order anything to eat here
for fear of having to wait until mid-day, or thereabouts, before getting
it; so, after being the unappreciative recipient of several more bows,
more deferential and profound if anything than the bows of yesterday
eve, I wheel twelve kilometres to Tubingen for breakfast. It showers
occasionally during the forenoon, and after about thirty-five kilometres
of hilly country it begins to descend in torrents, compelling me to
follow the example of several peasants in seeking the shelter of a thick
pine copse. We are soon driven out of it, however, and donning my gossamer
rubber suit, I push on to Alberbergen, where I indulge in rye bread and
milk, and otherwise while away the hours until three o'clock, when, the
rain ceasing, I pull out through the mud for Blaubeuren. Down the
beautiful valley of one of the Danube's tributaries I ride on Sunday
morning, pedalling to the music of Blaubeuren's church-bells. After
waiting until ten o'clock, partly to allow the roads to dry a little, I
conclude to wait no longer, and so pull out toward the important and
quite beautiful city of Ulm. The character of the country now changes,
and with it likewise the characteristics of the people, who verily seem
to have stamped upon their features the peculiarities of the region they
inhabit. My road eastward of Blaubeuren follows down a narrow, winding
valley, beside the rippling head-waters of the Danube, and eighteen
kilometres of variable road brings me to the strongly fortified city of
Ulm, the place I should have reached yesterday, except for the inclemency
of the weather, and where I cross from Wurtemberg into Bavaria. On the
uninviting uplands of Central Wurtemberg one looks in vain among the
peasant women for a prepossessing countenance or a graceful figure, but
along the smiling valleys of Bavaria, the women, though usually with
figures disproportionately broad, nevertheless carry themselves with a
certain gracefulness; and, while far from the American or English idea
of beautiful, are several degrees more so than their relatives of the
part of Wilrtemberg I have traversed. I stop but a few minutes at Ulm,
to test a mug of its lager and inquire the details of the road to Augsburg,
yet during that short time I find myself an object of no little curiosity
to the citizens, for the fame of my undertaking has pervaded Ulm.

The roads of Bavaria possess the one solitary merit of hardness, otherwise
they would be simply abominable, the Bavarian idea of road-making evidently
being to spread unlimited quantities of loose stones over the surface.
For miles a wheelman is compelled to follow along narrow, wheel-worn
tracks, incessantly dodging loose stones, or otherwise to pedal his way
cautiously along the edges of the roadway. I am now wheeling through the
greatest beer-drinking, sausage-consuming country in the world; hop-
gardens are a prominent feature of the landscape, and long links of
sausages are dangling in nearly every window. The quantities of these
viands I see consumed to-day are something astonishing, though the
celebration of the Whitsuntide holidays is probably augmentative of the
amount.

The strains of instrumental music come floating over the level bottom
of the Lech valley as, toward eventide, I approach the beautiful environs
of Augsburg, and ride past several beer-gardens, where merry crowds of
Augsburgers are congregated, quaffing foaming lager, eating sausages,
and drinking inspiration from the music of military bands. "Where is the
headquarters of the Augsburg Velocipede Club?" I inquire of a promising-looking
youth as, after covering one hundred and twenty kilometres since ten
o'clock, I wheel into the city. The club's headquarters are at a prominent
cafe and beer-garden in the south-eastern suburbs, and repairing thither
I find an accommodating individual who can speak English, and who willingly
accepts the office of interpreter between me and the proprietor of the
garden. Seated amid hundreds of soldiers, Augsburg civilians, and peasants
from the surrounding country, and with them extracting genuine enjoyment
from a tankard of foaming Augsburg lager, I am informed that most of the
members of the club are celebrating the Whitsuntide holidays by touring
about the surrounding country, but that I am very welcome to Augsburg,
and I am conducted to the Hotel Mohrenkopf (Moor's Head Hotel), and
invited to consider myself the guest of the club as long as I care to
remain in Augsburg-the Bavarians are nothing if not practical.

Mr. Josef Kling, the president of the club, accompanies me as far out
as Friedburg on Monday morning; it is the last day of the holidays, and
the Bavarians are apparently bent on making the most of it. The suburban
beer-gardens are already filled with people, and for some distance out
of the city the roads are thronged with holiday-making Augsburgers
repairing to various pleasure resorts in the neighboring country, and
the peasantry streaming cityward from the villages, their faces beaming
in anticipation of unlimited quantities of beer. About every tenth person
among the outgoing Augsburgers is carrying an accordion; some playing
merrily as they walk along, others preferring to carry theirs in blissful
meditation on the good time in store immediately ahead, while a thoughtful
majority have large umbrellas strapped to their backs. Music and song
are heard on every hand, and as we wheel along together in silence,
enforced by an ignorance of each other's language, whichever way one
looks, people in holiday attire and holiday faces are moving hither and
thither.

Some of the peasants are fearfully and wonderfully attired: the men wear
high top-boots, polished from the sole to the uppermost hair's breadth
of leather; black, broad-brimmed felt hats, frequently with a peacock's
feather a yard long stuck through the band, the stem protruding forward,
and the end of the feather behind; and their coats and waistcoats are
adorned with long rows of large, ancestral buttons. I am now in the
Swabian district, and these buttons that form so conspicuous a part of
the holiday attire are made of silver coins, and not infrequently have
been handed down from generation to generation for several centuries,
they being, in fact, family heirlooms. The costumes of the Swabish peasant
women are picturesque in the extreme: their finest dresses and that
wondrous head-gear of brass, silver, or gold - the Schwabische
Bauernfrauenhaube (Swabish farmer-woman hat) - being, like the buttons
of the men, family heirlooms. Some of these wonderful ancestral dresses,
I am told, contain no less than one hundred and fifty yards of heavy
material, gathered and closely pleated in innumerable perpendicular folds,
frequently over a foot thick, making the form therein incased appear
ridiculously broad and squatty. The waistbands of the dresses are up in the
region of the shoulder-blades; the upper portion of the sleeves are likewise
padded out to fearful proportions.

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