Memories of the Black Forest

by Algernon Blackwood

The intricate windings of a railroad that follow charmingly the foldings of pine-clad valleys will nowadays conduct the traveller well into the more frequented portions of the Black Forest. One minute he will look down from the car window into the yawning depths of rocky gorges, with a wild torrent brawling over the stones at the bottom; while the next will show him a smiling green valley, with the same wild torrent transformed into the smoothest of clear streams. He will pass in and out of the wooded mountain slopes, as the train follows the curves and twists of the ingenious Schwarzwald railway, and after reaching a height of nearly 3,000 feet, will descend again into the plain of the Rhine.

In this way the hurried tourist may undoubtedly see a good deal of the Black Forest country.

If, however, he wishes to get away from the civilization which the prosaic railroad invariably brings with it, he must leave the cars at one of the little stations and strike northwards into the interior. With a light knapsack and a stout staff he can then follow at his leisure the lovely little paths that wind in and out amid the great trees, leading from village to village, or across the hills to the more open valleys. With no other companions than the squirrels playing among the boughs and the great buzzards circling far overhead, he may in this manner traverse wide tracts of solitary forest. He may quietly drop in upon the quaint and legend-haunted hamlets, surprising the good burghers and peasants at the occupations which have been theirs, and their fathers’ before them, for ages past. He may sit beside the sturdy peasant, in the sand-floored village inn, and from his strong, honest face may call forth many a pleasant smile, as they chat together in the most friendly manner over the important events of this hidden, secret world of trees. And he may discover the fair daughters of the forest, in their most characteristic costumes, with fantastic topknots and plumes waving from their bridal headdresses, as in our initial cut, or clad with their bright coloured skirts and bodices at work in the fields.

In an easy day’s journey from the railway he will seem to have stepped backwards into the Middle Ages; and the unfrequented portions of the Black Forest will certainly tend to keep up the illusion. It is only in this manner that the remnant of the vast Hercynian Forest can be seen to the fullest advantage. To be really known the Schwarzwald must be studied in all its aspects during the different seasons of the year.

The Black Forest on a still, hot day in August, when the tall pines rise motionless against the blue sky, like the beautiful spires of some old cathedral, is not the same Black Forest we see in an autumn storm. Then the whole forest seems to sway to and fro as the winds roar through its myriads of branches and the trees and sky mingle in impenetrable gloom. Nor is it the Black Forest in its white winter robes, when all its sounds are deadened by the thick snow.

But the weird loveliness of the Schwarzwald can only be appreciated by those who have watched the changes that grow upon its stern face under the wondrous lights of sunrise or sunset; or as night creeps slowly over its hills or villages, investing them with a blackness all their own; or again, in the magic hours that follow sunset and precede the dawn. With this object in view, perhaps the best place for the traveller to leave the train is at Somerau. This little station is the highest point on the line, and immediately after leaving it the train begins its long descent. The country in the immediate neighbourhood of this typical village is more open than in many parts; and a rough little path leads up a steep slope where the pines are less dense. A short hour’s climbing brings one to the summit, and the view that bursts upon the sight is surprisingly extensive. In great undulating waves the gloomy hills of the Schwarzwald roll away on every side as far as the eye can reach. The air that sweeps across the summit is sweet and pure, and it is as redolent of the ocean of fragrant pines it has crossed as the sea breeze is of brine and ozone. If the day be dull and the horizon cloudy, the general aspect of the view is so gloomy that the origin of the word Schwarzwald at once suggests itself with great force. It is indeed a black forest.

It is strange that this spot, with its so beautiful view, should have been selected in the dim past as the place of execution for witches and criminals. Yet so it was; and the remnants of the rude gallows still rear themselves up ugly and gaunt into the air⁠—two roughly hewn granite slabs, across the top of which formerly rested a third slab. As late as 1847 there was an execution in this place, when an old witch, so-called, was hanged from these very granite slabs. There seems a refinement of cruelty in the idea that the victim’s last view of mother earth was one so fair. The forbidding blackness of the nearer forest soon fades into the softer blues and rich purples of the far distance; while the various shades between the two enormously enhance the general effect.

Such a view can never, of course, be called bright or glorious. It is too sombre, not to say even monotonous. Yet herein lies the peculiar charm of the Schwarzwald. There is about it a certain grim grandeur; a stateliness and an indefinable dignity that seem to link it with hoar antiquity. It is strangely invested with that sense of strength and greatness that surrounds the ruined old castles of England. The tall, straight pines that guard the dark interior of the Schwarzwald seem to demand of us the respect due to the ancient home of so many wild and beautiful legends, of so many deeds of valour and renown.

The ever-increasing stream of tourists that yearly tramp through the more accessible portions of the forest would certainly seem to be driving to the remoter regions those customs and practices which are more especially peculiar to the people. However this may be, the belief in those picturesque forms of the supernatural⁠—gnomes, fairies, wizards and water nixies⁠—still clings to the haunts that for centuries have been their home. In many a village and farmhouse the past yet lives on in the present, clinging to the hearts of the simple-minded folk that love to cherish it.

At the foot of the bold spur of hills of which we have spoken nestles a charming little village⁠—Furtwangen. It is a centre for straw-plaiting, which, next to woodcarving, is the chief industry of the peasants in the southern portion. But instead of descending the rough path to the valley, let us return to Somerau. Here again we are in a Protestant community, while Furtwangen is Roman Catholic, and the roads are often adorned with little chapels or crucifixes, before which the peasants offer up a short prayer in passing.

Following the railway for a mile or more, we come to the next station, Königsfeld-Peterzell. It is a lonely-looking spot; only a couple or so of houses and a few straggling old barns of enormous capacity. We leave the railway to pursue its downward course, and again ascend through the woods in a northerly direction; occasionally vistas of lovely colours and light opening out on either side.

Suddenly we leave the woods and enter upon a clearing of considerable size, in the centre of which is a little village, the very picture of precise neatness. This is Königsfeld, a Moravian settlement, and one has little difficulty in distinguishing the boys’ and girls’ schools, placed at opposite ends of the village square. In every direction glades in the forest invite to the most delightful walks. Outside the village for some distance one notices the picturesque forms of those huge, unwieldy farmhouses, with barns attached. The wooden walls, darkened with age and weather, are in great part covered with the most curious, and oftentimes the most beautiful lichens; while in the cleared spaces one may find a profusion of wild flowers, conspicuous among which is the rich purple colour of one of the gentians. In the forest itself, under the shade of the grand old trees, the moss, often twelve inches thick, presents a carpet of gorgeous colouring, offering a striking contrast to the dark stems of the pines.

When the slanting rays of the setting sun fall upon a scene like this, setting afire the golden mosses and glinting from one dark tree to another far into the forest depths, the effect is truly magical. Looking to the south, on an ordinary day there is nothing to be seen but the undulating waves of the forest, as it stretches away over the Duchy of Baden and part of Wurtemberg. But on one of those extraordinarily clear days that so often precede long spells of wet weather, a very different sight will greet the eye. From Säntis to Mont Blanc the white forms of the snowy Alps are visible hanging in the sky. So huge, so white, so grandiose do they appear that to one who has been used to the subdued tints of the surrounding Schwarzwald they come like a revelation. They seem to be suspended in the lofty atmosphere like the phantom mountains of some shadowy ghost-land, and one feels that at any moment they may suddenly melt away like a dream. It would seem that the Alps thus occasionally seen are in reality too far below the horizon to be ever actually visible, and that it is only a strong refraction caused by a certain state of the atmosphere that renders them visible at such a height above the horizon. This accounts for the enormous size and general weirdness of their appearance.

The tourist who loves to study the thousand different effects of light on forest scenery, and to converse with nature face to face under some of her most seductive aspects, cannot do better than spend a month or two in this little Moravian settlement, away from the world of noise and fashion, and surrounded by the most typical effects of Black Forest scenery.

There are many others places in the Schwarzwald that we would gladly revisit in imagination, were space and time more generous. The ruins of the old monastery of Allerheiligen⁠—All Saints⁠—lies farther north, in its lonely valley, with its surrounding fringe of pines faithfully guarding it from all irreverent gaze.

With what pleasure would we again stand on the spur of hills that skirts the great plain of the Rhine, where lie the fortified old cities of Strassburg and Rastatt; and from our elevated stand point watch the sunlight gleam on the distant stretches of the Rhine, lighting up the fertile country for many a wide league.

In the early spring, too, when the pines are tipped with the exquisite fresh green that comes but once a year, we would willingly take our readers to many a quaint village and farmhouse, peeping in upon the woodcarvers and the clockmakers at work, and watching the old sawmills cut up the fragrant pine logs. With what pleasure would we visit with them the blue hills that surround Baden-Baden in its beautiful valley, and show the lovely combination of colour that is caused by the mingling of the golden leaves of the early beeches with the dark velvet of the pine woods, and the blue sky seen between. Perhaps, on a future occasion, we may be able to do this, and to plunge deeper still into what will ever be the most romantic of forest lands.