Über den Gründer der Diakonie, Theodor Fliedner, schreibt Rev. William Fleming Stevenson in seinem Buch „Praying and Working“ (London 1862), das von Lebenswegen berühmter Christen erzählt, und nimmt dabei mit Thomas Hood (dessen Stil er mäßig kopiert) und Lord Byron einen langen rheinischen Anlauf, bevor er „The blue flag of Kaiserswerth“ sichtet: „Up the Rhine, has no more the meaning it bore in Thomas Hood`s exquisitely droll itinerary, – not so long ago, but for this railway and now telegraph speed at which the world is flying past us, – when it meant leisurely sailing for days together from the very Rhine mouth up to Basel, with nightly bivouacs at the villages on either side, and endless opportunity of observing the vicissitudes of social life from the crowded quarter-deck. For the first point of departure from Rotterdam is now the pretty station of the Dutch-Rhenish Railway, and along this railway you are whirled at a steady, comfortable pace, without so much as a peep at the rejoicing river, or at anything else, save a deep, full ditch, close to the rails, an occasional sand-hill, or flat colourless fields where the hard soil is bleached by the sun, until you see the towers of the great cathedral at Cologne, and there take the water for Coblenz and Bingen. But should any one be simple, quiet, and old-fashioned enough to embark at the Boompjes, in one of the fast Rhine steamers, and be content to look, for two days, at a row of bulrushes on the one side and poplar trees upon the other, or at poplar trees upon the one side and a row of bulrushes on the other, he will not only come upon the exquisite scenery higher up with all the advantage of contrast and relief, but will probably see, about an hour before reaching Düsseldorf, a strange flag floating from a tower upon the left. It is not time for the „Fruit, foliage, crags, wood, cornfield, mountain, vine / And chiefless castles breathing stern farewells, / From green, but leafy walls, where rain greenly dwells;“ the only rising ground in sight is on the horizon, and the tower is only the relic of a windmill. Neither does the flag suggest anything of battles passed below, but is simply a large blue flag, bearing in the centre a white dove with an olive branch. It is the signal that you are passing Kaiserswerth, a paltry, ordinary village, as you would presently say, looking at the houses that straggle down to the river; and is nothing more, notwithstanding its ruins of the eleventh century, and that St Suibert, the first evangelist of the district, is buried in the Pfarrkirche. Moreover, on nearer inspection it turns out to be dirty, as most Roman Catholic towns unfortunately are. And yet it is better worth stopping at than St Goar or Ehrenbreitstein. It is the seat of a movement which is exercising a profound influence on the German Church, and drawing no little attention from England, as well; where an unpretending German clergyman has been working out in his own way a problem which deeply concerns us all – the right relation of womanly gifts and service to the kingdom of God. (…)“

Das Wisperthal aus Hoods Briefroman schien mir zunächst ein fiktives, von kauzigen Briten den sentimentalen Deutschen hinterrücks zugeschriebenes, elfenbewohntes, doch es existiert bis heute (allerdings enth-ht als Wispertal) nicht nur in alten Sagen, wie sie Aloys Schreiber 1828 in Heidelberg veröffentlichte, wie Hood sie gekannt haben mochte, und worin zu lesen steht: „Hinter Lorch liegt ein wildes, einsames Thal, mit einigen armen Hütten. Lange war es unbewohnt, denn Viele, die es betreten hatten, wurden auf mancherley Weise geneckt und geängstigt, und einige kamen auch gar nicht wieder zum Vorschein.“ Es geht dann um eine Geschichte, die heuer unter Fantasy firmieren würde und ihrer Grausigkeit vor allem deswegen enthoben ist, weil sie in eine unbestimmte Zeit „vor mehrern Jahrhunderten“ verlegt den aufgeklärten Menschen sozusagen beweislos mit einer kruden Welt konfrontiert, die das Fernsehen heute in aller Offenheit und notfalls aufs vorzüglichste frisiert in alle Wohnzimmer ausbreitet. Es geht dabei um kerzenbeleuchtete Spiegelsäle in Felsschloßtiefen, rapide alternde Jungfrauen, gerissene Greise, getäuschte Jünglinge und sprechende Vögel, jede einzelne Zutat für sich genommen durchaus heute noch vorstellbar, aber eher als Bild/Oberfläche, denn es fehlt unsern heutigen Wäldern an der nötigen Tiefe, als daß man so weit hineingeraten könnte, um noch ungestört auf extensive Trugbilder zu treffen. Die Erfindung des Motors hat noch vor der Erfindung des Fernsehens die Wirksamkeit der Sagen beendet. Heute besitzt das Wispertal zwar eine geheimnisvolle Website (www.wispertal.com), die eine Tradition des Wenig-Preisgebens inspiriert haben mag, aber entscheidende Informationen über Motorradstrecken, Forellenzuchten und sanften Tourismus entlang der Wisper finden sich ohne weiteres im Medium Internet. Weil es aber so schön identitätsstiftend ist, also rückvermichelnd, und gleichzeitig, als Metafer, sicherlich weiterhin gültig für alle demnächst erstmal anstehenden Zeiten, noch ein schönes Sagenzitat, auf das mehrerlei Antworten denkbar sind: „Ohngefähr eine Viertelstunde von der Felsenburg fanden sie die drey Vögel neben einander auf dem Ast einer abgestorbenen Eiche sitzen. Staarmatz, sag` uns Dein Räthsel, rief einer der Gesellen. Der Staar flog herab, ihm auf die Schulter, und sagte: Sprich, was sitzt Dir im Gesicht, und Du siehst`s im Spiegel nicht?“

Aloys Schreiber: Sagen aus den Gegenden des Rheins und des Schwarzwalds, Heidelberg 1828

In seiner britisch-perfekten Art ringt Thomas Hood, als recht später der frühen englischen Rheintouristen, der üblichen Rolandseck-Nonnenwerth-Drachenfels-Konstellation ein paar eigene Aspekte ab, stellt den überfälligen Vergleich zur heimatlichen Themse an und entdeckt einige historische Zwerge: „And now, Gerard, could I but write scenery as Stanfield paints it, what a rare dioramic sketch you should have of the thick-coming beauties of the abounding river: – the Romantic Rolandseck – the Religious Nonnenwerth – the Picturesque Drachenfels! But „Views on the Rhine“ are little better than shadows even in engravings, and would fare still worse in the black and white of a letter. Can the best japan fluid give a notion of the shifting lights and shades, the variegated tints of the thronging mountains – of the blooming blue of the Sieben Gebirge? Besides, there is not a river or a village but has been done in pen and ink ten times over by former tourists. Let it be understood then, once for all, that i shall not attempt to turn prospects into prospectuses: „And do all the gentlemen`s seats by the way.“ I must say a few words, however, on a peculiarity which seems to have escaped the notice of other travellers: the extraordinary transparency of the atmosphere in the vicinity of the Rhine. The rapidity of the current, always racing in the same direction, probably creates a draught which carries off the mists that are so apt to hang about more sluggish streams – or to float lazily to and fro with the ebb and flow of such tide rivers as the Thames: certain it is that the lovely scenery of the „arrowy Rhine“ is viewed through an extremely pure medium. To one like myself, not particularly lynx-sighted, the effect is as some fairy euphrasy had conferred a supernatural clairvoyance on the organs of vision. Trees and shrubs, on the crests of the hills, seem made out, in the artist phrase, to their very twigs; and the whole landscape appears with the same distinctness of detail as if seen through an opera-glass or spectacles. To mention one remarkable instance: some miners were at work on the face of a high precipitous mountain near Unkel; – the distance from the steamer was considerable, so that the blows of their sledges and pickaxes were quiet unheard; yet there were the little figures, plying their tiny tools, so plainly, so apparently close to the eye, that it was difficult to believe that they were of the common dimensions of the human race. Had those dwarf miners, the Gnomes of German romance, a material as well as a fabulous existence? Of course not: but I could not help thinking that I saw before me the source whence tradition had derived the Lilliputian mine-hunting elfins of the Wisperthal, who constructed the Devil`s Ladder.“

Rheinische Tischsitten und Abendunterhaltung schildert kurz nach Thomas Hood auch William Makepeace Thackeray mit satirischer Note im 62. Kapitel „Am Rhein“ seines satten viktorianischen Gesellschaftsromans Vanity Fair, or, a Novel without a Hero, erschienen 1847/48. Wieder mal ist eine bunte Reisegesellschaft von London in die Sommerfrische aufgebrochen, um sich an zahlreichen Rheinzielen in je geeigneter Weise zu verlustieren. Die folgende Szene spielt im fürstlichen Flecken Pumpernickel, einem jener beinahe schon mythischen Orte am Mittelrhein, welche die gebildeten Engländer seinerzeit magisch anzogen: „It was at the little comfortable Ducal town of Pumpernickel (that very place where Sir Pitt Crawley had been so distinguished as an attache; but that was in early early days, and before the news of the Battle of Austerlitz sent all the English diplomatists in Germany to the right about) that I first saw Colonel Dobbin and his party. They had arrived with the carriage and courier at the Erbprinz Hotel, the best of the town, and the whole party dined at the table d’hote. Everybody remarked the majesty of Jos and the knowing way in which he sipped, or rather sucked, the Johannisberger, which he ordered for dinner. The little boy, too, we observed, had a famous appetite, and consumed schinken, and braten, and kartoffeln, and cranberry jam, and salad, and pudding, and roast fowls, and sweetmeats, with a gallantry that did honour to his nation. After about fifteen dishes, he concluded the repast with dessert, some of which he even carried out of doors, for some young gentlemen at table, amused with his coolness and gallant free- and-easy manner, induced him to pocket a handful of macaroons, which he discussed on his way to the theatre, whither everybody went in the cheery social little German place. The lady in black, the boy’s mamma, laughed and blushed, and looked exceedingly pleased and shy as the dinner went on, and at the various feats and instances of espieglerie on the part of her son. The Colonel–for so he became very soon afterwards–I remember joked the boy with a great deal of grave fun, pointing out dishes which he hadn’t tried, and entreating him not to baulk his appetite, but to have a second supply of this or that. It was what they call a gast-rolle night at the Royal Grand Ducal Pumpernickelisch Hof–or Court theatre–and Madame Schroeder Devrient, then in the bloom of her beauty and genius, performed the part of the heroine in the wonderful opera of Fidelio. From our places in the stalls we could see our four friends of the table d’hote in the loge which Schwendler of the Erbprinz kept for his best guests, and I could not help remarking the effect which the magnificent actress and music produced upon Mrs. Osborne, for so we heard the stout gentleman in the mustachios call her. During the astonishing Chorus of the Prisoners, over which the delightful voice of the actress rose and soared in the most ravishing harmony, the English lady’s face wore such an expression of wonder and delight that it struck even little Fipps, the blase attache, who drawled out, as he fixed his glass upon her, “Gayd, it really does one good to see a woman caypable of that stayt of excaytement.” And in the Prison Scene, where Fidelio, rushing to her husband, cries, “Nichts, nichts, mein Florestan,” she fairly lost herself and covered her face with her handkerchief. Every woman in the house was snivelling at the time, but I suppose it was because it was predestined that I was to write this particular lady’s memoirs that I remarked her.“

Interessant wird’s, wenn der Engländer des Deutschen Küche kritisiert, et vice versa (die niederländische, als beider Küchen Bindemittel, sei an dieser Stelle schweigend übergangen). Hood läßt eine Dame seiner ewig maulend-kränkelnden Rheinreisegesellschaft ein Kölner Hoteldinner beschreiben, dessen Glocke die ganze Stadt herbeizurufen scheint, um schließlich 50 illustre Gäste an einer Tafel zu versammeln, mit dem Hoteldirektor am Kopfende. Der erste Gang besteht aus Reissuppe mit fadem Rind und erinnert die Dame sowohl an heimatliche Gerstengrütze, als auch an einst patentes britisches Brot „aus dem man neuerdings Kraft und Geist komplett ausgesogen und nichts als den Kadaver eines Laibes belassen hat“. Allein die Geschicklichkeit der Kellner ist bewunderswert: einer von ihnen bringt Stapel leerer Teller, indem er sie zwischen den einzelnen Fingern festhält und wie Spielkarten austeilt. Zu beklagen wiederum: die Gerichte sind eiskalt, sie werden zunächst kurz am Tisch präsentiert, um dann zurückgenommen zu werden und den letzten Schliff zu erhalten, all das zudem in überraschender Speisefolge – völlig anders als daheim. Nach der Suppe gibt’s einen Riesenteller Spargel, mit einer Soße aus öliger Butter und hartgekochten Eiern. Drauf einen Kapaun mit Salat, darauf einen süßen Pudding, gefolgt von Sauerkraut. Der nächste Gang besteht aus winzigen, wachsigen Kartöffelchen, begleitet von einem unbekannten, übelriechenden Gemüse in brauner Soße, das an „in Teer geschmorte Seemannsfinger“ erinnert. Weiter geht’s mit Lachs und Flußbarsch, in Aspik, betont kalt, und schließlich einem soliden Stück Kalbsbraten: „Ich habe die Mahlzeit vom falschen Ende her begonnen und fürchte, um sie sauber zu verdauen, muß ich mich in den Kopfstand begeben.“ Als absolute Novität stellt sich für die Dame ein Gericht dar, das zunächst „wie eine in Essig eingelegte Walnuß“ wirkt, sich dann aber als derart süß entpuppt „daß ich es vor lauter Überraschung blitzschnell wieder auf den Teller zurückgelegt habe“. Zum Abschluß folgt ein weiteres zweifelhaftes Objekt, das nach süß eingemachter Pflaume aussieht, sich aber als sauer eingelegte Weintraube erweist. Heuer allenthalben rund um den Dom gebotene Spezialitäten wie Himmel un Ääd oder Rheinischer Sauerbraten vum Päd scheinen ergo nicht (unbedingt) auf der durchaus fantasievollen Menuefolge, zu der das im Hintergrund der Kritik stets präsente britische Pendant bis auf die abschließende Gerstengrütze leider ohne konkretes Beispiel bleibt.

To ***

With a flask of Rhine water

The old Catholic City was still,
In the Minster the vesper were sung,
And, re-echoed in cadences shrill,
The last call of the trumpet had rung:
While, across, the broad stream of the Rhine,
The full Moon cast a silvery zone;
And, methought, as i gazed on its shine,
„Surely, that is the Eau de Cologne!“

I inquired not the place of its source,
If it ran to the east or the west;
But my heart took a note of its course,
That it flow`d towards Her I love best -
That it flow`d towards Her I love best,
Like those wandering thoughts of my own,
And the fancy such sweetness possess`d,
That the Rhine seemed all Eau de Cologne!

(Thomas Hood)

Hoods englische Rheinkreuzfahrtsgesellschaft ist inzwischen im spätromantischen Köln angelangt. Adäquat zu mannigfaltigen kölschen Tönen und Momenten der Postmoderne spiegelt Hood das schwebend-heilige dieser ewigen Stadt in den Worten des einfachen Volkes voraus bzw. mitten in fliehende Zeiten und dereinst dem großen Verschütten anheimfallende Erinnerungen hinein: „Amung other discomfits, theres no beds in the vessles up the Rind. So, for too hole days, we have been damp shifted, as they call it, without taking off our close, and, as you may supose, I am tired of steeming. Our present stop is at Colon. They say its a verry old citty, and bilt by the Romans, and sure enuff roman noses didn`t easily turn up. The natives must have verry strong oilfactories, that`s certin. O, Becky, sich sniffs and guffs, in spite of my stuft hed! This mornin it raind cats and dogs, but the heviest showrs cant pourify the place. It`s enuff to fumigate a pleg. Won thing is the bad smells obleege strangers to buy the O de Colon, and praps the stenchis is encouraged on that account. The wust is, wen you want a bottel of the rite sort, theres so menny Farinacious impostors, and Johns and Marias, you don`t know witch is him or her. Colon is full of Sites. The principle is the Cathedrul, and by rites theres a Crane pearcht on the tiptop, like the Storks in Holland; but i was out of luck, or he was off a feeding, for he wasnt there. So we went into the Interium witch was performing Hi Mass, that`s to say, me and one of the hottel waiters, who is playing the civel, and I can onely say its enuff to turn one`s hed. Wat with the lofty pillers, and the picters, and the gelding and the calving, I felt perfeckly dizzy, but wen the sunshin came rainbowin thro the panted glass winders, and the orgin played up, and the Quire of singers with their hevinly vices, and the Priest was insensed with the perfumery, down I went, willy nilly, on both nees, and was amost controverted into a Cathlick afore I knowed were I was! Luckly, I rekollected Transmigration, witch I cant nor wont believe in, and that jumpt me up agin on my legs. Next, we see a prodigus chest, all of sollid Goold, and when you look through a little grating, you see the empty skulls of the wise kings. They`re as brown as mogany, with crowns on, and their christian names ritten in rubbies, if so be it ant red glass. For they do say, wen the Munks ran away from the Frentch, they took the goold chest, and the three wunderful wise heds, along with them, and sackreligiously pickt out the best parts of the volubles and jowls. As another peace of profannity, the hart of Mary de Medicine is left under a grave stone, in the church pavement – but where the rest of her body have been boddy snatcht to noboddy nose.“

Die Hoodsche Schiffsgesellschaft in Up the Rhine entpuppt sich als ein skurriler Haufen, der sich gegenseitig teils bis aufs Äußerste abhold doch wie selbstverständlich im Vernichten fremdländischer Sitten und Gebräuche, hier: Holland, überbietet, das den rheinfahrenden Briten in diesem von lockerer Lyrik unterbrochenem Briefroman viel zu sehr unter Wasser steht. „Nimeguen is as nigh to heaven as Beckenham in Kent; and a thousand miles north or south, east or west, make no odds in our journey to a world that has neither latitude nor longitude. Now I am here, I am not sorry to have had a peep at such a country as Holland; but being described by so many better hands, in books of travels, besides pictures, I need not enlarge. If you only fancy the very worst country for hunting in the whole world, except for otter-dogs, you will have it exactly. Every highway is a canal; and as for lanes and bridle-roads, they are nothing but ditches. By consequence, the lives of the natives are spent between keeping out water and letting in liquor, such as schiedam, aniseed, curacoa, and the like; for, except for the damming they would be drowned like so many rats, and without the dramming, they would be martyrs to ague and rheumatics, and the marsh fever. Frank says, the Hollanders are such a cold-blooded people, that nothing but their ardent spirits keeps them from breeding back into fishes; be that as it may, I have certainly seen a Dutch youngster, no bigger than your own little Peter, junior, toss off his glas of schnapps, as they call it, as if it was to save him from turning into a sprat.“ Immer wieder diese Ansätze von Fischmenschmischwesen, bei den alten Sumerern, Akkadern, Chaldäern, in afrikanischen Buschmythen und neuzeitlichen Mangas und nun auch bei den Niederländern der Spätromantik, aus Sicht der verantwortlichen Briten. Es muß mit der Sehnsucht nach dem Davontreiben zu schaffen haben, mit der Sehnsucht nach der Einheit mit den Elementen, vielleicht auch der Sehnsucht nach Verschwommenheit und Stille, welche letztere in der Moderne nurmehr vorübergehend und in Absolutheit eigentlich überhaupt nicht zu haben ist. Mag daran liegen, daß sich das Dröhnen der Geschichte der Natur überlagert hat, ich kann nur jedem raten, sich die Geräusche des Rheins einmal vom Drachenfels aus anzuhören, es ist das Röhren der Zivilisation, dem ein wunderbares Panoramafoto mit kleinen Schönheitsfehlern vorgeschoben die Welt wie auf einer Fotoshopvorlage zusammenfaßt: die Ebenen der einzelnen Epochen werden einfach geschichtet und verschmolzen, das aus ihren Zwischenräumen gequetschte Dröhnen sammelt sich in geografischen und sonstigen Kuhlen und wummert dort vor sich hin. Manchmal kommt dabei eine fantastische Musik heraus, wie gestern, als ich zufällig die Deutzer Brücke als Quelle einer tranceartig ächzenden Tonfolge ausmachte, fünf, sechs weitere Flaneure hatten es auch bemerkt, sonst niemand, und nach einigen Minuten brach sie wieder ab, eine tödlich schöne Musik, für einige Herzschläge aus dem allgemeinen Dröhnen geschält. Da wären wir bei lebenden (musikalischen) Brücken, ein wieder anderes Thema.

Meine größeren Rheinexkursionen stehen kurz bevor und ich stoße auf Thomas Hood, den Ehemann von Jane Hood (s. letzter Eintrag), der das alles lange schon hinter sich hat. In seinem Buch Up the Rhine (London MDCCCXL) läßt sich dieser Aufbruch sehr britisch, nämlich wie folgt in einem fiktiven Brief, an: „My Dear Brooke, – Your reproach is just. My epistolary taciturnity has certainly been of unusual duration; but instead of filling up a sheet with mere excuses, I beg to refer you at once to „Barclay`s Apology for Quakerism,“ which i presume includes an apology for silence. The truth is, I have had nothing to write of, and in such cases I philosophically begrudge postage, as a contradiction to the old axiom ex nihilo nihil fit, inasmuch as the revenue through such empty epistles gets something out of nothing. Now, however, I have news to break, and I trust you are not so god a man as „unconcerned to hear the mighty crack. “ We Are Going Up The Rhine!!! You who have been long aware of my yearning to the abounding river, like the supposed mystical bending of the hazel twig towards the unseen waters, will be equally pleased and surprised by such an announcement. In point of fact, but for the preparations, that are hourly going on before my eyes, I should have, as Irish Buller used to say, some considerable doubts of my own veracity. There seemed plenty of lions in the path of such a Pilgrim`s Progress; and yet here we are, resolved on the attempt, in the hope that, as Christian dropped his burthen by the way, a little travelling will jolt off the load that encumbers the broad shoulders of a dear, hearty, ailing, dead-alive, hypochondriacal old bachelor uncle.“ Der Onkel kommt im Folgenden nicht sonderlich gut weg. Schwer, den Herrn für eine Rheinreise zu begeistern: „It is with the sanction, indeed by the advise of the medicus just mentioned (an original of the Abernethy school) – that we are bound on an experimental trip up the Rhine, to try what change of scene and travelling will do for such an extraordinary disease. The prescription, however, was any thing but palatable to the patient, who demurred most obstinately, and finally asked his counsellor, rather crustily, if he could name a single instance of a man who had lived the longer for wandering over the world? „To be sure I can,“ answered the doctor, „the Wandering Jew.““

Jane, die Ehefrau des Dichters Thomas Hood berichtet in einem Brief im Jahre 1836 an ihre Freundin Ms. Elliot aus dem Zentrum der Rheinromantik: „(…) Supposing you have not forgotten the Lurlei, imagine that narrow passage blocked up with a storm of ice; for the immense pressure has heaved it up in huge waves and furrows, eight or ten feet high, each ridge composed of massive slabs of ice tossed about in all directions. At every bend of the river there had been a dreadful scuffle, and the fragments were thrust upwards and end-ways. But the mighty river would not be dammed up – you saw it now and then in a narrow slip rushing like a mill stream – then it plunged under the ice and boiled up again a hundred yards farther. At one bend of the river a green orchard was covered with great blocks hurled over the bank, one could not suppose how. There were some ridges, or rather ruts, so straight and evenly shaved down, that one fancied some giant of the mountain had driven his car through the middle of the ice, and that his wheels had left these traces and deep furrows. But on considering it, Hood discovered that the middle ice had moved, while that on the sides was stationary, and the friction had worn it as smooth as if cut with a knife. We went to Oberwesel, part of which was under water. We had not time to proceed farther, though we both agreed that we could have gone on, and on, and on, to see more. We hear that higher up a church was surrounded with masses of ice so that only the steeple was perceptible. The Moselle ice carried away a youth of sixteen, who has playing on it, and a similar and somewhat romantic incident occurred on the Rhine. On the island just above the bridge resides the Countess of P., who walking out by herself to see the ice floating down, managed to fall in; perhaps she was pushing the loose bits of ice as the children do. (…) As Hood says „some German cherub that sits up aloft“ brought a willow bough to her assistance, and there she hung, well preserved in ice, a good long spell – till a young man (…) came in a boat and rescued her. (…) Unfortunately the young lady is not a beauty; or even interesting. (…) Hood foretells she will give her preserver a lock of her tow-coloured hair (…). This is his splenetic idea of German gratitude. (…)“

Jane Hood in: Memorials of Thomas Hood, London 1860