AND ANOTHER THING
Ten good reasons why Prague is the most delightful city in Europe
PAUL JOHNSON
The first reason is that Prague is a story of success. The Czechs have transformed themselves from a bedraggled and sullen Marxist satellite into a thriving citadel of free enterprise with no fuss or vulgarity, no organised crime, no envy-making overnight fortunes and no cadging from the West. Credit must go to the sensible, hard- working Czechs themselves and to superb leadership from Prime Minister Klaus, whose views I can best describe by saying that he is currently Margaret Thatcher's Favourite Foreigner. Incomes are still low in Prague, but if there is poverty I did not see it. When Czechs need money they sim- ply make something useful or charming and go out and sell it. That is how my wife Marigold acquired toy roosters for our grandchildren which, when you pull a string, emit a deafening crow. My guess is that, in less than a generation, Prague will be one of the world's richest cities.
Secondly, it is totally unspoilt. It escaped damage in both world wars. Under commu- nism it was far too poor to develop and ruin itself. Unlike Cracow, its nearest rival for beauty, it has not been soiled by pollu- tion. It is all still there — Gothic, Renais- sance, Baroque, Rococo, Biedermeier, Neo-Gothic, Beaux Arts — pristine and unchanged and now in many cases being beautifully restored, churches, palaces, public buildings, private houses, arranged in harmonic incongruity around a majestic mountain and a fast-flowing river. The city as a whole is a work of art, a living symbol of European civilisation of all ages and, for citizens and visitors alike, a constant delight.
Thirdly, there are as many palaces in Prague as in Venice, and they are put to use. The ministry of foreign affairs has a splendid one, which they lent us for our Atlantic conference (I can't see the Quai d'Orsay or the FO doing that, can you?). The French have a delightful one for their ambassador, but then so do the British, so there's no jealousy. The British one belonged to the great Wallenstein, and when the Habsburgs had him murdered they presented it to his ferocious Scotch mercenary assassin, Count Leslie. It has a beautiful garden with giant trees and now boasts a Henry Moore. Margaret Thatcher asked me what I thought it symbolised. 'It doesn't symbolise anything: it's an enor- mous working Yorkshire ashtray for a heavy pipe-smoker.' Fourthly, the best palace of all rightly belongs to the Cardinal Archbishop, a jovial soul. The Czechs were a noncon- formist people who lost the game at the Battle of the White Mountain (1620) and were thereafter sternly restored to ortho- doxy by the Jesuits. Smothered in gigantic and splendid baroque churches, they meek- ly conformed but without enthusiasm. Unlike their Polish and Hungarian neigh- bours, they lack religious fire. Catholics, Protestants and atheists live together in concord, without debate or point-scoring. But the Archbishop keeps his palace.
Fifthly, Prague is notable for two art forms: signs and statues. Street numbering came very late, so most houses still have their address signs and often elaborate paintings around them. When you walk the old streets you must keep lifting your eyes to catch these beauties. As for statues, no town on earth can have so many. The Charles Bridge alone has a score, and they give an uplift to every street corner. In St Nicholas's Church — a baroque master- piece — there are four tremendous statues, twice life-size at least, of St Chrystostom, St Basil, St Jerome and St Cyril. The last has a tall lance with which he is pig-sticking a proto-communist devil.
Sixthly, for all these reasons Prague is a painter's paradise. As with Venice, you can't turn a street corner without finding something which makes you itch to paint — not only vistas but doorways, elaborate bronze street-lamps, shrines and pillars, glorious onion domes and Gothic spires. As in Venice, the locals like to see you paint- ing. They come over and make kind, sym- pathetic and generous remarks, which raise your spirits and inspire you to paint well.
But what the people of Prague really love is music. The seventh reason for liking the town is that, every night, there are splendid concerts — sometimes several, so there is embarras de choir — in one or other of the city's marvellous churches or palaces. They are modestly priced or even free. The citi- zens are proud that Don Giovanni and many other famous works were first per- formed in Prague. There are plenty of street musicians too, both classical and jazz. Most people seem to be able to sing or play an instrument, so that in the concerts there is a continuum of talent from amateur to professional, as there should be.
The eighth reason for loving Prague is that it has a relaxed and relaxing spirit. The Czech message, now they have got rid of communism for good, is: don't overdo things. The stories they tell about Kafka are not, as you might expect, pessimistic but astringent. Thus, Kafka and his friend Broz used to go jogging every morning, puffing up and down the steep streets. One day Kafka suddenly stopped, and said, 'Broz, there is something wrong with this. We are treating our health as if it were a disease.' After that they did not go jogging any more.
The ninth reason is the Czechs them- selves. They are remarkably uncorrupted by their horrible experience of living first under the Nazis, then under the commu- nists. They are pleased to see you. They do not try to rob or cheat or lecture or push or condescend or exploit — faults of most European inhabitants of beautiful cities. They are anxious to help and explain and assist you in enjoying their city. The young men are earnest and look learned. The girls are pretty with long, shapely legs much dis- played by mini- or micro-skirts. They all seem to read a great many books.
Finally, the place is run by young people. Vaclav Havel and Klaus are middle-aged, but many important jobs are done by peo- ple under 40 or even under 30. Not that Prague neglects the old — one of the most celebrated citizens is the daughter-in-law of Alphonse Mucha, an English lady called Geraldine who loves to show visitors round the great painter-designer's house. But Prague is today, and I hope will be for many years to come, about youth, about renewal and rededication to the good and noble things in life, after the totalitarian winter. It is a moral and aesthetic tonic, to be recommended to all.
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