Delphi Complete Works of Jerome K. Jerome (Illustrated) (Series Four) (495 page)

“Don’t, my dear J.,” he begged me. “Don’t ask me to get on my legs. If I once start talking I go on for ever. And the Lord knows what I’ll say.”

We had the same sort of trouble with G. B. Shaw, another Irishman, on the dramatic committee of the Authors’ Club. Shaw could be, and generally was, the most exemplary and helpful of committee men. But every now and then the old O’Adam would assert itself.

“Speaking of musical glasses,” he would interrupt, “I’ll tell you a thing that happened to a play of my own.”

The anecdote would have all Shaw’s delightful wit and inconsequence, and would invariably lead to another. Carton, our chairman, would take out his watch, and lay it ostentatiously upon the table. But hints were of no use when once Shaw had got into his stride. Carton in the end would have to use his hammer.

“I’m sorry, my dear Shaw,” he would say, “I should love to hear the end of it. We all should, I am sure. But — —”

With a gesture he would indicate the agenda paper.

“I’m sorry,” Shaw would answer. “You’re quite right. Now what were we talking about?”

Knowing Germany well, it would amuse me, if it did not so much disgust me, to hear the Germans spoken of as brutal and ferocious. As a matter of fact, they are the kindest and homeliest of people. Cruelty to animals in Germany is almost unknown. It was Barbarossa who left his war tent standing that the swallows who had built there should not be disturbed. Every public park and garden in Germany has its Fütterhaus, where, morning and evening, stern officials in grey uniform spread a table for the “singers,” as they call them. They love the birds in Germany. In the Black Forest, they fix cart-wheels on the chimney tops, where the storks may build their nests. Cats are unpopular and rare for the reason that a healthy cat, in every country, slaughters on an average a hundred birds a year. How anyone who cares for birds can keep a cat, I have never been able to understand. The charge I myself should bring against the German people is that of over indulgence in patriotism. Out of it have grown most of their follies. The duelling clubs amongst the students, for example. That he may fight the better for the Fatherland, the German lad must be made indifferent to wounds and suffering: so the
mensur
with all its bloody paraphernalia was conceived. I attended one or two, while we were living at Freiburg; and to my horror found I was developing a liking for the smell of blood. The human tiger is not indigenous to any soil. He roams the whole world round. In England, we give him the run of the football field and the prize ring, where he is less harmful. A young secretary of mine that I took out with me to Freiburg, George Jenkins by name, first taught the boys there to play football. They had heard about it and were keen to learn; and when we left, they were playing it three days a week. The older professors shook their heads. Almost immediately it had had its effect upon the
mensur
. A youngster who is going to play for his corps on Saturday does not want to run the risk of having his eye put out on Friday. The women were against us, of course. The Fräulein took pride in seeing the face of her Hertzschatz half-hidden behind bandages, but shrank from him when he came back from the football field dirty and dishevelled. She agreed with Kipling in thinking him a muddied oaf; and that fighting was a much more attractive game — for the onlooker, at all events. But then women and poets (except the really big ones) are naturally bloodthirsty. Henley, and even dear Stevenson, used to warble about how fine a thing a blood bath would be for freshening up civilization. Another thing football did for them in Freiburg was to encourage them to drink less beer. The Kneiper was another thing to the debit side of German patriotism. Every true German hobbledehoy had to be capable of swilling more beer than the hobbledehoy of any other country. They would turn themselves into bulging beer-tubs for the honour of Saint Michael. Again, a boy keen on football thinks about his wind, and goes to bed sober. Perhaps we overdo sport in England. But, anyhow, it is a fault on the right side. I should like to see French boys take it up more seriously.

Not far from Freiburg, there stands, upon the banks of the Rhine, a little fortress town called Breisach. During the middle ages, the townsfolk of Alt Breisach must have been hard put to it to maintain their patriotism always at high-water mark. Every few years it changed hands. Now France would seize it, and then, of course, all the good citizens of Breisach would have to thank God that they were Frenchmen; and be willing to die for France. And hardly had the children been taught to hate the Deutscher Schwein, when, hey presto! they were Germans once again. God this time had sided with the Kaiser; and all the men and women of Alt Breisach — all of them that were left alive — praised “Unserer Gott.” Until the next French victory, when they had to hurry up and praise instead “Notre Dame,” and impress upon their children the glory of dying for France: and so on for three hundred years. Patriotism must have been a quick-change business to the citizens of Alt Breisach.

Tennis, also, was beginning to catch on when we were at Freiburg. There were only two tennis courts then. Last time I passed through Freiburg, I could have counted a hundred; and a little red-haired girl I had taught to play had become Germany’s lady champion.

Munich is a fine town, but its climate is atrocious. I used to think that only we English were justified in grumbling at the weather. Travel soon convinced me that, taking it all round, English weather is the best in Europe. In Germany, I have known it to rain six weeks without intermission. In France, before going to bed, I have stood a pitcher of water in front of a blazing fire, dreaming of being able to wash myself in the morning. And, when I woke up, the fire was still burning, and the pitcher contained, instead of water, a block of solid ice. In Holland, there is always a cold wind blowing. In Italy, they have no winter. “In your cold England,” they say, “for six months in the year you have to sit over a fire to keep yourselves warm. In Italy we have no fires. You can see for yourself.” They are quite right. There isn’t even a fire-place. They carry about a little iron bucket containing two ounces of burning charcoal. I have never tried sitting on it. It is the only way I can think of, for feeling any heat from it. Two good friends of mine have died of cold in Italy. In Russia — well, Englishmen who grumble at their own climate ought to be made to spend either a summer or a winter there. I don’t care which. It would cure them in either case.

The chief business of Munich is dressing-up. In Munich, it is always somebody’s holiday, and everybody else who has nothing better to do — and most of them have — join in. For the Christian, there are carnivals and saints’ days. Munich is the paradise of saints. They swarm there, and each one has his own particular day, winding up with a dance in the evening. For the more worldly-minded, there are festivals organized by the guilds; and pageants by the students; and fancy-dress balls gotten up by the artists. Most folk walk to these glittering balls. There would not be sufficient cabs for a quarter of them. On rainy nights, one passes gods and goddesses in mackintoshes, fairies in goloshes, Socrates and Brunhilda under one umbrella. On fine nights, the dancers overflow into the streets. On one’s way home to bed, one may be seized by a gang of Knight Templars and carried off to take part in a witch’s sabbath.

German beer is seductive. The trouble is that it does not go to one’s head: the consequence being that one never knows when one has had enough. I took a Scotchman to the Hofbrau one night.

“See that solemn old Johnny at the table opposite,” he said, “looks like a professor. He’s had seven of these mugs of beer—’masses,’ or whatever you call them. I’ve counted them.”

The Fräulien was just that moment passing.

“How many beers has my friend had up to now?” I asked her.

“Six,” she answered.

“You’re one behind him,” I said. “You’d better have another.”

I ordered it, and he drank it. But he stuck out to the end it was only his third: which was absurd.

But a little way outside Munich, there is a far-famed brewery, where they make it different. They brew for a year. Then they placard Munich, announcing they are ready; and all the town pours forth and climbs the hill; and in a week, the house is drunk dry and the garden is closed, till the following spring. They told me it was strong—”
heftig
.” But they did not say how
heftig
. Everybody was going. We hired a carriage, and I took my girls and their governess. My wife had left for England, the day before, to see a sick friend. Our governess, who was from Dresden, said “Be careful.” She had heard about this beer. I claim that I was careful. The girls had each one mug. I explained to them that this was not the ordinary beer that they were used to; and that anyhow they were not going to have any more. It was a warm afternoon. They answered haughtily, and drank it off. Our governess, a sweet, high-minded lady — I cannot conceive of her having done anything wrong in all her life — had one and part of another. I myself, on the principle of safety first, had decided to limit myself to three. I was toying with the third, when my eldest girl, saying she wanted to go home, suddenly got up, turned round and sat down again. The younger swept a glass from the table to make room for her head, gave a sigh of contentment and went to sleep. I looked at Fräulein Lankau.

“Whatever we do,” she said, “we must avoid attracting attention. You remain here, as though nothing had happened. I will lead the poor dears away, and find the carriage. A little later, you follow quietly.”

I could not have thought of anything more sensible myself. She gathered her things together and rose. The following moment she sat down again: it was really one and the same movement.

“You take the two children,” she said, “and find the carriage. Then come back for me. Hold them firmly, and walk straight out. Nobody is looking. Go now.”

I am very intelligent, and I have formed the habit of taking notice. I had noticed a common-looking man, of powerful physique, who on three occasions had passed our table arm in arm with a different companion; each time he had come back alone. He was now returning empty-handed. I beckoned to him.

“If you, Fräulein Lankau,” I said, “and you, my dear Elsie, will take this gentleman’s arm — or rather arms, he will, I am sure, kindly see you into the carriage. I will rest here, and look after the child until he returns.”

He put one arm round Fräulein Lankau, in quite a fatherly way; and one round Elsie. It seemed to come natural to him.

A few minutes later he reappeared. He lifted up the child without waking her. As a matter of fact, she did not wake up till much later in the day. I took his other arm and we sauntered out together. He mentioned, as he tucked a rug round me, that the price was four marks. I gave him five, and shook him by the hand.

“I am sorry,” remarked Fräulein Lankau on the way home, “that dear Mrs. Jerome was called back to England to see her sick friend. And yet, perhaps, it was the hand of Providence.” Having said which, she went to sleep.

Poor Fräulein! She had much faith in Providence. She died of starvation during the blockade.

Lenbach, the painter, was a prominent figure in Munich, when we were there. His daughter was a beautiful child, then about six years old. Her mother was away; and she did the honours of the studio with a grave dignity. Most of the visitors would want to kiss her. But there she drew the line, putting out her little hand with a reproving gesture. Another interesting party I met at Munich was a grand-looking, red-haired dame. She was the wife of a Baron. They were common then in Germany. She lived in a sombre, silent street, the other side of the river; and few people associated her with Clotilde von Rüdiger, who, at seventeen, had been the talk of Europe. Meredith tells her story in “The Tragic Comedians”: A passionate, mad love affair. She, of the older nobility. He, Jew, rebel, demagogue, stormy leader of the people. Aristocratic family at first unbelieving, then furious, as was to be expected. All the material of an historical romance, the characters still living. Heroine devoted, ecstatic, defying her world for love. Hero, magnificent, all daring. In the last chapter, shot dead by high-born rival, the suitor approved and favoured by stern parents. So far, all in order. We prepare to shed our tears. And then the curious epilogue. Clotilde von Rüdiger gives her hand to Prince Romaris, the man who killed her lover. Meredith understands her, and is thus able to forgive. He explains her to us, but leaves us still puzzled. Talking to her — one tactfully avoids religion, politics or sex — about the opera, her stage experiences in America; answering her inquiries as to whether one takes lemon in one’s tea, and so forth, it is difficult to dismiss the dismal Gastzimmer with its shabby, shop-made furniture, and think of her flaming youth, when she made havoc in the world.

One of the reasons that snobbery hardly exists upon the Continent must be that titles are so plentiful. Among others in Munich, there was an Italian Prince, of lineage dating back to Charlemagne, whom we came to know well. His wife, who was a Princess in her own right, had her “At Home” on Thursdays. They lived in a three-roomed flat not far from us. A charming little man. On Thursday mornings, one could always meet him in the neighbourhood of the Theatinerstrasse, with a basket on his arm, selecting pretty cakes and fancy biscuits against the afternoon’s reception. He did most of the marketing. He was so clever at it, the Princess would explain. She, herself, took more interest in cooking. Another lady we knew, an Austrian Countess, won a carriage in a lottery. Originally, it must have been intended for a circus: a gorgeous affair, all yellow and gold, suggesting a miniature of our own dear Lord Mayor’s coach. But it never occurred to her that there was anything ridiculous about it. Seated in it, very upright, behind an ancient, raw-boned steed, hired by the hour from a livery stable, and a little coachman in a chocolate coat belonging to the eighteenth century, she would solemnly, of afternoons, make the tour of the Englischer Garten. Our Dienstmädchen was related to her Dienstmädchen, and we came to know that the poor lady had put aside many a small comfort to pay for that hired horse and little coachman. But the charm of the whole turn-out was that none could pretend they had not seen and recognized it. Through the throng it would make its way, the cynosure of every eye. Hats would be raised, and fair heads bowed. The Countess, her old dull face transfigured, would shower her gracious acknowledgments.