Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells

by William Dean Howells

  March had thought something like this himself, but to have it put by General Triscoe made it offensive. “I don’t know. Isn’t it rather quarrelling with the course of human events to oppose accomplished facts? The unifications were bound to be, just as the separations before them were. And so far they have made for peace, in Europe at least, and peace is civilization. Perhaps after a great many ages people will come together through their real interests, the human interests; but at present it seems as if nothing but a romantic sentiment of patriotism can unite them. By-and-by they may find that there is nothing in it.”

  “Perhaps,” said the general, discontentedly. “I don’t see much promise of any kind in the future.”

  “Well, I don’t know. When you think of the solid militarism of Germany, you seem remanded to the most hopeless moment of the Roman Empire; you think nothing can break such a force; but my guide says that even in Leipsic the Socialists outnumber all the other parties, and the army is the great field of the Socialist propaganda. The army itself may be shaped into the means of democracy — even of peace.”

  “You’re very optimistic,” said Triscoe, curtly. “As I read the signs, we are not far from universal war. In less than a year we shall make the break ourselves in a war with Spain.” He looked very fierce as he prophesied, and he dotted March over with his staccato glances.

  “Well, I’ll allow that if Tammany comes in this year, we shall have war with Spain. You can’t ask more than that, General Triscoe?”

  Mrs. March and Miss Triscoe had not said a word of the ‘battle of Leipsic’, or of the impersonal interests which it suggested to the men. For all these, they might still have been sitting in their steamer chairs on the promenade of the Norumbia at a period which seemed now of geological remoteness. The girl accounted for not being in Dresden by her father’s having decided not to go through Berlin but to come by way of Leipsic, which he thought they had better see; they had come without stopping in Hamburg. They had not enjoyed Leipsic much; it had rained the whole day before, and they had not gone out. She asked when Mrs. March was going on to Carlsbad, and Mrs. March answered, the next morning; her husband wished to begin his cure at once.

  Then Miss Triscoe pensively wondered if Carlsbad would do her father any good; and Mrs. March discreetly inquired General Triscoe’s symptoms.

  “Oh, he hasn’t any. But I know he can’t be well — with his gloomy opinions.”

  “They may come from his liver,” said Mrs. March. “Nearly everything of that kind does. I know that Mr. March has been terribly depressed at times, and the doctor said it was nothing but his liver; and Carlsbad is the great place for that, you know.”

  “Perhaps I can get papa to run over some day, if he doesn’t like Dresden.

  It isn’t very far, is it?”

  They referred to Mrs. March’s Baedeker together, and found that it was five hours.

  “Yes, that is what I thought,” said Miss Triscoe, with a carelessness which convinced Mrs. March she had looked up the fact already.

  “If you decide to come, you must let us get rooms for you at our hotel. We’re going to Pupp’s; most of the English and Americans go to the hotels on the Hill, but Pupp’s is in the thick of it in the lower town; and it’s very gay, Mr. Kenby says; he’s been there often. Mr. Burnamy is to get our rooms.”

  “I don’t suppose I can get papa to go,” said Miss Triscoe, so insincerely that Mrs. March was sure she had talked over the different routes; to Carlsbad with Burnamy — probably on the way from Cuxhaven. She looked up from digging the point of her umbrella in the ground. “You didn’t meet him here this morning?”

  Mrs. March governed herself to a calm which she respected in asking, “Has

  Mr. Burnamy been here?”

  “He came on with Mr. and Mrs. Eltwin, when we did, and they all decided to stop over a day. They left on the twelve-o’clock train to-day.”

  Mrs. March perceived that the girl had decided not to let the facts betray themselves by chance, and she treated them as of no significance.

  “No, we didn’t see him,” she said, carelessly.

  The two men came walking slowly towards them, and Miss Triscoe said,

  “We’re going to Dresden this evening, but I hope we shall meet somewhere,

  Mrs. March.”

  “Oh, people never lose sight of each other in Europe; they can’t; it’s so little!”

  “Agatha,” said the girl’s father, “Mr. March tells me that the museum over there is worth seeing.”

  “Well,” the girl assented, and she took a winning leave of the Marches, and moved gracefully away with her father.

  “I should have thought it was Agnes,” said Mrs. March, following them with her eyes before she turned upon her husband. “Did he tell you Burnamy had been here? Well, he has! He has just gone on to Carlsbad. He made, those poor old Eltwins stop over with him, so he could be with her.”

  “Did she say that?”

  “No, but of course he did.”

  “Then it’s all settled?”

  “No, it isn’t settled. It’s at the most interesting point.”

  “Well, don’t read ahead. You always want to look at the last page.”

  “You were trying to look at the last page yourself,” she retorted, and she would have liked to punish him for his complex dishonesty toward the affair; but upon the whole she kept her temper with him, and she made him agree that Miss Triscoe’s getting her father to Carlsbad was only a question of time.

  They parted heart’s-friends with their ineffectual guide, who was affectionately grateful for the few marks they gave him, at the hotel door; and they were in just the mood to hear men singing in a farther room when they went down to supper. The waiter, much distracted from their own service by his duties to it, told them it was the breakfast party of students which they had heard beginning there about noon. The revellers had now been some six hours at table, and he said they might not rise before midnight; they had just got to the toasts, which were apparently set to music.

  The students of right remained a vivid color in the impression of the university town. They pervaded the place, and decorated it with their fantastic personal taste in coats and trousers, as well as their corps caps of green, white, red, and blue, but above all blue. They were not easily distinguishable from the bicyclers who were holding one of the dull festivals of their kind in Leipsic that day, and perhaps they were sometimes both students and bicyclers. As bicyclers they kept about in the rain, which they seemed not to mind; so far from being disheartened, they had spirits enough to take one another by the waist at times and waltz in the square before the hotel. At one moment of the holiday some chiefs among them drove away in carriages; at supper a winner of prizes sat covered with badges and medals; another who went by the hotel streamed with ribbons; and an elderly man at his side was bespattered with small knots and ends of them, as if he had been in an explosion of ribbons somewhere. It seemed all to be as exciting for them, and it was as tedious for the witnesses, as any gala of students and bicyclers at home.

  Mrs. March remained with an unrequited curiosity concerning their different colors and different caps, and she tried to make her husband find out what they severally meant; he pretended a superior interest in the nature of a people who had such a passion for uniforms that they were not content with its gratification in their immense army, but indulged it in every pleasure and employment of civil life. He estimated, perhaps not very accurately, that only one man out of ten in Germany wore citizens’ dress; and of all functionaries he found that the dogs of the women-and-dog teams alone had no distinctive dress; even the women had their peasant costume.

  There was an industrial fair open at Leipsic which they went out of the city to see after supper, along with a throng of Leipsickers, whom an hour’s interval of fine weather tempted forth on the trolley; and with the help of a little corporal, who took a fee for his service with the eagerness of a civilian, they got wheeled chairs, and renewed their assoc
iations with the great Chicago Fair in seeing the exposition from them. This was not, March said, quite the same as being drawn by a woman-and-dog team, which would have been the right means of doing a German fair; but it was something to have his chair pushed by a slender young girl, whose stalwart brother applied his strength to the chair of the lighter traveller; and it was fit that the girl should reckon the common hire, while the man took the common tip. They made haste to leave the useful aspects of the fair, and had themselves trundled away to the Colonial Exhibit, where they vaguely expected something like the agreeable corruptions of the Midway Plaisance. The idea of her colonial progress with which Germany is trying to affect the home-keeping imagination of her people was illustrated by an encampment of savages from her Central-African possessions. They were getting their supper at the moment the Marches saw them, and were crouching, half naked, around the fires under the kettles, and shivering from the cold, but they were not very characteristic of the imperial expansion, unless perhaps when an old man in a red blanket suddenly sprang up with a knife in his hand and began to chase a boy round the camp. The boy was lighter-footed, and easily outran the sage, who tripped at times on his blanket. None of the other Central Africans seemed to care for the race, and without waiting for the event, the American spectators ordered themselves trundled away to another idle feature of the fair, where they hoped to amuse themselves with the image of Old Leipsic.

  This was so faithfully studied from the past in its narrow streets and Gothic houses that it was almost as picturesque as the present epoch in the old streets of Hamburg. A drama had just begun to be represented on a platform of the public square in front of a fourteenth-century beer-house, with people talking from the windows round, and revellers in the costume of the period drinking beer and eating sausages at tables in the open air. Their eating and drinking were genuine, and in the midst of it a real rain began, to pour down upon them, without affecting them any more than if they had been Germans of the nineteenth century. But it drove the Americans to a shelter from which they could not see the play, and when it held up, they made their way back to their hotel.

  Their car was full of returning pleasurers, some of whom were happy beyond the sober wont of the fatherland. The conductor took a special interest in his tipsy passengers, trying to keep them in order, and genially entreating them to be quiet when they were too obstreperous. From time to time he got some of them off, and then, when he remounted the car, he appealed to the remaining passengers for their sympathy with an innocent smile, which the Americans, still strange to the unjoyous physiognomy of the German Empire, failed to value at its rare worth.

  Before he slept that night March tried to assemble from the experiences and impressions of the day some facts which he would not be ashamed of as a serious observer of life in Leipsic, and he remembered that their guide had said house-rent was very low. He generalized from the guide’s content with his fee that the Germans were not very rapacious; and he became quite irrelevantly aware that in Germany no man’s clothes fitted him, or seemed expected to fit him; that the women dressed somewhat better, and were rather pretty sometimes, and that they had feet as large as the kind hearts of the Germans of every age and sex. He was able to note, rather more freshly, that with all their kindness the Germans were a very nervous people, if not irritable, and at the least cause gave way to an agitation, which indeed quickly passed, but was violent while it lasted. Several times that day he had seen encounters between the portier and guests at the hotel which promised violence, but which ended peacefully as soon as some simple question of train-time was solved. The encounters always left the portier purple and perspiring, as any agitation must with a man so tight in his livery. He bemoaned himself after one of them as the victim of an unhappy calling, in which he could take no exercise. “It is a life of excitements, but not of movements,” he explained to March; and when he learned where he was going, he regretted that he could not go to Carlsbad too. “For sugar?” he asked, as if there were overmuch of it in his own make.

  March felt the tribute, but he had to say, “No; liver.”

  “Ah!” said the portier, with the air of failing to get on common ground with him.

  XXV.

  The next morning was so fine that it would have been a fine morning in America. Its beauty was scarcely sullied, even subjectively, by the telegram which the portier sent after the Marches from the hotel, saying that their missing trunk had not yet been found, and their spirits were as light as the gay little clouds which blew about in the sky, when their train drew out in the sunshine, brilliant on the charming landscape all the way to Carlsbad. A fatherly ‘traeger’ had done his best to get them the worst places in a non-smoking compartment, but had succeeded so poorly that they were very comfortable, with no companions but a mother and daughter, who spoke German in soft low tones together. Their compartment was pervaded by tobacco fumes from the smokers, but as these were twice as many as the non-smokers, it was only fair, and after March had got a window open it did not matter, really.

  He asked leave of the strangers in his German, and they consented in theirs; but he could not master the secret of the window-catch, and the elder lady said in English, “Let me show you,” and came to his help.

  The occasion for explaining that they were Americans and accustomed to different car windows was so tempting that Mrs. March could not forbear, and the other ladies were affected as deeply as she could wish. Perhaps they were the more affected because it presently appeared that they had cousins in New York whom she knew of, and that they were acquainted with an American family that had passed the winter in Berlin. Life likes to do these things handsomely, and it easily turned out that this was a family of intimate friendship with the Marches; the names, familiarly spoken, abolished all strangeness between the travellers; and they entered into a comparison of tastes, opinions, and experiences, from which it seemed that the objects and interests of cultivated people in Berlin were quite the same as those of cultivated people in New York. Each of the parties to the discovery disclaimed any superiority for their respective civilizations; they wished rather to ascribe a greater charm and virtue to the alien conditions; and they acquired such merit with one another that when the German ladies got out of the train at Franzensbad, the mother offered Mrs. March an ingenious folding footstool which she had admired. In fact, she left her with it clasped to her breast, and bowing speechless toward the giver in a vain wish to express her gratitude.

  “That was very pretty of her, my dear,” said March. “You couldn’t have done that.”

  “No,” she confessed; “I shouldn’t have had the courage. The courage of my emotions,” she added, thoughtfully.

  “Ah, that’s the difference! A Berliner could do it, and a Bostonian couldn’t. Do you think it so much better to have the courage of your convictions?”

  “I don’t know. It seems to me that I’m less and less certain of everything that I used to be sure of.”

  He laughed, and then he said, “I was thinking how, on our wedding journey, long ago, that Gray Sister at the Hotel Dieu in Quebec offered you a rose.”

  “Well?”

  “That was to your pretty youth. Now the gracious stranger gives you a folding stool.”

  “To rest my poor old feet. Well, I would rather have it than a rose, now.”

  “You bent toward her at just the slant you had when you took the flower that time; I noticed it. I didn’t see that you looked so very different. To be sure the roses in your cheeks have turned into rosettes; but rosettes are very nice, and they’re much more permanent; I prefer them; they will keep in any climate.”

  She suffered his mockery with an appreciative sigh. “Yes, our age caricatures our youth, doesn’t it?”

  “I don’t think it gets much fun out of it,” he assented.

  “No; but it can’t help it. I used to rebel against it when it first began. I did enjoy being young.”

  “You did, my dear,” he said, taking her hand tenderly; she
withdrew it, because though she could bear his sympathy, her New England nature could not bear its expression. “And so did I; and we were both young a long time. Travelling brings the past back, don’t you think? There at that restaurant, where we stopped for dinner—”

  “Yes, it was charming! Just as it used to be! With that white cloth, and those tall shining bottles of wine, and the fruit in the centre, and the dinner in courses, and that young waiter who spoke English, and was so nice! I’m never going home; you may, if you like.”

  “You bragged to those ladies about our dining-cars; and you said that our railroad restaurants were quite as good as the European.”

  “I had to do that. But I knew better; they don’t begin to be.”

  “Perhaps not; but I’ve been thinking that travel is a good deal alike everywhere. It’s the expression of the common civilization of the world. When I came out of that restaurant and ran the train down, and then found that it didn’t start for fifteen minutes, I wasn’t sure whether I was at home or abroad. And when we changed cars at Eger, and got into this train which had been baking in the sun for us outside the station, I didn’t know but I was back in the good old Fitchburg depot. To be sure, Wallenstein wasn’t assassinated at Boston, but I forgot his murder at Eger, and so that came to the same thing. It’s these confounded fifty-odd years. I used to recollect everything.”

  He had got up and was looking out of the window at the landscape, which had not grown less amiable in growing rather more slovenly since they had crossed the Saxon bolder into Bohemia. All the morning and early afternoon they had run through lovely levels of harvest, where men were cradling the wheat and women were binding it into sheaves in the narrow fields between black spaces of forest. After they left Eger, there was something more picturesque and less thrifty in the farming among the low hills which they gradually mounted to uplands, where they tasted a mountain quality in the thin pure air. The railroad stations were shabbier; there was an indefinable touch of something Southern in the scenery and the people. Lilies were rocking on the sluggish reaches of the streams, and where the current quickened, tall wheels were lifting water for the fields in circles of brimming and spilling pockets. Along the embankments, where a new track was being laid, barefooted women were at work with pick and spade and barrow, and little yellow-haired girls were lugging large white-headed babies, and watching the train go by. At an up grade where it slowed in the ascent he began to throw out to the children the pfennigs which had been left over from the passage in Germany, and he pleased himself with his bounty, till the question whether the children could spend the money forced itself upon him. He sat down feeling less like a good genius than a cruel magician who had tricked them with false wealth; but he kept his remorse to himself, and tried to interest his wife in the difference of social and civic ideal expressed in the change of the inhibitory notices at the car windows, which in Germany had strongliest forbidden him to outlean himself, and now in Austria entreated him not to outbow himself. She refused to share in the speculation, or to debate the yet nicer problem involved by the placarded prayer in the washroom to the Messrs. Travellers not to take away the soap; and suddenly he felt himself as tired as she looked, with that sense of the futility of travel which lies in wait for every one who profits by travel.