CHAPTER VI
Why we went to Hanover--Something they do better abroad--The art ofpolite foreign conversation, as taught in English schools--A truehistory, now told for the first time--The French joke, as provided forthe amusement of British youth--Fatherly instincts of Harris--The road-waterer, considered as an artist--Patriotism of George--What Harris oughtto have done--What he did--We save Harris's life--A sleepless city--Thecab-horse as a critic.
We arrived in Hamburg on Friday after a smooth and uneventful voyage; andfrom Hamburg we travelled to Berlin by way of Hanover. It is not themost direct route. I can only account for our visit to Hanover as thenigger accounted to the magistrate for his appearance in the Deacon'spoultry-yard.
"Well?"
"Yes, sar, what the constable sez is quite true, sar; I was dar, sar."
"Oh, so you admit it? And what were you doing with a sack, pray, inDeacon Abraham's poultry-yard at twelve o'clock at night?"
"I'se gwine ter tell yer, sar; yes, sar. I'd been to Massa Jordan's wida sack of melons. Yes, sar; an' Massa Jordan he wuz very 'greeable, an'axed me for ter come in."
"Yes, sar, very 'greeable man is Massa Jordan. An' dar we sat a talkingan' a talking--"
"Very likely. What we want to know is what you were doing in theDeacon's poultry-yard?"
"Yes, sar, dat's what I'se cumming to. It wuz ver' late 'fore I leftMassa Jordan's, an' den I sez ter mysel', sez I, now yer jest step outwith yer best leg foremost, Ulysses, case yer gets into trouble wid deole woman. Ver' talkative woman she is, sar, very--"
"Yes, never mind her; there are other people very talkative in this townbesides your wife. Deacon Abraham's house is half a mile out of your wayhome from Mr. Jordan's. How did you get there?"
"Dat's what I'm a-gwine ter explain, sar."
"I am glad of that. And how do you propose to do it?"
"Well, I'se thinkin', sar, I must ha' digressed."
I take it we digressed a little.
At first, from some reason or other, Hanover strikes you as anuninteresting town, but it grows upon you. It is in reality two towns; aplace of broad, modern, handsome streets and tasteful gardens; side byside with a sixteenth-century town, where old timbered houses overhangthe narrow lanes; where through low archways one catches glimpses ofgalleried courtyards, once often thronged, no doubt, with troops ofhorse, or blocked with lumbering coach and six, waiting its rich merchantowner, and his fat placid Frau, but where now children and chickensscuttle at their will; while over the carved balconies hang dingy clothesa-drying.
A singularly English atmosphere hovers over Hanover, especially onSundays, when its shuttered shops and clanging bells give to it thesuggestion of a sunnier London. Nor was this British Sunday atmosphereapparent only to myself, else I might have attributed it to imagination;even George felt it. Harris and I, returning from a short stroll withour cigars after lunch on the Sunday afternoon, found him peacefullyslumbering in the smoke-room's easiest chair.
"After all," said Harris, "there is something about the British Sundaythat appeals to the man with English blood in his veins. I should besorry to see it altogether done away with, let the new generation saywhat it will."
And taking one each end of the ample settee, we kept George company.
To Hanover one should go, they say, to learn the best German. Thedisadvantage is that outside Hanover, which is only a small province,nobody understands this best German. Thus you have to decide whether tospeak good German and remain in Hanover, or bad German and travel about.Germany being separated so many centuries into a dozen principalities, isunfortunate in possessing a variety of dialects. Germans from Posenwishful to converse with men of Wurtemburg, have to talk as often as notin French or English; and young ladies who have received an expensiveeducation in Westphalia surprise and disappoint their parents by beingunable to understand a word said to them in Mechlenberg. AnEnglish-speaking foreigner, it is true, would find himself equallynonplussed among the Yorkshire wolds, or in the purlieus of Whitechapel;but the cases are not on all fours. Throughout Germany it is not only inthe country districts and among the uneducated that dialects aremaintained. Every province has practically its own language, of which itis proud and retentive. An educated Bavarian will admit to you that,academically speaking, the North German is more correct; but he willcontinue to speak South German and to teach it to his children.
In the course of the century, I am inclined to think that Germany willsolve her difficulty in this respect by speaking English. Every boy andgirl in Germany, above the peasant class, speaks English. Were Englishpronunciation less arbitrary, there is not the slightest doubt but thatin the course of a very few years, comparatively speaking, it wouldbecome the language of the world. All foreigners agree that,grammatically, it is the easiest language of any to learn. A German,comparing it with his own language, where every word in every sentence isgoverned by at least four distinct and separate rules, tells you thatEnglish has no grammar. A good many English people would seem to havecome to the same conclusion; but they are wrong. As a matter of fact,there is an English grammar, and one of these days our schools willrecognise the fact, and it will be taught to our children, penetratingmaybe even into literary and journalistic circles. But at present weappear to agree with the foreigner that it is a quantity neglectable.English pronunciation is the stumbling-block to our progress. Englishspelling would seem to have been designed chiefly as a disguise topronunciation. It is a clever idea, calculated to check presumption onthe part of the foreigner; but for that he would learn it in a year.
For they have a way of teaching languages in Germany that is not our way,and the consequence is that when the German youth or maiden leaves thegymnasium or high school at fifteen, "it" (as in Germany one convenientlymay say) can understand and speak the tongue it has been learning. InEngland we have a method that for obtaining the least possible result atthe greatest possible expenditure of time and money is perhapsunequalled. An English boy who has been through a good middle-classschool in England can talk to a Frenchman, slowly and with difficulty,about female gardeners and aunts; conversation which, to a man possessedperhaps of neither, is liable to pall. Possibly, if he be a brightexception, he may be able to tell the time, or make a few guardedobservations concerning the weather. No doubt he could repeat a goodlynumber of irregular verbs by heart; only, as a matter of fact, fewforeigners care to listen to their own irregular verbs, recited by youngEnglishmen. Likewise he might be able to remember a choice selection ofgrotesquely involved French idioms, such as no modern Frenchman has everheard or understands when he does hear.
The explanation is that, in nine cases out of ten, he has learnt Frenchfrom an "Ahn's First-Course." The history of this famous work isremarkable and instructive. The book was originally written for a joke,by a witty Frenchman who had resided for some years in England. Heintended it as a satire upon the conversational powers of Britishsociety. From this point of view it was distinctly good. He submittedit to a London publishing firm. The manager was a shrewd man. He readthe book through. Then he sent for the author.
"This book of yours," said he to the author, "is very clever. I havelaughed over it myself till the tears came."
"I am delighted to hear you say so," replied the pleased Frenchman. "Itried to be truthful without being unnecessarily offensive."
"It is most amusing," concurred the manager; "and yet published as aharmless joke, I feel it would fail."
The author's face fell.
"Its humour," proceeded the manager, "would be denounced as forced andextravagant. It would amuse the thoughtful and intelligent, but from abusiness point of view that portion of the public are never worthconsidering. But I have an idea," continued the manager. He glancedround the room to be sure they were alone, and leaning forward sunk hisvoice to a whisper. "My notion is to publish it as a serious work forthe use of schools!"
The author stared, speechless.
"I know the English sch
oolman," said the manager; "this book will appealto him. It will exactly fit in with his method. Nothing sillier,nothing more useless for the purpose will he ever discover. He willsmack his lips over the book, as a puppy licks up blacking."
The author, sacrificing art to greed, consented. They altered the titleand added a vocabulary, but left the book otherwise as it was.
The result is known to every schoolboy. "Ahn" became the palladium ofEnglish philological education. If it no longer retains its ubiquity, itis because something even less adaptable to the object in view has beensince invented.
Lest, in spite of all, the British schoolboy should obtain, even from thelike of "Ahn," some glimmering of French, the British educational methodfurther handicaps him by bestowing upon him the assistance of, what istermed in the prospectus, "A native gentleman." This native Frenchgentleman, who, by-the-by, is generally a Belgian, is no doubt a mostworthy person, and can, it is true, understand and speak his own languagewith tolerable fluency. There his qualifications cease. Invariably heis a man with a quite remarkable inability to teach anybody anything.Indeed, he would seem to be chosen not so much as an instructor as anamuser of youth. He is always a comic figure. No Frenchman of adignified appearance would be engaged for any English school. If hepossess by nature a few harmless peculiarities, calculated to causemerriment, so much the more is he esteemed by his employers. The classnaturally regards him as an animated joke. The two to four hours a weekthat are deliberately wasted on this ancient farce, are looked forward toby the boys as a merry interlude in an otherwise monotonous existence.And then, when the proud parent takes his son and heir to Dieppe merelyto discover that the lad does not know enough to call a cab, he abusesnot the system, but its innocent victim.
I confine my remarks to French, because that is the only language weattempt to teach our youth. An English boy who could speak German wouldbe looked down upon as unpatriotic. Why we waste time in teaching evenFrench according to this method I have never been able to understand. Aperfect unacquaintance with a language is respectable. But putting asidecomic journalists and lady novelists, for whom it is a businessnecessity, this smattering of French which we are so proud to possessonly serves to render us ridiculous.
In the German school the method is somewhat different. One hour everyday is devoted to the same language. The idea is not to give the ladtime between each lesson to forget what he learned at the last; the ideais for him to get on. There is no comic foreigner provided for hisamusement. The desired language is taught by a German school-master whoknows it inside and out as thoroughly as he knows his own. Maybe thissystem does not provide the German youth with that perfection of foreignaccent for which the British tourist is in every land remarkable, but ithas other advantages. The boy does not call his master "froggy," or"sausage," nor prepare for the French or English hour any exhibition ofhomely wit whatever. He just sits there, and for his own sake tries tolearn that foreign tongue with as little trouble to everybody concernedas possible. When he has left school he can talk, not about penknivesand gardeners and aunts merely, but about European politics, history,Shakespeare, or the musical glasses, according to the turn theconversation may take.
Viewing the German people from an Anglo-Saxon standpoint, it may be thatin this book I shall find occasion to criticise them: but on the otherhand there is much that we might learn from them; and in the matter ofcommon sense, as applied to education, they can give us ninety-nine in ahundred and beat us with one hand.
The beautiful wood of the Eilenriede bounds Hanover on the south andwest, and here occurred a sad drama in which Harris took a prominentpart.
We were riding our machines through this wood on the Monday afternoon inthe company of many other cyclists, for it is a favourite resort with theHanoverians on a sunny afternoon, and its shady pathways are then filledwith happy, thoughtless folk. Among them rode a young and beautiful girlon a machine that was new. She was evidently a novice on the bicycle.One felt instinctively that there would come a moment when she wouldrequire help, and Harris, with his accustomed chivalry, suggested weshould keep near her. Harris, as he occasionally explains to George andto myself, has daughters of his own, or, to speak more correctly, adaughter, who as the years progress will no doubt cease practisingcatherine wheels in the front garden, and will grow up into a beautifuland respectable young lady. This naturally gives Harris an interest inall beautiful girls up to the age of thirty-five or thereabouts; theyremind him, so he says, of home.
We had ridden for about two miles, when we noticed, a little ahead of usin a space where five ways met, a man with a hose, watering the roads.The pipe, supported at each joint by a pair of tiny wheels, writhed afterhim as he moved, suggesting a gigantic-worm, from whose open neck, as theman, gripping it firmly in both hands, pointing it now this way, and nowthat, now elevating it, now depressing it, poured a strong stream ofwater at the rate of about a gallon a second.
"What a much better method than ours," observed Harris, enthusiastically.Harris is inclined to be chronically severe on all British institutions."How much simpler, quicker, and more economical! You see, one man bythis method can in five minutes water a stretch of road that would takeus with our clumsy lumbering cart half an hour to cover."
George, who was riding behind me on the tandem, said, "Yes, and it isalso a method by which with a little carelessness a man could cover agood many people in a good deal less time than they could get out of theway."
George, the opposite to Harris, is British to the core. I rememberGeorge quite patriotically indignant with Harris once for suggesting theintroduction of the guillotine into England.
"It is so much neater," said Harris.
"I don't care if it is," said George; "I'm an Englishman; hanging is goodenough for me."
"Our water-cart may have its disadvantages," continued George, "but itcan only make you uncomfortable about the legs, and you can avoid it.This is the sort of machine with which a man can follow you round thecorner and upstairs."
"It fascinates me to watch them," said Harris. "They are so skilful. Ihave seen a man from the corner of a crowded square in Strassburg coverevery inch of ground, and not so much as wet an apron string. It ismarvellous how they judge their distance. They will send the water up toyour toes, and then bring it over your head so that it falls around yourheels. They can--"
"Ease up a minute," said George. I said: "Why?"
He said: "I am going to get off and watch the rest of this show frombehind a tree. There may be great performers in this line, as Harrissays; this particular artist appears to me to lack something. He hasjust soused a dog, and now he's busy watering a sign-post. I am going towait till he has finished."
"Nonsense," said Harris; "he won't wet you."
"That is precisely what I am going to make sure of," answered George,saying which he jumped off, and, taking up a position behind a remarkablyfine elm, pulled out and commenced filling his pipe.
I did not care to take the tandem on by myself, so I stepped off andjoined him, leaving the machine against a tree. Harris shouted somethingor other about our being a disgrace to the land that gave us birth, androde on.
The next moment I heard a woman's cry of distress. Glancing round thestem of the tree, I perceived that it proceeded from the young andelegant lady before mentioned, whom, in our interest concerning the road-waterer, we had forgotten. She was riding her machine steadily andstraightly through a drenching shower of water from the hose. Sheappeared to be too paralysed either to get off or turn her wheel aside.Every instant she was becoming wetter, while the man with the hose, whowas either drunk or blind, continued to pour water upon her with utterindifference. A dozen voices yelled imprecations upon him, but he tookno heed whatever.
Harris, his fatherly nature stirred to its depths, did at this pointwhat, under the circumstances, was quite the right and proper thing todo. Had he acted throughout with the same coolness and judgment he thendisplayed, he would have emerged f
rom that incident the hero of the hour,instead of, as happened, riding away followed by insult and threat.Without a moment's hesitation he spurted at the man, sprang to theground, and, seizing the hose by the nozzle, attempted to wrest it away.
What he ought to have done, what any man retaining his common sense wouldhave done the moment he got his hands upon the thing, was to turn off thetap. Then he might have played foot-ball with the man, or battledore andshuttlecock as he pleased; and the twenty or thirty people who had rushedforward to assist would have only applauded. His idea, however, as heexplained to us afterwards, was to take away the hose from the man, and,for punishment, turn it upon the fool himself. The waterman's ideaappeared to be the same, namely, to retain the hose as a weapon withwhich to soak Harris. Of course, the result was that, between them, theysoused every dead and living thing within fifty yards, except themselves.One furious man, too drenched to care what more happened to him, leaptinto the arena and also took a hand. The three among them proceeded tosweep the compass with that hose. They pointed it to heaven, and thewater descended upon the people in the form of an equinoctial storm. Theypointed it downwards, and sent the water in rushing streams that tookpeople off their feet, or caught them about the waist line, and doubledthem up.
Not one of them would loosen his grip upon the hose, not one of themthought to turn the water off. You might have concluded they werestruggling with some primeval force of nature. In forty-five seconds, soGeorge said, who was timing it, they had swept that circus bare of everyliving thing except one dog, who, dripping like a water nymph, rolledover by the force of water, now on this side, now on that, stillgallantly staggered again and again to its feet to bark defiance at whatit evidently regarded as the powers of hell let loose.
Men and women left their machines upon the ground, and flew into thewoods. From behind every tree of importance peeped out wet, angry heads.
At last, there arrived upon the scene one man of sense. Braving allthings, he crept to the hydrant, where still stood the iron key, andscrewed it down. And then from forty trees began to creep more or lesssoaked human beings, each one with something to say.
At first I fell to wondering whether a stretcher or a clothes basketwould be the more useful for the conveyance of Harris's remains back tothe hotel. I consider that George's promptness on that occasion savedHarris's life. Being dry, and therefore able to run quicker, he wasthere before the crowd. Harris was for explaining things, but George cuthim short.
"You get on that," said George, handing him his bicycle, "and go. Theydon't know we belong to you, and you may trust us implicitly not toreveal the secret. We'll hang about behind, and get in their way. Ridezig-zag in case they shoot."
I wish this book to be a strict record of fact, unmarred by exaggeration,and therefore I have shown my description of this incident to Harris,lest anything beyond bald narrative may have crept into it. Harrismaintains it is exaggerated, but admits that one or two people may havebeen "sprinkled." I have offered to turn a street hose on him at adistance of five-and-twenty yards, and take his opinion afterwards, as towhether "sprinkled" is the adequate term, but he has declined the test.Again, he insists there could not have been more than half a dozenpeople, at the outside, involved in the catastrophe, that forty is aridiculous misstatement. I have offered to return with him to Hanoverand make strict inquiry into the matter, and this offer he has likewisedeclined. Under these circumstances, I maintain that mine is a true andrestrained narrative of an event that is, by a certain number ofHanoverians, remembered with bitterness unto this very day.
We left Hanover that same evening, and arrived at Berlin in time forsupper and an evening stroll. Berlin is a disappointing town; its centreover-crowded, its outlying parts lifeless; its one famous street, Unterden Linden, an attempt to combine Oxford Street with the Champs Elysee,singularly unimposing, being much too wide for its size; its theatresdainty and charming, where acting is considered of more importance thanscenery or dress, where long runs are unknown, successful pieces beingplayed again and again, but never consecutively, so that for a weekrunning you may go to the same Berlin theatre, and see a fresh play everynight; its opera house unworthy of it; its two music halls, with anunnecessary suggestion of vulgarity and commonness about them,ill-arranged and much too large for comfort. In the Berlin cafes andrestaurants, the busy time is from midnight on till three. Yet most ofthe people who frequent them are up again at seven. Either the Berlinerhas solved the great problem of modern life, how to do without sleep, or,with Carlyle, he must be looking forward to eternity.
Personally, I know of no other town where such late hours are the vogue,except St. Petersburg. But your St. Petersburger does not get up earlyin the morning. At St. Petersburg, the music halls, which it is thefashionable thing to attend _after_ the theatre--a drive to them takinghalf an hour in a swift sleigh--do not practically begin till twelve.Through the Neva at four o'clock in the morning you have to literallypush your way; and the favourite trains for travellers are those startingabout five o'clock in the morning. These trains save the Russian thetrouble of getting up early. He wishes his friends "Good-night," anddrives down to the station comfortably after supper, without putting thehouse to any inconvenience.
Potsdam, the Versailles to Berlin, is a beautiful little town, situateamong lakes and woods. Here in the shady ways of its quiet,far-stretching park of Sans Souci, it is easy to imagine lean, snuffyFrederick "bummeling" with shrill Voltaire.
Acting on my advice, George and Harris consented not to stay long inBerlin; but to push on to Dresden. Most that Berlin has to show can beseen better elsewhere, and we decided to be content with a drive throughthe town. The hotel porter introduced us to a droschke driver, underwhose guidance, so he assured us, we should see everything worth seeingin the shortest possible time. The man himself, who called for us atnine o'clock in the morning, was all that could be desired. He wasbright, intelligent, and well-informed; his German was easy tounderstand, and he knew a little English with which to eke it out onoccasion. With the man himself there was no fault to be found, but hishorse was the most unsympathetic brute I have ever sat behind.
He took a dislike to us the moment he saw us. I was the first to comeout of the hotel. He turned his head, and looked me up and down with acold, glassy eye; and then he looked across at another horse, a friend ofhis that was standing facing him. I knew what he said. He had anexpressive head, and he made no attempt to disguise his thought.
He said:
"Funny things one does come across in the summer time, don't one?"
George followed me out the next moment, and stood behind me. The horseagain turned his head and looked. I have never known a horse that couldtwist himself as this horse did. I have seen a camelopard do trick'swith his neck that compelled one's attention, but this animal was morelike the thing one dreams of after a dusty days at Ascot, followed by adinner with six old chums. If I had seen his eyes looking at me frombetween his own hind legs, I doubt if I should have been surprised. Heseemed more amused with George if anything, than with myself. He turnedto his friend again.
"Extraordinary, isn't it?" he remarked; "I suppose there must be someplace where they grow them"; and then he commenced licking flies off hisown left shoulder. I began to wonder whether he had lost his mother whenyoung, and had been brought up by a cat.
George and I climbed in, and sat waiting for Harris. He came a momentlater. Myself, I thought he looked rather neat. He wore a white flannelknickerbocker suit, which he had had made specially for bicycling in hotweather; his hat may have been a trifle out of the common, but it didkeep the sun off.
The horse gave one look at him, said "Gott in Himmel!" as plainly as everhorse spoke, and started off down Friedrich Strasse at a brisk walk,leaving Harris and the driver standing on the pavement. His owner calledto him to stop, but he took no notice. They ran after us, and overtookus at the corner of the Dorotheen Strasse. I could not catch what theman said to the h
orse, he spoke quickly and excitedly; but I gathered afew phrases, such as:
"Got to earn my living somehow, haven't I? Who asked for your opinion?Aye, little you care so long as you can guzzle."
The horse cut the conversation short by turning up the Dorotheen Strasseon his own account. I think what he said was:
"Come on then; don't talk so much. Let's get the job over, and, wherepossible, let's keep to the back streets."
Opposite the Brandenburger Thor our driver hitched the reins to the whip,climbed down, and came round to explain things to us. He pointed out theThiergarten, and then descanted to us of the Reichstag House. Heinformed us of its exact height, length, and breadth, after the manner ofguides. Then he turned his attention to the Gate. He said it wasconstructed of sandstone, in imitation of the "Properleer" in Athens.
At this point the horse, which had been occupying its leisure licking itsown legs, turned round its head. It did not say anything, it justlooked.
The man began again nervously. This time he said it was an imitation ofthe "Propeyedliar."
Here the horse proceeded up the Linden, and nothing would persuade himnot to proceed up the Linden. His owner expostulated with him, but hecontinued to trot on. From the way he hitched his shoulders as he moved,I somehow felt he was saying:
"They've seen the Gate, haven't they? Very well, that's enough. As forthe rest, you don't know what you are talking about, and they wouldn'tunderstand you if you did. You talk German."
It was the same throughout the length of the Linden. The horse consentedto stand still sufficiently long to enable us to have a good look at eachsight, and to hear the name of it. All explanation and description hecut short by the simple process of moving on.
"What these fellows want," he seemed to say to himself, "is to go homeand tell people they have seen these things. If I am doing them aninjustice, if they are more intelligent than they look, they can getbetter information than this old fool of mine is giving them from theguide book. Who wants to know how high a steeple is? You don't rememberit the next five minutes when you are told, and if you do it is becauseyou have got nothing else in your head. He just tires me with his talk.Why doesn't he hurry up, and let us all get home to lunch?"
Upon reflection, I am not sure that wall-eyed old brute had not sense onits side. Anyhow, I know there have been occasions, with a guide, when Iwould have been glad of its interference.
But one is apt to "sin one's mercies," as the Scotch say, and at the timewe cursed that horse instead of blessing it.
Three Men on the Bummel Page 7