Three Men on the Bummel

by Jerome K. Jerome

  CHAPTER X

  Baden from the visitor's point of view--Beauty of the early morning, asviewed from the preceding afternoon--Distance, as measured by thecompass--Ditto, as measured by the leg--George in account with hisconscience--A lazy machine--Bicycling, according to the poster: itsrestfulness--The poster cyclist: its costume; its method--The griffin asa household pet--A dog with proper self-respect--The horse that wasabused.

  From Baden, about which it need only be said that it is a pleasure resortsingularly like other pleasure resorts of the same description, westarted bicycling in earnest. We planned a ten days' tour, which, whilecompleting the Black Forest, should include a spin down the Donau-Thal,which for the twenty miles from Tuttlingen to Sigmaringen is, perhaps,the finest valley in Germany; the Danube stream here winding its narrowway past old-world unspoilt villages; past ancient monasteries, nestlingin green pastures, where still the bare-footed and bare-headed friar, hisrope girdle tight about his loins, shepherds, with crook in hand, hissheep upon the hill sides; through rocky woods; between sheer walls ofcliff, whose every towering crag stands crowned with ruined fortress,church, or castle; together with a blick at the Vosges mountains, wherehalf the population is bitterly pained if you speak to them in French,the other half being insulted when you address them in German, and thewhole indignantly contemptuous at the first sound of English; a state ofthings that renders conversation with the stranger somewhat nervous work.

  We did not succeed in carrying out our programme in its entirety, for thereason that human performance lags ever behind human intention. It iseasy to say and believe at three o'clock in the afternoon that: "We willrise at five, breakfast lightly at half-past, and start away at six."

  "Then we shall be well on our way before the heat of the day sets in,"remarks one.

  "This time of the year, the early morning is really the best part of theday. Don't you think so?" adds another.

  "Oh, undoubtedly."

  "So cool and fresh."

  "And the half-lights are so exquisite."

  The first morning one maintains one's vows. The party assembles at half-past five. It is very silent; individually, somewhat snappy; inclined togrumble with its food, also with most other things; the atmospherecharged with compressed irritability seeking its vent. In the eveningthe Tempter's voice is heard:

  "I think if we got off by half-past six, sharp, that would be timeenough?"

  The voice of Virtue protests, faintly: "It will be breaking ourresolution."

  The Tempter replies: "Resolutions were made for man, not man forresolutions." The devil can paraphrase Scripture for his own purpose."Besides, it is disturbing the whole hotel; think of the poor servants."

  The voice of Virtue continues, but even feebler: "But everybody gets upearly in these parts."

  "They would not if they were not obliged to, poor things! Say breakfastat half-past six, punctual; that will be disturbing nobody."

  Thus Sin masquerades under the guise of Good, and one sleeps till six,explaining to one's conscience, who, however, doesn't believe it, thatone does this because of unselfish consideration for others. I haveknown such consideration extend until seven of the clock.

  Likewise, distance measured with a pair of compasses is not precisely thesame as when measured by the leg.

  "Ten miles an hour for seven hours, seventy miles. A nice easy day'swork."

  "There are some stiff hills to climb?"

  "The other side to come down. Say, eight miles an hour, and call itsixty miles. Gott in Himmel! if we can't average eight miles an hour, wehad better go in bath-chairs." It does seem somewhat impossible to doless, on paper.

  But at four o'clock in the afternoon the voice of Duty rings less trumpet-toned:

  "Well, I suppose we ought to be getting on."

  "Oh, there's no hurry! don't fuss. Lovely view from here, isn't it?"

  "Very. Don't forget we are twenty-five miles from St. Blasien."

  "How far?"

  "Twenty-five miles, a little over if anything."

  "Do you mean to say we have only come thirty-five miles?"

  "That's all."

  "Nonsense. I don't believe that map of yours."

  "It is impossible, you know. We have been riding steadily ever since thefirst thing this morning."

  "No, we haven't. We didn't get away till eight, to begin with."

  "Quarter to eight."

  "Well, quarter to eight; and every half-dozen miles we have stopped."

  "We have only stopped to look at the view. It's no good coming to see acountry, and then not seeing it."

  "And we have had to pull up some stiff hills."

  "Besides, it has been an exceptionally hot day to-day."

  "Well, don't forget St. Blasien is twenty-five miles off, that's all."

  "Any more hills?"

  "Yes, two; up and down."

  "I thought you said it was downhill into St. Blasien?"

  "So it is for the last ten miles. We are twenty-five miles from St.Blasien here."

  "Isn't there anywhere between here and St. Blasien? What's that littleplace there on the lake?"

  "It isn't St. Blasien, or anywhere near it. There's a danger inbeginning that sort of thing."

  "There's a danger in overworking oneself. One should study moderation inall things. Pretty little place, that Titisee, according to the map;looks as if there would be good air there."

  "All right, I'm agreeable. It was you fellows who suggested our makingfor St. Blasien."

  "Oh, I'm not so keen on St. Blasien! poky little place, down in a valley.This Titisee, I should say, was ever so much nicer."

  "Quite near, isn't it?"

  "Five miles."

  General chorus: "We'll stop at Titisee."

  George made discovery of this difference between theory and practice onthe very first day of our ride.

  "I thought," said George--he was riding the single, Harris and I being alittle ahead on the tandem--"that the idea was to train up the hills andride down them."

  "So it is," answered Harris, "as a general rule. But the trains don't goup _every_ hill in the Black Forest."

  "Somehow, I felt a suspicion that they wouldn't," growled George; and forawhile silence reigned.

  "Besides," remarked Harris, who had evidently been ruminating thesubject, "you would not wish to have nothing but downhill, surely. Itwould not be playing the game. One must take a little rough with one'ssmooth."

  Again there returned silence, broken after awhile by George, this time.

  "Don't you two fellows over-exert yourselves merely on my account," saidGeorge.

  "How do you mean?" asked Harris.

  "I mean," answered George, "that where a train does happen to be going upthese hills, don't you put aside the idea of taking it for fear ofoutraging my finer feelings. Personally, I am prepared to go up allthese hills in a railway train, even if it's not playing the game. I'llsquare the thing with my conscience; I've been up at seven every day fora week now, and I calculate it owes me a bit. Don't you consider me inthe matter at all."

  We promised to bear this in mind, and again the ride continued in doggeddumbness, until it was again broken by George.

  "What bicycle did you say this was of yours?" asked George.

  Harris told him. I forget of what particular manufacture it happened tobe; it is immaterial.

  "Are you sure?" persisted George.

  "Of course I am sure," answered Harris. "Why, what's the matter withit?"

  "Well, it doesn't come up to the poster," said George, "that's all."

  "What poster?" asked Harris.

  "The poster advertising this particular brand of cycle," explainedGeorge. "I was looking at one on a hoarding in Sloane Street only a dayor two before we started. A man was riding this make of machine, a manwith a banner in his hand: he wasn't doing any work, that was clear asdaylight; he was just sitting on the thing and drinking in the air. Thecycle was going of its own accord, and go
ing well. This thing of yoursleaves all the work to me. It is a lazy brute of a machine; if you don'tshove, it simply does nothing: I should complain about it, if I wereyou."

  When one comes to think of it, few bicycles do realise the poster. Ononly one poster that I can recollect have I seen the rider represented asdoing any work. But then this man was being pursued by a bull. Inordinary cases the object of the artist is to convince the hesitatingneophyte that the sport of bicycling consists in sitting on a luxurioussaddle, and being moved rapidly in the direction you wish to go by unseenheavenly powers.

  Generally speaking, the rider is a lady, and then one feels that, forperfect bodily rest combined with entire freedom from mental anxiety,slumber upon a water-bed cannot compare with bicycle-riding upon a hillyroad. No fairy travelling on a summer cloud could take things moreeasily than does the bicycle girl, according to the poster. Her costumefor cycling in hot weather is ideal. Old-fashioned landladies mightrefuse her lunch, it is true; and a narrowminded police force mightdesire to secure her, and wrap her in a rug preliminary to summonsingher. But such she heeds not. Uphill and downhill, through traffic thatmight tax the ingenuity of a cat, over road surfaces calculated to breakthe average steam roller she passes, a vision of idle loveliness; herfair hair streaming to the wind, her sylph-like form poised airily, onefoot upon the saddle, the other resting lightly upon the lamp. Sometimesshe condescends to sit down on the saddle; then she puts her feet on therests, lights a cigarette, and waves above her head a Chinese lantern.

  Less often, it is a mere male thing that rides the machine. He is not soaccomplished an acrobat as is the lady; but simple tricks, such asstanding on the saddle and waving flags, drinking beer or beef-tea whileriding, he can and does perform. Something, one supposes, he must do tooccupy his mind: sitting still hour after hour on this machine, having nowork to do, nothing to think about, must pall upon any man of activetemperament. Thus it is that we see him rising on his pedals as he nearsthe top of some high hill to apostrophise the sun, or address poetry tothe surrounding scenery.

  Occasionally the poster pictures a pair of cyclists; and then one graspsthe fact how much superior for purposes of flirtation is the modernbicycle to the old-fashioned parlour or the played-out garden gate. Heand she mount their bicycles, being careful, of course, that such are ofthe right make. After that they have nothing to think about but the oldsweet tale. Down shady lanes, through busy towns on market days, merrilyroll the wheels of the "Bermondsey Company's Bottom Bracket Britain'sBest," or of the "Camberwell Company's Jointless Eureka." They need nopedalling; they require no guiding. Give them their heads, and tell themwhat time you want to get home, and that is all they ask. While Edwinleans from his saddle to whisper the dear old nothings in Angelina's ear,while Angelina's face, to hide its blushes, is turned towards the horizonat the back, the magic bicycles pursue their even course.

  And the sun is always shining and the roads are always dry. No sternparent rides behind, no interfering aunt beside, no demon small boybrother is peeping round the corner, there never comes a skid. Ah me!Why were there no "Britain's Best" nor "Camberwell Eurekas" to be hiredwhen _we_ were young?

  Or maybe the "Britain's Best" or the "Camberwell Eureka" stands leaningagainst a gate; maybe it is tired. It has worked hard all the afternoon,carrying these young people. Mercifully minded, they have dismounted, togive the machine a rest. They sit upon the grass beneath the shade ofgraceful boughs; it is long and dry grass. A stream flows by their feet.All is rest and peace.

  That is ever the idea the cycle poster artist sets himself to convey--restand peace.

  But I am wrong in saying that no cyclist, according to the poster, everworks. Now I come to reflect, I have seen posters representing gentlemenon cycles working very hard--over-working themselves, one might almostsay. They are thin and haggard with the toil, the perspiration standsupon their brow in beads; you feel that if there is another hill beyondthe poster they must either get off or die. But this is the result oftheir own folly. This happens because they will persist in riding amachine of an inferior make. Were they riding a "Putney Popular" or"Battersea Bounder," such as the sensible young man in the centre of theposter rides, then all this unnecessary labour would be saved to them.Then all required of them would be, as in gratitude bound, to look happy;perhaps, occasionally to back-pedal a little when the machine in itsyouthful buoyancy loses its head for a moment and dashes on too swiftly.

  You tired young men, sitting dejectedly on milestones, too spent to heedthe steady rain that soaks you through; you weary maidens, with thestraight, damp hair, anxious about the time, longing to swear, notknowing how; you stout bald men, vanishing visibly as you pant and gruntalong the endless road; you purple, dejected matrons, plying with painthe slow unwilling wheel; why did you not see to it that you bought a"Britain's Best" or a "Camberwell Eureka"? Why are these bicycles ofinferior make so prevalent throughout the land

  Or is it with bicycling as with all other things: does Life at no pointrealise the Poster?

  The one thing in Germany that never fails to charm and fascinate me isthe German dog. In England one grows tired of the old breeds, one knowsthem all so well: the mastiff, the plum-pudding dog, the terrier (black,white or rough-haired, as the case may be, but always quarrelsome), thecollie, the bulldog; never anything new. Now in Germany you get variety.You come across dogs the like of which you have never seen before: thatuntil you hear them bark you do not know are dogs. It is all so fresh,so interesting. George stopped a dog in Sigmaringen and drew ourattention to it. It suggested a cross between a codfish and a poodle. Iwould not like to be positive it was _not_ a cross between a codfish anda poodle. Harris tried to photograph it, but it ran up a fence anddisappeared through some bushes.

  I do not know what the German breeder's idea is; at present he retainshis secret. George suggests he is aiming at a griffin. There is much tobear out this theory, and indeed in one or two cases I have come acrosssuccess on these lines would seem to have been almost achieved. Yet Icannot bring myself to believe that such are anything more than mereaccidents. The German is practical, and I fail to see the object of agriffin. If mere quaintness of design be desired, is there not alreadythe Dachshund! What more is needed? Besides, about a house, a griffinwould be so inconvenient: people would be continually treading on itstail. My own idea is that what the Germans are trying for is a mermaid,which they will then train to catch fish.

  For your German does not encourage laziness in any living thing. Helikes to see his dogs work, and the German dog loves work; of that therecan be no doubt. The life of the English dog must be a misery to him.Imagine a strong, active, and intelligent being, of exceptionallyenergetic temperament, condemned to spend twenty-four hours a day inabsolute idleness! How would you like it yourself? No wonder he feelsmisunderstood, yearns for the unattainable, and gets himself into troublegenerally.

  Now the German dog, on the other hand, has plenty to occupy his mind. Heis busy and important. Watch him as he walks along harnessed to his milkcart. No churchwarden at collection time could feel or look more pleasedwith himself. He does not do any real work; the human being does thepushing, he does the barking; that is his idea of division of labour.What he says to himself is:

  "The old man can't bark, but he can shove. Very well."

  The interest and the pride he takes in the business is quite beautiful tosee. Another dog passing by makes, maybe, some jeering remark, castingdiscredit upon the creaminess of the milk. He stops suddenly, quiteregardless of the traffic.

  "I beg your pardon, what was that you said about our milk?"

  "I said nothing about your milk," retorts the other dog, in a tone ofgentle innocence. "I merely said it was a fine day, and asked the priceof chalk."

  "Oh, you asked the price of chalk, did you? Would you like to know?"

  "Yes, thanks; somehow I thought you would be able to tell me."

  "You are quite right, I can. It's wo
rth--"

  "Oh, do come along!" says the old lady, who is tired and hot, and anxiousto finish her round.

  "Yes, but hang it all; did you hear what he hinted about our milk?"

  "Oh, never mind him! There's a tram coming round the corner: we shallall get run over."

  "Yes, but I do mind him; one has one's proper pride. He asked the priceof chalk, and he's going to know it! It's worth just twenty times asmuch--"

  "You'll have the whole thing over, I know you will," cries the old lady,pathetically, struggling with all her feeble strength to haul him back."Oh dear, oh dear! I do wish I had left you at home."

  The tram is bearing down upon them; a cab-driver is shouting at them;another huge brute, hoping to be in time to take a hand, is dragging abread cart, followed by a screaming child, across the road from theopposite side; a small crowd is collecting; and a policeman is hasteningto the scene.

  "It's worth," says the milk dog, "just twenty-times as much as you'll beworth before I've done with you."

  "Oh, you think so, do you?"

  "Yes, I do, you grandson of a French poodle, you cabbage-eating--"

  "There! I knew you'd have it over," says the poor milk-woman. "I toldhim he'd have it over."

  But he is busy, and heeds her not. Five minutes later, when the trafficis renewed, when the bread girl has collected her muddy rolls, and thepoliceman has gone off with the name and address of everybody in thestreet, he consents to look behind him.

  "It _is_ a bit of an upset," he admits. Then shaking himself free ofcare, he adds, cheerfully, "But I guess I taught him the price of chalk.He won't interfere with us again, I'm thinking."

  "I'm sure I hope not," says the old lady, regarding dejectedly the milkyroad.

  But his favourite sport is to wait at the top of the hill for anotherdog, and then race down. On these occasions the chief occupation of theother fellow is to run about behind, picking up the scattered articles,loaves, cabbages, or shirts, as they are jerked out. At the bottom ofthe hill, he stops and waits for his friend.

  "Good race, wasn't it?" he remarks, panting, as the Human comes up, ladento the chin. "I believe I'd have won it, too, if it hadn't been for thatfool of a small boy. He was right in my way just as I turned the corner._You noticed him_? Wish I had, beastly brat! What's he yelling likethat for? _Because I knocked him down and ran over him_? Well, whydidn't he get out of the way? It's disgraceful, the way people leavetheir children about for other people to tumble over. Halloa! did allthose things come out? You couldn't have packed them very carefully; youshould see to a thing like that. _You did not dream of my tearing downthe hill twenty miles an hour_? Surely, you knew me better than toexpect I'd let that old Schneider's dog pass me without an effort. Butthere, you never think. You're sure you've got them all? _You believeso_? I shouldn't 'believe' if I were you; I should run back up the hillagain and make sure. _You feel too tired_? Oh, all right! don't blameme if anything is missing, that's all."

  He is so self-willed. He is cock-sure that the correct turning is thesecond on the right, and nothing will persuade him that it is the third.He is positive he can get across the road in time, and will not beconvinced until he sees the cart smashed up. Then he is very apologetic,it is true. But of what use is that? As he is usually of the size andstrength of a young bull, and his human companion is generally a weak-kneed old man or woman, or a small child, he has his way. The greatestpunishment his proprietor can inflict upon him is to leave him at home,and take the cart out alone. But your German is too kind-hearted to dothis often.

  That he is harnessed to the cart for anybody's pleasure but his own it isimpossible to believe; and I am confident that the German peasant plansthe tiny harness and fashions the little cart purely with the hope ofgratifying his dog. In other countries--in Belgium, Holland and France--Ihave seen these draught dogs ill-treated and over-worked; but in Germany,never. Germans abuse animals shockingly. I have seen a German stand infront of his horse and call it every name he could lay his tongue to. Butthe horse did not mind it. I have seen a German, weary with abusing hishorse, call to his wife to come out and assist him. When she came, hetold her what the horse had done. The recital roused the woman's temperto almost equal heat with his own; and standing one each side of the poorbeast, they both abused it. They abused its dead mother, they insultedits father; they made cutting remarks about its personal appearance, itsintelligence, its moral sense, its general ability as a horse. Theanimal bore the torrent with exemplary patience for awhile; then it didthe best thing possible to do under the circumstances. Without losingits own temper, it moved quietly away. The lady returned to her washing,and the man followed it up the street, still abusing it.

  A kinder-hearted people than the Germans there is no need for. Crueltyto animal or child is a thing almost unknown in the land. The whip withthem is a musical instrument; its crack is heard from morning to night,but an Italian coachman that in the streets of Dresden I once saw use itwas very nearly lynched by the indignant crowd. Germany is the onlycountry in Europe where the traveller can settle himself comfortably inhis hired carriage, confident that his gentle, willing friend between theshafts will be neither over-worked nor cruelly treated.