CHAPTER XII
We are grieved at the earthly instincts of the German--A superb view, butno restaurant--Continental opinion of the Englishman--That he does notknow enough to come in out of the rain--There comes a weary travellerwith a brick--The hurting of the dog--An undesirable family residence--Afruitful region--A merry old soul comes up the hill--George, alarmed atthe lateness of the hour, hastens down the other side--Harris followshim, to show him the way--I hate being alone, and followHarris--Pronunciation specially designed for use of foreigners.
A thing that vexes much the high-class Anglo-Saxon soul is the earthlyinstinct prompting the German to fix a restaurant at the goal of everyexcursion. On mountain summit, in fairy glen, on lonely pass, bywaterfall or winding stream, stands ever the busy Wirtschaft. How canone rhapsodise over a view when surrounded by beer-stained tables? Howlose one's self in historical reverie amid the odour of roast veal andspinach?
One day, on elevating thoughts intent, we climbed through tangled woods.
"And at the top," said Harris, bitterly, as we paused to breathe a spaceand pull our belts a hole tighter, "there will be a gaudy restaurant,where people will be guzzling beefsteaks and plum tarts and drinkingwhite wine."
"Do you think so?" said George.
"Sure to be," answered Harris; "you know their way. Not one grove willthey consent to dedicate to solitude and contemplation; not one heightwill they leave to the lover of nature unpolluted by the gross and thematerial."
"I calculate," I remarked, "that we shall be there a little before oneo'clock, provided we don't dawdle."
"The 'mittagstisch' will be just ready," groaned Harris, "with possiblysome of those little blue trout they catch about here. In Germany onenever seems able to get away from food and drink. It is maddening!"
We pushed on, and in the beauty of the walk forgot our indignation. Myestimate proved to be correct.
At a quarter to one, said Harris, who was leading:
"Here we are; I can see the summit."
"Any sign of that restaurant?" said George.
"I don't notice it," replied Harris; "but it's there, you may be sure;confound it!"
Five minutes later we stood upon the top. We looked north, south, eastand west; then we looked at one another.
"Grand view, isn't it?" said Harris.
"Magnificent," I agreed.
"Superb," remarked George.
"They have had the good sense for once," said Harris, "to put thatrestaurant out of sight."
"They do seem to have hidden it," said George. "One doesn't mind thething so much when it is not forced under one's nose," said Harris.
"Of course, in its place," I observed, "a restaurant is right enough."
"I should like to know where they have put it," said George.
"Suppose we look for it?" said Harris, with inspiration.
It seemed a good idea. I felt curious myself. We agreed to explore indifferent directions, returning to the summit to report progress. Inhalf an hour we stood together once again. There was no need for words.The face of one and all of us announced plainly that at last we haddiscovered a recess of German nature untarnished by the sordid suggestionof food or drink.
"I should never have believed it possible," said Harris: "would you?"
"I should say," I replied, "that this is the only square quarter of amile in the entire Fatherland unprovided with one."
"And we three strangers have struck it," said George, "without aneffort."
"True," I observed. "By pure good fortune we are now enabled to feastour finer senses undisturbed by appeal to our lower nature. Observe thelight upon those distant peaks; is it not ravishing?"
"Talking of nature," said George, "which should you say was the nearestway down?"
"The road to the left," I replied, after consulting the guide book,"takes us to Sonnensteig--where, by-the-by, I observe the 'GoldenerAdler' is well spoken of--in about two hours. The road to the right,though somewhat longer, commands more extensive prospects."
"One prospect," said Harris, "is very much like another prospect; don'tyou think so?"
"Personally," said George, "I am going by the left-hand road." AndHarris and I went after him.
But we were not to get down so soon as we had anticipated. Storms comequickly in these regions, and before we had walked for quarter of an hourit became a question of seeking shelter or living for the rest of the dayin soaked clothes. We decided on the former alternative, and selected atree that, under ordinary circumstances, should have been ampleprotection. But a Black Forest thunderstorm is not an ordinarycircumstance. We consoled ourselves at first by telling each other thatat such a rate it could not last long. Next, we endeavoured to comfortourselves with the reflection that if it did we should soon be too wet tofear getting wetter.
"As it turned out," said Harris, "I should have been almost glad if therehad been a restaurant up here."
"I see no advantage in being both wet _and_ hungry," said George. "Ishall give it another five minutes, then I am going on."
"These mountain solitudes," I remarked, "are very attractive in fineweather. On a rainy day, especially if you happen to be past the agewhen--"
At this point there hailed us a voice, proceeding from a stout gentleman,who stood some fifty feet away from us under a big umbrella.
"Won't you come inside?" asked the stout gentleman.
"Inside where?" I called back. I thought at first he was one of thosefools that will try to be funny when there is nothing to be funny about.
"Inside the restaurant," he answered.
We left our shelter and made for him. We wished for further informationabout this thing.
"I did call to you from the window," said the stout gentleman, as we drewnear to him, "but I suppose you did not hear me. This storm may last foranother hour; you will get _so_ wet."
He was a kindly old gentleman; he seemed quite anxious about us.
I said: "It is very kind of you to have come out. We are not lunatics.We have not been standing under that tree for the last half-hour knowingall the time there was a restaurant, hidden by the trees, within twentyyards of us. We had no idea we were anywhere near a restaurant."
"I thought maybe you hadn't," said the old gentleman; "that is why Icame."
It appeared that all the people in the inn had been watching us from thewindows also, wondering why we stood there looking miserable. If it hadnot been for this nice old gentleman the fools would have remainedwatching us, I suppose, for the rest of the afternoon. The landlordexcused himself by saying he thought we looked like English. It is nofigure of speech. On the Continent they do sincerely believe that everyEnglishman is mad. They are as convinced of it as is every Englishpeasant that Frenchmen live on frogs. Even when one makes a directpersonal effort to disabuse them of the impression one is not alwayssuccessful.
It was a comfortable little restaurant, where they cooked well, while theTischwein was really most passable. We stopped there for a couple ofhours, and dried ourselves and fed ourselves, and talked about the view;and just before we left an incident occurred that shows how much morestirring in this world are the influences of evil compared with those ofgood.
A traveller entered. He seemed a careworn man. He carried a brick inhis hand, tied to a piece of rope. He entered nervously and hurriedly,closed the door carefully behind him, saw to it that it was fastened,peered out of the window long and earnestly, and then, with a sigh ofrelief, laid his brick upon the bench beside him and called for food anddrink.
There was something mysterious about the whole affair. One wondered whathe was going to do with the brick, why he had closed the door socarefully, why he had looked so anxiously from the window; but his aspectwas too wretched to invite conversation, and we forbore, therefore, toask him questions. As he ate and drank he grew more cheerful, sighedless often. Later he stretched his legs, lit an evil-smelling cigar, andpuffed in calm contentment.
Then it happened
. It happened too suddenly for any detailed explanationof the thing to be possible. I recollect a Fraulein entering the roomfrom the kitchen with a pan in her hand. I saw her cross to the outerdoor. The next moment the whole room was in an uproar. One was remindedof those pantomime transformation scenes where, from among floatingclouds, slow music, waving flowers, and reclining fairies, one issuddenly transported into the midst of shouting policemen tumblingyelling babies, swells fighting pantaloons, sausages and harlequins,buttered slides and clowns. As the Fraulein of the pan touched the doorit flew open, as though all the spirits of sin had been pressed againstit, waiting. Two pigs and a chicken rushed into the room; a cat that hadbeen sleeping on a beer-barrel spluttered into fiery life. The Frauleinthrew her pan into the air and lay down on the floor. The gentleman withthe brick sprang to his feet, upsetting the table before him witheverything upon it.
One looked to see the cause of this disaster: one discovered it at oncein the person of a mongrel terrier with pointed ears and a squirrel'stail. The landlord rushed out from another door, and attempted to kickhim out of the room. Instead, he kicked one of the pigs, the fatter ofthe two. It was a vigorous, well-planted kick, and the pig got the wholeof it; none of it was wasted. One felt sorry for the poor animal; but noamount of sorrow anyone else might feel for him could compare with thesorrow he felt for himself. He stopped running about; he sat down in themiddle of the room, and appealed to the solar system generally to observethis unjust thing that had come upon him. They must have heard hiscomplaint in the valleys round about, and have wondered what upheaval ofnature was taking place among the hills.
As for the hen it scuttled, screaming, every way at once. It was amarvellous bird: it seemed to be able to run up a straight wall quiteeasily; and it and the cat between them fetched down mostly everythingthat was not already on the floor. In less than forty seconds there werenine people in that room, all trying to kick one dog. Possibly, now andagain, one or another may have succeeded, for occasionally the dog wouldstop barking in order to howl. But it did not discourage him. Everythinghas to be paid for, he evidently argued, even a pig and chicken hunt;and, on the whole, the game was worth it.
Besides, he had the satisfaction of observing that, for every kick hereceived, most other living things in the room got two. As for theunfortunate pig--the stationary one, the one that still sat lamenting inthe centre of the room--he must have averaged a steady four. Trying tokick this dog was like playing football with a ball that was neverthere--not when you went to kick it, but after you had started to kickit, and had gone too far to stop yourself, so that the kick had to go onin any case, your only hope being that your foot would find something oranother solid to stop it, and so save you from sitting down on the floornoisily and completely. When anybody did kick the dog it was by pureaccident, when they were not expecting to kick him; and, generallyspeaking, this took them so unawares that, after kicking him, they fellover him. And everybody, every half-minute, would be certain to fallover the pig the sitting pig, the one incapable of getting out ofanybody's way.
How long the scrimmage might have lasted it is impossible to say. It wasended by the judgment of George. For a while he had been seeking tocatch, not the dog but the remaining pig, the one still capable ofactivity. Cornering it at last, he persuaded it to cease running roundand round the room, and instead to take a spin outside. It shot throughthe door with one long wail.
We always desire the thing we have not. One pig, a chicken, nine people,and a cat, were as nothing in that dog's opinion compared with the quarrythat was disappearing. Unwisely, he darted after it, and George closedthe door upon him and shot the bolt.
Then the landlord stood up, and surveyed all the things that were lyingon the floor.
"That's a playful dog of yours," said he to the man who had come in withthe brick.
"He is not my dog," replied the man sullenly.
"Whose dog is it then?" said the landlord.
"I don't know whose dog it is," answered the man.
"That won't do for me, you know," said the landlord, picking up a pictureof the German Emperor, and wiping beer from it with his sleeve.
"I know it won't," replied the man; "I never expected it would. I'mtired of telling people it isn't my dog. They none of them believe me."
"What do you want to go about with him for, if he's not your dog?" saidthe landlord. "What's the attraction about him?"
"I don't go about with him," replied the man; "he goes about with me. Hepicked me up this morning at ten o'clock, and he won't leave me. Ithought I had got rid of him when I came in here. I left him busykilling a duck more than a quarter of an hour away. I'll have to pay forthat, I expect, on my way back."
"Have you tried throwing stones at him?" asked Harris.
"Have I tried throwing stones at him!" replied the man, contemptuously."I've been throwing stones at him till my arm aches with throwing stones;and he thinks it's a game, and brings them back to me. I've beencarrying this beastly brick about with me for over an hour, in the hopeof being able to drown him, but he never comes near enough for me to gethold of him. He just sits six inches out of reach with his mouth open,and looks at me."
"It's the funniest story I've heard for a long while," said the landlord.
"Glad it amuses somebody," said the man.
We left him helping the landlord to pick up the broken things, and wentour way. A dozen yards outside the door the faithful animal was waitingfor his friend. He looked tired, but contented. He was evidently a dogof strange and sudden fancies, and we feared for the moment lest he mighttake a liking to us. But he let us pass with indifference. His loyaltyto this unresponsive man was touching; and we made no attempt toundermine it.
Having completed to our satisfaction the Black Forest, we journeyed onour wheels through Alt Breisach and Colmar to Munster; whence we starteda short exploration of the Vosges range, where, according to the presentGerman Emperor, humanity stops. Of old, Alt Breisach, a rocky fortresswith the river now on one side of it and now on the other--for in itsinexperienced youth the Rhine never seems to have been quite sure of itsway,--must, as a place of residence, have appealed exclusively to thelover of change and excitement. Whoever the war was between, andwhatever it was about, Alt Breisach was bound to be in it. Everybodybesieged it, most people captured it; the majority of them lost it again;nobody seemed able to keep it. Whom he belonged to, and what he was, thedweller in Alt Breisach could never have been quite sure. One day hewould be a Frenchman, and then before he could learn enough French to payhis taxes he would be an Austrian. While trying to discover what you didin order to be a good Austrian, he would find he was no longer anAustrian, but a German, though what particular German out of the dozenmust always have been doubtful to him. One day he would discover that hewas a Catholic, the next an ardent Protestant. The only thing that couldhave given any stability to his existence must have been the monotonousnecessity of paying heavily for the privilege of being whatever for themoment he was. But when one begins to think of these things one findsoneself wondering why anybody in the Middle Ages, except kings and taxcollectors, ever took the trouble to live at all.
For variety and beauty, the Vosges will not compare with the hills of theSchwarzwald. The advantage about them from the tourist's point of viewis their superior poverty. The Vosges peasant has not the unromantic airof contented prosperity that spoils his _vis-a-vis_ across the Rhine. Thevillages and farms possess more the charm of decay. Another pointwherein the Vosges district excels is its ruins. Many of its numerouscastles are perched where you might think only eagles would care tobuild. In others, commenced by the Romans and finished by theTroubadours, covering acres with the maze of their still standing walls,one may wander for hours.
The fruiterer and greengrocer is a person unknown in the Vosges. Mostthings of that kind grow wild, and are to be had for the picking. It isdifficult to keep to any programme when walking through the Vosges, thetemptation on
a hot day to stop and eat fruit generally being too strongfor resistance. Raspberries, the most delicious I have ever tasted, wildstrawberries, currants, and gooseberries, grow upon the hill-sides asblack-berries by English lanes. The Vosges small boy is not called uponto rob an orchard; he can make himself ill without sin. Orchards existin the Vosges mountains in plenty; but to trespass into one for thepurpose of stealing fruit would be as foolish as for a fish to try andget into a swimming bath without paying. Still, of course, mistakes dooccur.
One afternoon in the course of a climb we emerged upon a plateau, wherewe lingered perhaps too long, eating more fruit than may have been goodfor us; it was so plentiful around us, so varied. We commenced with afew late strawberries, and from those we passed to raspberries. ThenHarris found a greengage-tree with some early fruit upon it, justperfect.
"This is about the best thing we have struck," said George; "we hadbetter make the most of this." Which was good advice, on the face of it.
"It is a pity," said Harris, "that the pears are still so hard."
He grieved about this for a while, but later on came across someremarkably fine yellow plums and these consoled him somewhat.
"I suppose we are still a bit too far north for pineapples," said George."I feel I could just enjoy a fresh pineapple. This commonplace fruitpalls upon one after a while."
"Too much bush fruit and not enough tree, is the fault I find," saidHarris. "Myself, I should have liked a few more greengages."
"Here is a man coming up the hill," I observed, "who looks like a native.Maybe, he will know where we can find some more greengages."
"He walks well for an old chap," remarked Harris.
He certainly was climbing the hill at a remarkable pace. Also, so far aswe were able to judge at that distance, he appeared to be in a remarkablycheerful mood, singing and shouting at the top of his voice,gesticulating, and waving his arms.
"What a merry old soul it is," said Harris; "it does one good to watchhim. But why does he carry his stick over his shoulder? Why doesn't heuse it to help him up the hill?"
"Do you know, I don't think it is a stick," said George.
"What can it be, then?" asked Harris.
"Well, it looks to me," said George, "more like a gun."
"You don't think we can have made a mistake?" suggested Harris. "Youdon't think this can be anything in the nature of a private orchard?"
I said: "Do you remember the sad thing that happened in the South ofFrance some two years ago? A soldier picked some cherries as he passed ahouse, and the French peasant to whom the cherries belonged came out, andwithout a word of warning shot him dead."
"But surely you are not allowed to shoot a man dead for picking fruit,even in France?" said George.
"Of course not," I answered. "It was quite illegal. The only excuseoffered by his counsel was that he was of a highly excitable disposition,and especially keen about these particular cherries."
"I recollect something about the case," said Harris, "now you mention it.I believe the district in which it happened--the 'Commune,' as I think itis called--had to pay heavy compensation to the relatives of the deceasedsoldier; which was only fair."
George said: "I am tired of this place. Besides, it's getting late."
Harris said: "If he goes at that rate he will fall and hurt himself.Besides, I don't believe he knows the way."
I felt lonesome up there all by myself, with nobody to speak to. Besides,not since I was a boy, I reflected, had I enjoyed a run down a reallysteep hill. I thought I would see if I could revive the sensation. Itis a jerky exercise, but good, I should say, for the liver.
We slept that night at Barr, a pleasant little town on the way to St.Ottilienberg, an interesting old convent among the mountains, where youare waited upon by real nuns, and your bill made out by a priest. AtBarr, just before supper a tourist entered. He looked English, but spokea language the like of which I have never heard before. Yet it was anelegant and fine-sounding language. The landlord stared at him blankly;the landlady shook her head. He sighed, and tried another, which somehowrecalled to me forgotten memories, though, at the time, I could not fixit. But again nobody understood him.
"This is damnable," he said aloud to himself.
"Ah, you are English!" exclaimed the landlord, brightening up.
"And Monsieur looks tired," added the bright little landlady. "Monsieurwill have supper."
They both spoke English excellently, nearly as well as they spoke Frenchand German; and they bustled about and made him comfortable. At supperhe sat next to me, and I talked to him.
"Tell me," I said--I was curious on the subject--"what language was ityou spoke when you first came in?"
"German," he explained.
"Oh," I replied, "I beg your pardon."
"You did not understand it?" he continued.
"It must have been my fault," I answered; "my knowledge is extremelylimited. One picks up a little here and there as one goes about, but ofcourse that is a different thing."
"But _they_ did not understand it," he replied, "the landlord and hiswife; and it is their own language."
"I do not think so," I said. "The children hereabout speak German, it istrue, and our landlord and landlady know German to a certain point. Butthroughout Alsace and Lorraine the old people still talk French."
"And I spoke to them in French also," he added, "and they understood thatno better."
"It is certainly very curious," I agreed.
"It is more than curious," he replied; "in my case it isincomprehensible. I possess a diploma for modern languages. I won myscholarship purely on the strength of my French and German. Thecorrectness of my construction, the purity of my pronunciation, wasconsidered at my college to be quite remarkable. Yet, when I come abroadhardly anybody understands a word I say. Can you explain it?"
"I think I can," I replied. "Your pronunciation is too faultless. Youremember what the Scotsman said when for the first time in his life hetasted real whisky: 'It may be puir, but I canna drink it'; so it is withyour German. It strikes one less as a language than as an exhibition. IfI might offer advice, I should say: Mispronounce as much as possible, andthrow in as many mistakes as you can think of."
It is the same everywhere. Each country keeps a special pronunciationexclusively for the use of foreigners--a pronunciation they never dreamof using themselves, that they cannot understand when it is used. I onceheard an English lady explaining to a Frenchman how to pronounce the wordHave.
"You will pronounce it," said the lady reproachfully, "as if it werespelt H-a-v. It isn't. There is an 'e' at the end."
"But I thought," said the pupil, "that you did not sound the 'e' at theend of h-a-v-e."
"No more you do," explained his teacher. "It is what we call a mute 'e';but it exercises a modifying influence on the preceding vowel."
Before that, he used to say "have" quite intelligently. Afterwards, whenhe came to the word he would stop dead, collect his thoughts, and giveexpression to a sound that only the context could explain.
Putting aside the sufferings of the early martyrs, few men, I suppose,have gone through more than I myself went through in trying to I attainthe correct pronunciation of the German word for church--"Kirche." Longbefore I had done with it I had determined never to go to church inGermany, rather than be bothered with it.
"No, no," my teacher would explain--he was a painstaking gentleman; "yousay it as if it were spelt K-i-r-c-h-k-e. There is no k. It is--." Andhe would illustrate to me again, for the twentieth time that morning, howit should be pronounced; the sad thing being that I could never for thelife of me detect any difference between the way he said it and the way Isaid it. So he would try a new method.
"You say it from your throat," he would explain. He was quite right; Idid. "I want you to say it from down here," and with a fat forefinger hewould indicate the region from where I was to start. After painfulefforts, resulting in sounds suggestive of anythin
g rather than a placeof worship, I would excuse myself.
"I really fear it is impossible," I would say. "You see, for years Ihave always talked with my mouth, as it were; I never knew a man couldtalk with his stomach. I doubt if it is not too late now for me tolearn."
By spending hours in dark corners, and practising in silent streets, tothe terror of chance passers-by, I came at last to pronounce this wordcorrectly. My teacher was delighted with me, and until I came to GermanyI was pleased with myself. In Germany I found that nobody understoodwhat I meant by it. I never got near a church with it. I had to dropthe correct pronunciation, and painstakingly go back to my first wrongpronunciation. Then they would brighten up, and tell me it was round thecorner, or down the next street, as the case might be.
I also think pronunciation of a foreign tongue could be better taughtthan by demanding from the pupil those internal acrobatic feats that aregenerally impossible and always useless. This is the sort of instructionone receives:
"Press your tonsils against the underside of your larynx. Then with theconvex part of the septum curved upwards so as almost--but not quite--totouch the uvula, try with the tip of your tongue to reach your thyroid.Take a deep breath, and compress your glottis. Now, without opening yourlips, say 'Garoo.'"
And when you have done it they are not satisfied.