At a point between Berlin and Dresden, George, who had, for the last quarter of an hour or so, been looking very attentively2 out of the window, said:
“Why, in Germany, is it the custom to put the letter-box up a tree? Why do they not fix it to the front door as we do? I should hate having to climb up a tree to get my letters. Besides, it is not fair to the postman. In addition to being most exhausting, the delivery of letters must to a heavy man, on windy nights, be positively3 dangerous work. If they will fix it to a tree, why not fix it lower down, why always among the topmost branches? But, maybe, I am misjudging the country,” he continued, a new idea occurring to him. “Possibly the Germans, who are in many matters ahead of us, have perfected a pigeon post. Even so, I cannot help thinking they would have been wiser to train the birds, while they were about it, to deliver the letters nearer the ground. Getting your letters out of those boxes must be tricky4 work even to the average middle-aged5 German.”
I followed his gaze out of window. I said:
“Those are not letter-boxes, they are birds’ nests. You must understand this nation. The German loves birds, but he likes tidy birds. A bird left to himself builds his nest just anywhere. It is not a pretty object, according to the German notion of prettiness. There is not a bit of paint on it anywhere, not a plaster image all round, not even a flag. The nest finished, the bird proceeds to live outside it. He drops things on the grass; twigs6, ends of worms, all sorts of things. He is indelicate. He makes love, quarrels with his wife, and feeds the children quite in public. The German householder is shocked. He says to the bird:
“‘For many things I like you. I like to look at you. I like to hear you sing. But I don’t like your ways. Take this little box, and put your rubbish inside where I can’t see it. Come out when you want to sing; but let your domestic arrangements be confined to the interior. Keep to the box, and don’t make the garden untidy.’”
In Germany one breathes in love of order with the air, in Germany the babies beat time with their rattles7, and the German bird has come to prefer the box, and to regard with contempt the few uncivilised outcasts who continue to build their nests in trees and hedges. In course of time every German bird, one is confident, will have his proper place in a full chorus. This promiscuous8 and desultory9 warbling of his must, one feels, be irritating to the precise German mind; there is no method in it. The music-loving German will organise10 him. Some stout11 bird with a specially12 well-developed crop will be trained to conduct him, and, instead of wasting himself in a wood at four o’clock in the morning, he will, at the advertised time, sing in a beer garden, accompanied by a piano. Things are drifting that way.
Your German likes nature, but his idea of nature is a glorified13 Welsh Harp14. He takes great interest in his garden. He plants seven rose trees on the north side and seven on the south, and if they do not grow up all the same size and shape it worries him so that he cannot sleep of nights. Every flower he ties to a stick. This interferes15 with his view of the flower, but he has the satisfaction of knowing it is there, and that it is behaving itself. The lake is lined with zinc16, and once a week he takes it up, carries it into the kitchen, and scours17 it. In the geometrical centre of the grass plot, which is sometimes as large as a tablecloth18 and is generally railed round, he places a china dog. The Germans are very fond of dogs, but as a rule they prefer them of china. The china dog never digs holes in the lawn to bury bones, and never scatters19 a flower-bed to the winds with his hind20 legs. From the German point of view, he is the ideal dog. He stops where you put him, and he is never where you do not want him. You can have him perfect in all points, according to the latest requirements of the Kennel21 Club; or you can indulge your own fancy and have something unique. You are not, as with other dogs, limited to breed. In china, you can have a blue dog or a pink dog. For a little extra, you can have a double-headed dog.
On a certain fixed22 date in the autumn the German stakes his flowers and bushes to the earth, and covers them with Chinese matting; and on a certain fixed date in the spring he uncovers them, and stands them up again. If it happens to be an exceptionally fine autumn, or an exceptionally late spring, so much the worse for the unfortunate vegetable. No true German would allow his arrangements to be interfered23 with by so unruly a thing as the solar system. Unable to regulate the weather, he ignores it.
Among trees, your German’s favourite is the poplar. Other disorderly nations may sing the charms of the rugged24 oak, the spreading chestnut25, or the waving elm. To the German all such, with their wilful26, untidy ways, are eyesores. The poplar grows where it is planted, and how it is planted. It has no improper27 rugged ideas of its own. It does not want to wave or to spread itself. It just grows straight and upright as a German tree should grow; and so gradually the German is rooting out all other trees, and replacing them with poplars.
Your German likes the country, but he prefers it as the lady thought she would the noble savage28—more dressed. He likes his walk through the wood—to a restaurant. But the pathway must not be too steep, it must have a brick gutter29 running down one side of it to drain it, and every twenty yards or so it must have its seat on which he can rest and mop his brow; for your German would no more think of sitting on the grass than would an English bishop30 dream of rolling down One Tree Hill. He likes his view from the summit of the hill, but he likes to find there a stone tablet telling him what to look at, find a table and bench at which he can sit to partake of the frugal31 beer and “belegte Semmel” he has been careful to bring with him. If, in addition, he can find a police notice posted on a tree, forbidding him to do something or other, that gives him an extra sense of comfort and security.
Your German is not averse32 even to wild scenery, provided it be not too wild. But if he consider it too savage, he sets to work to tame it. I remember, in the neighbourhood of Dresden, discovering a picturesque33 and narrow valley leading down towards the Elbe. The winding34 roadway ran beside a mountain torrent35, which for a mile or so fretted36 and foamed37 over rocks and boulders38 between wood-covered banks. I followed it enchanted39 until, turning a corner, I suddenly came across a gang of eighty or a hundred workmen. They were busy tidying up that valley, and making that stream respectable. All the stones that were impeding40 the course of the water they were carefully picking out and carting away. The bank on either side they were bricking up and cementing. The overhanging trees and bushes, the tangled41 vines and creepers they were rooting up and trimming down. A little further I came upon the finished work—the mountain valley as it ought to be, according to German ideas. The water, now a broad, sluggish42 stream, flowed over a level, gravelly bed, between two walls crowned with stone coping. At every hundred yards it gently descended43 down three shallow wooden platforms. For a space on either side the ground had been cleared, and at regular intervals44 young poplars planted. Each sapling was protected by a shield of wickerwork and bossed by an iron rod. In the course of a couple of years it is the hope of the local council to have “finished” that valley throughout its entire length, and made it fit for a tidy-minded lover of German nature to walk in. There will be a seat every fifty yards, a police notice every hundred, and a restaurant every half-mile.
They are doing the same from the Memel to the Rhine. They are just tidying up the country. I remember well the Wehrthal. It was once the most romantic ravine to be found in the Black Forest. The last time I walked down it some hundreds of Italian workmen were encamped there hard at work, training the wild little Wehr the way it should go, bricking the banks for it here, blasting the rocks for it there, making cement steps for it down which it can travel soberly and without fuss.
For in Germany there is no nonsense talked about untrammelled nature. In Germany nature has got to behave herself, and not set a bad example to the children. A German poet, noticing waters coming down as Southey describes, somewhat inexactly, the waters coming down at Lodore, would be too shocked to stop and write alliterative verse about them. He would hurry away, and at once report them to the police. Then their foaming46 and their shrieking47 would be of short duration.
“Now then, now then, what’s all this about?” the voice of German authority would say severely48 to the waters. “We can’t have this sort of thing, you know. Come down quietly, can’t you? Where do you think you are?”
And the local German council would provide those waters with zinc pipes and wooden troughs, and a corkscrew staircase, and show them how to come down sensibly, in the German manner.
It is a tidy land is Germany.
We reached Dresden on the Wednesday evening, and stayed there over the Sunday.
Taking one consideration with another, Dresden, perhaps, is the most attractive town in Germany; but it is a place to be lived in for a while rather than visited. Its museums and galleries, its palaces and gardens, its beautiful and historically rich environment, provide pleasure for a winter, but bewilder for a week. It has not the gaiety of Paris or Vienna, which quickly palls49; its charms are more solidly German, and more lasting45. It is the Mecca of the musician. For five shillings, in Dresden, you can purchase a stall at the opera house, together, unfortunately, with a strong disinclination ever again to take the trouble of sitting out a performance in any English, French, or, American opera house.
The chief scandal of Dresden still centres round August the Strong, “the Man of Sin,” as Carlyle always called him, who is popularly reputed to have cursed Europe with over a thousand children. Castles where he imprisoned50 this discarded mistress or that—one of them, who persisted in her claim to a better title, for forty years, it is said, poor lady! The narrow rooms where she ate her heart out and died are still shown. Chateaux, shameful51 for this deed of infamy52 or that, lie scattered53 round the neighbourhood like bones about a battlefield; and most of your guide’s stories are such as the “young person” educated in Germany had best not hear. His life-sized portrait hangs in the fine Zwinger, which he built as an arena54 for his wild beast fights when the people grew tired of them in the market-place; a beetle-browed, frankly55 animal man, but with the culture and taste that so often wait upon animalism. Modern Dresden undoubtedly56 owes much to him.
But what the stranger in Dresden stares at most is, perhaps, its electric trams. These huge vehicles flash through the streets at from ten to twenty miles an hour, taking curves and corners after the manner of an Irish car driver. Everybody travels by them, excepting only officers in uniform, who must not. Ladies in evening dress, going to ball or opera, porters with their baskets, sit side by side. They are all-important in the streets, and everything and everybody makes haste to get out of their way. If you do not get out of their way, and you still happen to be alive when picked up, then on your recovery you are fined for having been in their way. This teaches you to be wary57 of them.
One afternoon Harris took a “bummel” by himself. In the evening, as we sat listening to the band at the Belvedere, Harris said, à propos of nothing in particular, “These Germans have no sense of humour.”
“What makes you think that?” I asked.
“Why, this afternoon,” he answered, “I jumped on one of those electric tramcars. I wanted to see the town, so I stood outside on the little platform—what do you call it?”
“The Stehplatz,” I suggested.
“That’s it,” said Harris. “Well, you know the way they shake you about, and how you have to look out for the corners, and mind yourself when they stop and when they start?”
I nodded.
“There were about half a dozen of us standing58 there,” he continued, “and, of course, I am not experienced. The thing started suddenly, and that jerked me backwards59. I fell against a stout gentleman, just behind me. He could not have been standing very firmly himself, and he, in his turn, fell back against a boy who was carrying a trumpet60 in a green baize case. They never smiled, neither the man nor the boy with the trumpet; they just stood there and looked sulky. I was going to say I was sorry, but before I could get the words out the tram eased up, for some reason or other, and that, of course, shot me forward again, and I butted61 into a white-haired old chap, who looked to me like a professor. Well, he never smiled, never moved a muscle.”
“Maybe, he was thinking of something else,” I suggested.
“That could not have been the case with them all,” replied Harris, “and in the course of that journey, I must have fallen against every one of them at least three times. You see,” explained Harris, “they knew when the corners were coming, and in which direction to brace62 themselves. I, as a stranger, was naturally at a disadvantage. The way I rolled and staggered about that platform, clutching wildly now at this man and now at that, must have been really comic. I don’t say it was high-class humour, but it would have amused most people. Those Germans seemed to see no fun in it whatever—just seemed anxious, that was all. There was one man, a little man, who stood with his back against the brake; I fell against him five times, I counted them. You would have expected the fifth time would have dragged a laugh out of him, but it didn’t; he merely looked tired. They are a dull lot.”
George also had an adventure at Dresden. There was a shop near the Altmarkt, in the window of which were exhibited some cushions for sale. The proper business of the shop was handling of glass and china; the cushions appeared to be in the nature of an experiment. They were very beautiful cushions, hand-embroidered on satin. We often passed the shop, and every time George paused and examined those cushions. He said he thought his aunt would like one.
George has been very attentive1 to this aunt of his during the journey. He has written her quite a long letter every day, and from every town we stop at he sends her off a present. To my mind, he is overdoing63 the business, and more than once I have expostulated with him. His aunt will be meeting other aunts, and talking to them; the whole class will become disorganised and unruly. As a nephew, I object to the impossible standard that George is setting up. But he will not listen.
Therefore it was that on the Saturday he left us after lunch, saying he would go round to that shop and get one of those cushions for his aunt. He said he would not be long, and suggested our waiting for him.
We waited for what seemed to me rather a long time. When he rejoined us he was empty handed, and looked worried. We asked him where his cushion was. He said he hadn’t got a cushion, said he had changed his mind, said he didn’t think his aunt would care for a cushion. Evidently something was amiss. We tried to get at the bottom of it, but he was not communicative. Indeed, his answers after our twentieth question or thereabouts became quite short.
In the evening, however, when he and I happened to be alone, he broached64 the subject himself. He said:
I said: “What has happened?”
“Well,” he answered, “there was that cushion I wanted.”
“For your aunt,” I remarked.
“Why not?” he returned. He was huffy in a moment; I never knew a man so touchy66 about an aunt. “Why shouldn’t I send a cushion to my aunt?”
“Don’t get excited,” I replied. “I am not objecting; I respect you for it.”
He recovered his temper, and went on:
“There were four in the window, if you remember, all very much alike, and each one labelled in plain figures twenty marks. I don’t pretend to speak German fluently, but I can generally make myself understood with a little effort, and gather the sense of what is said to me, provided they don’t gabble. I went into the shop. A young girl came up to me; she was a pretty, quiet little soul, one might almost say, demure67; not at all the sort of girl from whom you would have expected such a thing. I was never more surprised in all my life.”
“Surprised about what?” I said.
George always assumes you know the end of the story while he is telling you the beginning; it is an annoying method.
“At what happened,” replied George; “at what I am telling you. She smiled and asked me what I wanted. I understood that all right; there could have been no mistake about that. I put down a twenty mark piece on the counter and said:
“Please give me a cushion.”
“She stared at me as if I had asked for a feather bed. I thought, maybe, she had not heard, so I repeated it louder. If I had chucked her under the chin she could not have looked more surprised or indignant.
“She said she thought I must be making a mistake.
“I did not want to begin a long conversation and find myself stranded68. I said there was no mistake. I pointed69 to my twenty mark piece, and repeated for the third time that I wanted a cushion, ‘a twenty mark cushion.’
“Another girl came up, an elder girl; and the first girl repeated to her what I had just said: she seemed quite excited about it. The second girl did not believe her—did not think I looked the sort of man who would want a cushion. To make sure, she put the question to me herself.
“‘Did you say you wanted a cushion?’ she asked.
“‘I have said it three times,’ I answered. ‘I will say it again—I want a cushion.’
“She said: ‘Then you can’t have one.’
“I was getting angry by this time. If I hadn’t really wanted the thing I should have walked out of the shop; but there the cushions were in the window, evidently for sale. I didn’t see why I couldn’t have one.
“I said: ‘I will have one!’ It is a simple sentence. I said it with determination.
“A third girl came up at this point, the three representing, I fancy, the whole force of the shop. She was a bright-eyed, saucy-looking little wench, this last one. On any other occasion I might have been pleased to see her; now, her coming only irritated me. I didn’t see the need of three girls for this business.
“The first two girls started explaining the thing to the third girl, and before they were half-way through the third girl began to giggle70—she was the sort of girl who would giggle at anything. That done, they fell to chattering71 like Jenny Wrens72, all three together; and between every half-dozen words they looked across at me; and the more they looked at me the more the third girl giggled73; and before they had finished they were all three giggling74, the little idiots; you might have thought I was a clown, giving a private performance.
“When she was steady enough to move, the third girl came up to me; she was still giggling. She said:
“‘If you get it, will you go?’
“I did not quite understand her at first, and she repeated it.
“‘This cushion. When you’ve got it, will you go—away—at once?’
“I was only too anxious to go. I told her so. But, I added I was not going without it. I had made up my mind to have that cushion now if I stopped in the shop all night for it.
“She rejoined the other two girls. I thought they were going to get me the cushion and have done with the business. Instead of that, the strangest thing possible happened. The two other girls got behind the first girl, all three still giggling, Heaven knows what about, and pushed her towards me. They pushed her close up to me, and then, before I knew what was happening, she put her hands on my shoulders, stood up on tiptoe, and kissed me. After which, burying her face in her apron75, she ran off, followed by the second girl. The third girl opened the door for me, and so evidently expected me to go, that in my confusion I went, leaving my twenty marks behind me. I don’t say I minded the kiss, though I did not particularly want it, while I did want the cushion. I don’t like to go back to the shop. I cannot understand the thing at all.”
I said: “What did you ask for?”
He said: “A cushion”
I said: “That is what you wanted, I know. What I mean is, what was the actual German word you said.”
He replied: “A kuss.”
I said: “You have nothing to complain of. It is somewhat confusing. A ‘kuss’ sounds as if it ought to be a cushion, but it is not; it is a kiss, while a ‘kissen’ is a cushion. You muddled76 up the two words—people have done it before. I don’t know much about this sort of thing myself; but you asked for a twenty mark kiss, and from your description of the girl some people might consider the price reasonable. Anyhow, I should not tell Harris. If I remember rightly, he also has an aunt.”
George agreed with me it would be better not.
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1
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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tricky
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| adj.狡猾的，奸诈的；(工作等)棘手的，微妙的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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7
rattles
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| （使）发出格格的响声， （使）作嘎嘎声( rattle的第三人称单数 )； 喋喋不休地说话； 迅速而嘎嘎作响地移动，堕下或走动； 使紧张，使恐惧 | |
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promiscuous
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| adj.杂乱的，随便的 | |
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desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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organise
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| vt.组织，安排，筹办 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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interferes
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| vi. 妨碍，冲突，干涉 | |
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zinc
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| n.锌；vt.在...上镀锌 | |
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scours
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| 走遍（某地）搜寻（人或物）( scour的第三人称单数 )； （用力）刷； 擦净； 擦亮 | |
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tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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scatters
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| v.（使）散开， （使）分散，驱散( scatter的第三人称单数 )；撒 | |
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hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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kennel
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| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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foamed
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| 泡沫的 | |
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boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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impeding
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| a.(尤指坏事)即将发生的，临近的 | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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42
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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44
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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45
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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46
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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47
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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48
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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49
palls
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| n.柩衣( pall的名词复数 )；墓衣；棺罩；深色或厚重的覆盖物v.（因过多或过久而）生厌，感到乏味，厌烦( pall的第三人称单数 ) | |
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50
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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butted
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| 对接的 | |
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brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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overdoing
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| v.做得过分( overdo的现在分词 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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touchy
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| adj.易怒的；棘手的 | |
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demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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wrens
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| n.鹪鹩( wren的名词复数 ) | |
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giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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