At Munich we left our luggage at the station, and went in search of breakfast. Of course, at eight o’clock in the morning none of the big cafés were open; but at length, beside some gardens, we found an old-fashioned looking restaurant, from which came a pleasant odour of coffee and hot onions; and walking through and seating ourselves at one of the little tables, placed out under the trees, we took the bill of fare in our hands, and summoned the waiter to our side.
I ordered the breakfast. I thought it would be a good opportunity for me to try my German. I ordered coffee and rolls as a groundwork. I got over that part of my task very easily. With the practice I had had during the last two days, I could have ordered coffee and rolls for forty. Then I foraged2 round for luxuries, and ordered a green salad. I had some difficulty at first in convincing the man that it was not a boiled cabbage that I wanted, but succeeded eventually in getting that silly notion out of his head.
I still had a little German left, even after that. So I ordered an omelette also.
“Tell him a savoury one,” said B., “or he will be bringing us something full of hot jam and chocolate-creams. You know their style.”
“Oh, yes,” I answered. “Of course. Yes. Let me see. What is the German for savoury?”
I could not think of it either. As a matter of fact, I never knew it. We tried the man with French. We said:
“Une omelette aux fines herbes.”
As he did not appear to understand that, we gave it him in bad English. We twisted and turned the unfortunate word “savoury” into sounds so quaint4, so sad, so unearthly, that you would have thought they might have touched the heart of a savage5. This stoical Teuton, however, remained unmoved. Then we tried pantomime.
Pantomime is to language what marmalade, according to the label on the pot, is to butter, “an excellent (occasional) substitute.” But its powers as an interpreter of thought are limited. At least, in real life they are so. As regards a ballet, it is difficult to say what is not explainable by pantomime. I have seen the bad man in a ballet convey to the première danseuse by a subtle movement of the left leg, together with some slight assistance from the drum, the heartrending intelligence that the lady she had been brought up to believe was her mother was in reality only her aunt by marriage. But then it must be borne in mind that the première danseuse is a lady whose quickness of perception is altogether unique. The première danseuse knows precisely6 what a gentleman means when he twirls round forty-seven times on one leg, and then stands on his head. The average foreigner would, in all probability, completely misunderstand the man.
A friend of mine once, during a tour in the Pyrenees, tried to express gratitude7 by means of pantomime. He arrived late one evening at a little mountain inn, where the people made him very welcome, and set before him their best; and he, being hungry, appreciated their kindness, and ate a most excellent supper.
Indeed, so excellent a meal did he make, and so kind and attentive8 were his hosts to him, that, after supper, he felt he wanted to thank them, and to convey to them some idea of how pleased and satisfied he was.
He could not explain himself in language. He only knew enough Spanish to just ask for what he wanted—and even to do that he had to be careful not to want much. He had not got as far as sentiment and emotion at that time. Accordingly he started to express himself in action. He stood up and pointed9 to the empty table where the supper had been, then opened his mouth and pointed down his throat. Then he patted that region of his anatomy10 where, so scientific people tell us, supper goes to, and smiled.
He has a rather curious smile, has my friend. He himself is under the impression that there is something very winning in it, though, also, as he admits, a touch of sadness. They use it in his family for keeping the children in order.
The people of the inn seemed rather astonished at his behaviour. They regarded him, with troubled looks, and then gathered together among themselves and consulted in whispers.
“I evidently have not made myself sufficiently11 clear to these simple peasants,” said my friend to himself. “I must put more vigour12 into this show.”
Accordingly he rubbed and patted that part of himself to which I have previously13 alluded—and which, being a modest and properly brought-up young man, nothing on earth shall induce me to mention more explicitly—with greater energy than ever, and added another inch or two of smile; and he also made various graceful14 movements indicative, as he thought, of friendly feeling and contentment.
At length a ray of intelligence burst upon the faces of his hosts, and they rushed to a cupboard and brought out a small black bottle.
“Ah! that’s done it,” thought my friend. “Now they have grasped my meaning. And they are pleased that I am pleased, and are going to insist on my drinking a final friendly bumper15 of wine with them, the good old souls!”
They brought the bottle over, and poured out a wineglassful, and handed it to him, making signs that he should drink it off quickly.
“Ah!” said my friend to himself, as he took the glass and raised it to the light, and winked16 at it wickedly, “this is some rare old spirit peculiar17 to the district—some old heirloom kept specially18 for the favoured guest.”
And he held the glass aloft and made a speech, in which he wished long life and many grand-children to the old couple, and a handsome husband to the daughter, and prosperity to the whole village. They could not understand him, he knew; but he thought there might be that in his tones and gestures from which they would gather the sense of what he was saying, and understand how kindly19 he felt towards them all. When he had finished, he put his hand upon his heart and smiled some more, and then tossed the liquor off at a gulp20.
Three seconds later he discovered that it was a stringent21 and trustworthy emetic22 that he had swallowed. His audience had mistaken his signs of gratitude for efforts on his part to explain to them that he was poisoned, or, at all events, was suffering from acute and agonising indigestion, and had done what they could to comfort him.
The drug that they had given him was not one of those common, cheap medicines that lose their effect before they have been in the system half-an-hour. He felt that it would be useless to begin another supper then, even if he could get one, and so he went to bed a good deal hungrier and a good deal less refreshed than when he arrived at the inn.
Gratitude is undoubtedly24 a thing that should not be attempted by the amateur pantomimist.
“Savoury” is another. B. and I very nearly did ourselves a serious internal injury, trying to express it. We slaved like cab-horses at it—for about five minutes, and succeeded in conveying to the mind of the waiter that we wanted to have a game at dominoes.
Then, like a beam of sunlight to a man lost in some dark, winding25 cave, came to me the reflection that I had in my pocket a German conversation book.
How stupid of me not to have thought of it before. Here had we been racking our brains and our bodies, trying to explain our wants to an uneducated German, while, all the time, there lay to our hands a book specially written and prepared to assist people out of the very difficulty into which we had fallen—a book carefully compiled with the express object of enabling English travellers who, like ourselves, only spoke26 German in a dilettante27 fashion, to make their modest requirements known throughout the Fatherland, and to get out of the country alive and uninjured.
I hastily snatched the book from my pocket, and commenced to search for dialogues dealing28 with the great food question. There were none!
There were lengthy29 and passionate30 “Conversations with a laundress” about articles that I blush to remember. Some twenty pages of the volume were devoted31 to silly dialogues between an extraordinarily32 patient shoemaker and one of the most irritating and constitutionally dissatisfied customers that an unfortunate shop-keeper could possibly be cursed with; a customer who, after twaddling for about forty minutes, and trying on, apparently33, every pair of boots in the place, calmly walks out with:
“Ah! well, I shall not purchase anything to-day. Good-morning!”
The shopkeeper’s reply, by-the-by, is not given. It probably took the form of a boot-jack, accompanied by phrases deemed useless for the purposes of the Christian34 tourist.
There was really something remarkable35 about the exhaustiveness of this “conversation at the shoemaker’s.” I should think the book must have been written by someone who suffered from corns. I could have gone to a German shoemaker with this book and have talked the man’s head off.
Then there were two pages of watery36 chatter37 “on meeting a friend in the street”—“Good-morning, sir (or madam).” “I wish you a merry Christmas.” “How is your mother?” As if a man who hardly knew enough German to keep body and soul together, would want to go about asking after the health of a foreign person’s mother.
There were also “conversations in the railway carriage,” conversations between travelling lunatics, apparently, and dialogues “during the passage.” “How do you feel now?” “Pretty well as yet; but I cannot say how long it will last.” “Oh, what waves! I now feel very unwell and shall go below. Ask for a basin for me.” Imagine a person who felt like that wanting to know the German for it.
At the end of the book were German proverbs and “Idiomatic Phrases,” by which latter would appear to be meant in all languages, “phrases for the use of idiots”:—“A sparrow in the hand is better than a pigeon on the roof.”—“Time brings roses.”—“The eagle does not catch flies.”—“One should not buy a cat in a sack,”—as if there were a large class of consumers who habitually38 did purchase their cats in that way, thus enabling unscrupulous dealers39 to palm off upon them an inferior cat, and whom it was accordingly necessary to advise against the custom.
I skimmed through all this nonsense, but not a word could I discover anywhere about a savoury omelette. Under the head of “Eating and Drinking,” I found a short vocabulary; but it was mainly concerned with “raspberries” and “figs” and “medlars” (whatever they may be; I never heard of them myself), and “chestnuts,” and such like things that a man hardly ever wants, even when he is in his own country. There was plenty of oil and vinegar, and pepper and salt and mustard in the list, but nothing to put them on. I could have had a hard-boiled egg, or a slice of ham; but I did not want a hard-boiled egg, or a slice of ham. I wanted a savoury omelette; and that was an article of diet that the authors of this “Handy Little Guide,” as they termed it in their preface, had evidently never heard of.
Since my return home, I have, out of curiosity, obtained three or four “English-German Dialogues” and “Conversation Books,” intended to assist the English traveller in his efforts to make himself understood by the German people, and I have come to the conclusion that the work I took out with me was the most sensible and practical of the lot.
Finding it utterly40 hopeless to explain ourselves to the waiter, we let the thing go, and trusted to Providence41; and in about ten minutes the man brought us a steaming omelette, with about a pound of strawberry jam inside, and powdered sugar all over the outside. We put a deal of pepper and salt on it to try and counteract42 the flavour of the sweets, but we did not really enjoy it even then.
After breakfast we got a time-table, and looked out for a train to Ober-Ammergau. I found one which started at 3.10. It seemed a very nice train indeed; it did not stop anywhere. The railway authorities themselves were evidently very proud of it, and had printed particulars of it in extra thick type. We decided43 to patronise it.
To pass away the time, we strolled about the city. Munich is a fine, handsome, open town, full of noble streets and splendid buildings; but in spite of this and of its hundred and seventy thousand inhabitants, an atmosphere of quiet and provincialism hovers44 over it. There is but little traffic on ordinary occasions along its broad ways, and customers in its well-stocked shops are few and far between. This day being Sunday, it was busier than usual, and its promenades46 were thronged47 with citizens and country folk in holiday attire48, among whom the Southern peasants, wearing their quaint, centuries-old costume, stood out in picturesque49 relief. Fashion, in its world-wide crusade against variety and its bitter contest with form and colour, has recoiled50, defeated for the present from the mountain fastnesses of Bavaria. Still, as Sunday or gala-day comes round, the broad-shouldered, sunburnt shepherd of the Oberland dons his gay green-embroidered jacket over his snowy shirt, fastens his short knee-breeches with a girdle round his waist, claps his high, feather-crowned hat upon his waving curls, and with bare legs, shod in mighty51 boots, strides over the hill-sides to his Gretchen’s door.
She is waiting for him, you may be sure, ready dressed; and a very sweet, old-world picture she makes, standing52 beneath the great overhanging gables of the wooden châlet. She, too, favours the national green; but, as relief, there is no lack of bonny red ribbons, to flutter in the wind, and, underneath53 the ornamented54 skirt, peeps out a bright-hued petticoat. Around her ample breast she wears a dark tight-fitting bodice, laced down the front. (I think this garment is called a stomacher, but I am not sure, as I have never liked to ask.) Her square shoulders are covered with the whitest of white linen55. Her sleeves are also white; and being very full, and of some soft lawnlike material, suggest the idea of folded wings. Upon her flaxen hair is perched a saucy56 round green hat. The buckles57 of her dainty shoes, the big eyes in her pretty face, are all four very bright. One feels one would like much to change places for the day with Hans.
Arm-in-arm, looking like some china, but exceedingly substantial china, shepherd and shepherdess, they descend58 upon the town. One rubs one’s eyes and stares after them as they pass. They seem to have stepped from the pictured pages of one of those old story-books that we learnt to love, sitting beside the high brass59 guard that kept ourselves and the nursery-fire from doing each other any serious injury, in the days when the world was much bigger than it is now, and much more real and interesting.
Munich and the country round about it make a great exchange of peoples every Sunday. In the morning, trainload after trainload of villagers and mountaineers pour into the town, and trainload after trainload of good and other citizens steam out to spend the day in wood and valley, and upon lake and mountain-side.
We went into one or two of the beer-halls—not into the swell60 cafés, crowded with tourists and Munich masherdom, but into the low-ceilinged, smoke-grimed cellars where the life of the people is to be seen.
The ungenteel people in a country are so much more interesting than the gentlefolks. One lady or gentleman is painfully like every other lady or gentleman. There is so little individuality, so little character, among the upper circles of the world. They talk like each other, they think and act like each other, they dress like each other, and look very much like each other. We gentlefolks only play at living. We have our rules and regulations for the game, which must not be infringed61. Our unwritten guide-books direct us what to do and what to say at each turn of the meaningless sport.
To those at the bottom of the social pyramid, however, who stand with their feet upon the earth, Nature is not a curious phenomenon to be looked down at and studied, but a living force to be obeyed. They front grim, naked Life, face to face, and wrestle62 with it through the darkness; and, as did the angel that strove with Jacob, it leaves its stamp upon them.
There is only one type of a gentleman. There are five hundred types of men and women. That is why I always seek out and frequent the places where the common people congregate63, in preference to the haunts of respectability. I have to be continually explaining all this to my friends, to account to them for what they call my love of low life.
With a mug of beer before me, and a pipe in my mouth, I could sit for hours contentedly64, and watch the life that ebbs65 and flows into and out of these old ale-kitchens.
The brawny66 peasant lads bring in their lasses to treat them to the beloved nectar of Munich, together with a huge onion. How they enjoy themselves! What splendid jokes they have! How they laugh and roar and sing! At one table sit four old fellows, playing cards. How full of character is each gnarled face. One is eager, quick, vehement67. How his eyes dance! You can read his every thought upon his face. You know when he is going to dash down the king with a shout of triumph on the queen. His neighbour looks calm, slow, and dogged, but wears a confident expression. The game proceeds, and you watch and wait for him to play the winning cards that you feel sure he holds. He must intend to win. Victory is written in his face. No! he loses. A seven was the highest card in his hand. Everyone turns to him, surprised. He laughs—A difficult man to deal with, that, in other matters besides cards. A man whose thoughts lie a good deal below his skin.
Opposite, a cross-looking old woman clamours for sausages, gets them, and seems crosser than ever. She scowls68 round on everyone, with a malignant69 expression that is quite terrifying. A small dog comes and sits down in front of her, and grins at her. Still, with the same savage expression of hatred70 towards all living things, she feeds him with sausage at the end of a fork, regarding him all the while with an aspect of such concentrated dislike, that one wonders it does not interfere71 with his digestion23. In a corner, a stout72 old woman talks incessantly73 to a solemn-looking man, who sits silent and drinks steadily74. It is evident that he can stand her conversation just so long as he has a mug of beer in front of him. He has brought her in here to give her a treat. He will let her have her talk out while he drinks. Heavens! how she does talk! She talks without movement, without expression; her voice never varies, it flows on, and on, and on, like a great resistless river. Four young artisans come clamping along in their hob-nailed boots, and seating themselves at one of the rude wooden tables, call for beer. With their arms round the waist of the utterly indifferent Fraulein, they shout and laugh and sing. Nearly all the young folks here are laughing—looking forward to life. All the old folks are talking, remembering it.
What grand pictures some of these old, seared faces round us would make, if a man could only paint them—paint all that is in them, all the tragedy—and comedy that the great playwright75, Life, has written upon the withered76 skins! Joys and sorrows, sordid77 hopes and fears, child-like strivings to be good, mean selfishness and grand unselfishness, have helped to fashion these old wrinkled faces. The curves of cunning and kindliness78 lurk79 round these fading eyes. The lines of greed hover45 about these bloodless lips, that have so often been tight-pressed in patient heroism80.
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收听单词发音
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1
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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foraged
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| v.搜寻（食物），尤指动物觅（食）( forage的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指用手）搜寻（东西） | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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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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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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bumper
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| n.(汽车上的)保险杠；adj.特大的，丰盛的 | |
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winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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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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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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stringent
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| adj.严厉的；令人信服的；银根紧的 | |
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emetic
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| n.催吐剂；adj.催吐的 | |
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digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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dilettante
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| n.半瓶醋，业余爱好者 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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dealers
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| n.商人( dealer的名词复数 )；贩毒者；毒品贩子；发牌者 | |
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40
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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41
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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42
counteract
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| vt.对…起反作用，对抗，抵消 | |
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43
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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44
hovers
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| 鸟( hover的第三人称单数 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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45
hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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46
promenades
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| n.人行道( promenade的名词复数 )；散步场所；闲逛v.兜风( promenade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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47
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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49
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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50
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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51
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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52
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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53
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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54
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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buckles
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| 搭扣，扣环( buckle的名词复数 ) | |
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58
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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60
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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infringed
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| v.违反（规章等）( infringe的过去式和过去分词 )；侵犯（某人的权利）；侵害（某人的自由、权益等） | |
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62
wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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congregate
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| v.(使)集合，聚集 | |
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contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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ebbs
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| 退潮( ebb的名词复数 )； 落潮； 衰退 | |
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brawny
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| adj.强壮的 | |
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67
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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scowls
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| 不悦之色，怒容( scowl的名词复数 ) | |
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69
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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75
playwright
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| n.剧作家，编写剧本的人 | |
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76
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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77
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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78
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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79
lurk
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| n.潜伏，潜行；v.潜藏，潜伏，埋伏 | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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