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Three Men on the Bummel

<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2> We were on our way to Prague, and were waiting in the great hall of the Dresden Station until such time as the powers-that-be should permit us on to the platform.  George, who had wandered to the bookstall, returned to us with a wild look in his eyes.  He said: “I’ve seen it.” I said, “Seen what?” He was too excited to answer intelligently.  He said “It’s here.  It’s coming this way, both of them.  If you wait, you’ll see it for yourselves.  I’m not joking; it’s the real thing.” As is usual about this period, some paragraphs, more or less serious, had been appearing in the papers concerning the sea-serpent, and I thought for the moment he must be referring to this.  A moment’s reflection, however, told me that here, in the middle of Europe, three hundred miles from the coast, such a thing was impossible.  Before I could question him further, he seized me by the arm. “Look!” he said; “now am I exaggerating?” I turned my head and saw what, I suppose, few living Englishmen have ever seen before—the travelling Britisher according to the Continental idea, accompanied by his daughter.  They were coming towards us in the flesh and blood, unless we were dreaming, alive and concrete—the English “Milor” and the English “Mees,” as for generations they have been portrayed in the Continental comic press and upon the Continental stage.  They were perfect in every detail.  The man was tall and thin, with sandy hair, a huge nose, and long Dundreary whiskers.  Over a pepper-and-salt suit he wore a light overcoat, reaching almost to his heels.  His white helmet was ornamented with a green veil; a pair of opera-glasses hung at his side, and in his lavender-gloved hand he carried an alpenstock a little taller than himself.  His daughter was long and angular.  Her dress I cannot describe: my grandfather, poor gentleman, might have been able to do so; it would have been more familiar to him.  I can only say that it appeared to me unnecessarily short, exhibiting a pair of ankles—if I may be permitted to refer to such points—that, from an artistic point of view, called rather for concealment.  Her hat made me think of Mrs. Hemans; but why I cannot explain.  She wore side-spring boots—“prunella,” I believe, used to be the trade name—mittens, and pince-nez.  She also carried an alpenstock (there is not a mountain within a hundred miles of Dresden) and a black bag strapped to her waist.  Her teeth stuck out like a rabbit’s, and her figure was that of a bolster on stilts. Harris rushed for his camera, and of course could not find it; he never can when he wants it.  Whenever we see Harris scuttling up and down like a lost dog, shouting, “Where’s my camera?  What the dickens have I done with my camera?  Don’t either of you remember where I put my camera?”—then we know that for the first time that day he has come across something worth photographing.  Later on, he remembered it was in his bag; that is where it would be on an occasion like this. They were not content with appearance; they acted the thing to the letter.  They walked gaping round them at every step.  The gentleman had an open Baedeker in his hand, and the lady carried a phrase book.  They talked French that nobody could understand, and German that they could not translate themselves!  The man poked at officials with his alpenstock to attract their attention, and the lady, her eye catching sight of an advertisement of somebody’s cocoa, said “Shocking!” and turned the other way. Really, there was some excuse for her.  One notices, even in England, the home of the proprieties, that the lady who drinks cocoa appears, according to the poster, to require very little else in this world; a yard or so of art muslin at the most.  On the Continent she dispenses, so far as one can judge, with every other necessity of life.  Not only is cocoa food and drink to her, it should be clothes also, according to the idea of the cocoa manufacturer.  But this by the way. Of course, they immediately became the centre of attraction.  By being able to render them some slight assistance, I gained the advantage of five minutes’ conversation with them.  They were very affable.  The gentleman told me his name was Jones, and that he came from Manchester, but he did not seem to know what part of Manchester, or where Manchester was.  I asked him where he was going to, but he evidently did not know.  He said it depended.  I asked him if he did not find an alpenstock a clumsy thing to walk about with through a crowded town; he admitted that occasionally it did get in the way.  I asked him if he did not find a veil interfere with his view of things; he explained that you only wore it when the flies became troublesome.  I enquired of the lady if she did not find the wind blow cold; she said she had noticed it, especially at the corners.  I did not ask these questions one after another as I have here put them down; I mixed them up with general conversation, and we parted on good terms. I have pondered much upon the apparition, and have come to a definite opinion.  A man I met later at Frankfort, and to whom I described the pair, said he had seen them himself in Paris, three weeks after the termination of the Fashoda incident; while a traveller for some English steel works whom we met in Strassburg remembered having seen them in Berlin during the excitement caused by the Transvaal question.  My conclusion is that they were actors out of work, hired to do this thing in the interest of international peace.  The French Foreign Office, wishful to allay the anger of the Parisian mob clamouring for war with England, secured this admirable couple and sent them round the town.  You cannot be amused at a thing, and at the same time want to kill it.  The French nation saw the English citizen and citizeness—no caricature, but the living reality—and their indignation exploded in laughter.  The success of the stratagem prompted them later on to offer their services to the German Government, with the beneficial results that we all know. Our own Government might learn the lesson.  It might be as well to keep near Downing Street a few small, fat Frenchmen, to be sent round the country when occasion called for it, shrugging their shoulders and eating frog sandwiches; or a file of untidy, lank-haired Germans might be retained, to walk about, smoking long pipes, saying “So.”  The public would laugh and exclaim, “War with such?  It would be too absurd.”  Failing the Government, I recommend the scheme to the Peace Society. Our visit to Prague we were compelled to lengthen somewhat.  Prague is one of the most interesting towns in Europe.  Its stones are saturated with history and romance; its every suburb must have been a battlefield.  It is the town that conceived the Reformation and hatched the Thirty Years’ War.  But half Prague’s troubles, one imagines, might have been saved to it, had it possessed windows less large and temptingly convenient.  The first of these mighty catastrophes it set rolling by throwing the seven Catholic councillors from the windows of its Rathhaus on to the pikes of the Hussites below.  Later, it gave the signal for the second by again throwing the Imperial councillors from the windows of the old Burg in the Hradschin—Prague’s second “Fenstersturz.”  Since, other fateful questions have been decide in Prague, one assumes from their having been concluded without violence that such must have been discussed in cellars.  The window, as an argument, one feels, would always have proved too strong a temptation to any true-born Praguer. In the Teynkirche stands the worm-eaten pulpit from which preached John Huss.  One may hear from the selfsame desk to-day the voice of a Papist priest, while in far-off Constance a rude block of stone, half ivy hidden, marks the spot where Huss and Jerome died burning at the stake.  History is fond of her little ironies.  In this same Teynkirche lies buried Tycho Brahe, the astronomer, who made the common mistake of thinking the earth, with its eleven hundred creeds and one humanity, the centre of the universe; but who otherwise observed the stars clearly. Through Prague’s dirty, palace-bordered alleys must have pressed often in hot haste blind Ziska and open-minded Wallenstein—they have dubbed him “The Hero” in Prague; and the town is honestly proud of having owned him for citizen.  In his gloomy palace in the Waldstein-Platz they show as a sacred spot the cabinet where he prayed, and seem to have persuaded themselves he really had a soul.  Its steep, winding ways must have been choked a dozen times, now by Sigismund’s flying legions, followed by fierce-killing Tarborites, and now by pale Protestants pursued by the victorious Catholics of Maximilian.  Now Saxons, now Bavarians, and now French; now the saints of Gustavus Adolphus, and now the steel fighting machines of Frederick the Great, have thundered at its gates and fought upon its bridges. The Jews have always been an important feature of Prague.  Occasionally they have assisted the Christians in their favourite occupation of slaughtering one another, and the great flag suspended from the vaulting of the Altneuschule testifies to the courage with which they helped Catholic Ferdinand to resist the Protestant Swedes.  The Prague Ghetto was one of the first to be established in Europe, and in the tiny synagogue, still standing, the Jew of Prague has worshipped for eight hundred years, his women folk devoutly listening, without, at the ear holes provided for them in the massive walls.  A Jewish cemetery adjacent, “Bethchajim, or the House of Life,” seems as though it were bursting with its dead.  Within its narrow acre it was the law of centuries that here or nowhere must the bones of Israel rest.  So the worn and broken tombstones lie piled in close confusion, as though tossed and tumbled by the struggling host beneath. The Ghetto walls have long been levelled, but the living Jews of Prague still cling to their foetid lanes, though these are being rapidly replaced by fine new streets that promise to eventually transform this quarter into the handsomest part of the town. At Dresden they advised us not to talk German in Prague.  For years racial animosity between the German minority and the Czech majority has raged throughout Bohemia, and to be mistaken for a German in certain streets of Prague is inconvenient to a man whose staying powers in a race are not what once they were.  However, we did talk German in certain streets in Prague; it was a case of talking German or nothing.  The Czech dialect is said to be of great antiquity and of highly scientific cultivation.  Its alphabet contains forty-two letters, suggestive to a stranger of Chinese.  It is not a language to be picked up in a hurry.  We decided that on the whole there would be less risk to our constitution in keeping to German, and as a matter of fact no harm came to us.  The explanation I can only surmise.  The Praguer is an exceedingly acute person; some subtle falsity of accent, some slight grammatical inaccuracy, may have crept into our German, revealing to him the fact that, in spite of all appearances to the contrary, we were no true-born Deutscher.  I do not assert this; I put it forward as a possibility. To avoid unnecessary danger, however, we did our sight-seeing with the aid of a guide.  No guide I have ever come across is perfect.  This one had two distinct failings.  His English was decidedly weak.  Indeed, it was not English at all.  I do not know what you would call it.  It was not altogether his fault; he had learnt English from a Scotch lady.  I understand Scotch fairly well—to keep abreast of modern English literature this is necessary,—but to understand broad Scotch talked with a Sclavonic accent, occasionally relieved by German modifications, taxes the intelligence.  For the first hour it was difficult to rid one’s self of the conviction that the man was choking.  Every moment we expected him to die on our hands.  In the course of the morning we grew accustomed to him, and rid ourselves of the instinct to throw him on his back every time he opened his mouth, and tear his clothes from him.  Later, we came to understand a part of what he said, and this led to the discovery of his second failing. It would seem he had lately invented a hair-restorer, which he had persuaded a local chemist to take up and advertise.  Half his time he had been pointing out to us, not the beauties of Prague, but the benefits likely to accrue to the human race from the use of this concoction; and the conventional agreement with which, under the impression he was waxing eloquent concerning views and architecture, we had met his enthusiasm he had attributed to sympathetic interest in this wretched wash of his. The result was that now there was no keeping him away from the subject.  Ruined palaces and crumbling churches he dismissed with curt reference as mere frivolities, encouraging a morbid taste for the decadent.  His duty, as he saw it, was not to lead us to dwell upon the ravages of time, but rather to direct our attention to the means of repairing them.  What had we to do with broken-headed heroes, or bald-headed saints?  Our interest should be surely in the living world; in the maidens with their flowing tresses, or the flowing tresses they might have, by judicious use of “Kophkeo,” in the young men with their fierce moustaches—as pictured on the label. Unconsciously, in his own mind, he had divided the world into two sections.  The Past (“Before Use”), a sickly, disagreeable-looking, uninteresting world.  The Future (“After Use”) a fat, jolly, God-bless-everybody sort of world; and this unfitted him as a guide to scenes of mediaeval history. He sent us each a bottle of the stuff to our hotel.  It appeared that in the early part of our converse with him we had, unwittingly, clamoured for it.  Personally, I can neither praise it nor condemn it.  A long series of disappointments has disheartened me; added to which a permanent atmosphere of paraffin, however faint, is apt to cause remark, especially in the case of a married man.  Now, I never try even the sample. I gave my bottle to George.  He asked for it to send to a man he knew in Leeds.  I learnt later that Harris had given him his bottle also, to send to the same man. A suggestion of onions has clung to this tour since we left Prague.  George has noticed it himself.  He attributes it to the prevalence of garlic in European cooking. It was in Prague that Harris and I did a kind and friendly thing to George.  We had noticed for some time past that George was getting too fond of Pilsener beer.  This German beer is an insidious drink, especially in hot weather; but it does not do to imbibe too freely of it.  It does not get into your head, but after a time it spoils your waist.  I always say to myself on entering Germany: “Now, I will drink no German beer.  The white wine of the country, with a little soda-water; perhaps occasionally a glass of Ems or potash.  But beer, never—or, at all events, hardly ever.” It is a good and useful resolution, which I recommend to all travellers.  I only wish I could keep to it myself.  George, although I urged him, refused to bind himself by any such hard and fast limit.  He said that in moderation German beer was good. “One glass in the morning,” said George, “one in the evening, or even two.  That will do no harm to anyone.” Maybe he was right.  It was his half-dozen glasses that troubled Harris and myself. “We ought to do something to stop it,” said Harris; “it is becoming serious.” “It’s hereditary, so he has explained to me,” I answered.  “It seems his family have always been thirsty.” “There is Apollinaris water,” replied Harris, “which, I believe, with a little lemon squeezed into it, is practically harmless.  What I am thinking about is his figure.  He will lose all his natural elegance.” We talked the matter over, and, Providence aiding us, we fixed upon a plan.  For the ornamentation of the town a new statue had just been cast.  I forget of whom it was a statue.  I only remember that in the essentials it was the usual sort of street statue, representing the usual sort of gentleman, with the usual stiff neck, riding the usual sort of horse—the horse that always walks on its hind legs, keeping its front paws for beating time.  But in detail it possessed individuality.  Instead of the usual sword or baton, the man was holding, stretched out in his hand, his own plumed hat; and the horse, instead of the usual waterfall for a tail, possessed a somewhat attenuated appendage that somehow appeared out of keeping with his ostentatious behaviour.  One felt that a horse with a tail like that would not have pranced so much. It stood in a small square not far from the further end of the Karlsbrücke, but it stood there only temporarily.  Before deciding finally where to fix it, the town authorities had resolved, very sensibly, to judge by practical test where it would look best.  Accordingly, they had made three rough copies of the statue—mere wooden profiles, things that would not bear looking at closely, but which, viewed from a little distance, produced all the effect that was necessary.  One of these they had set up at the approach to the Franz-Josefsbrücke, a second stood in the open space behind the theatre, and the third in the centre of the Wenzelsplatz. “If George is not in the secret of this thing,” said Harris—we were walking by ourselves for an hour, he having remained behind in the hotel to write a letter to his aunt,—“if he has not observed these statues, then by their aid we will make a better and a thinner man of him, and that this very evening.” So during dinner we sounded him, judiciously; and finding him ignorant of the matter, we took him out, and led him by side-streets to the place where stood the real statue.  George was for looking at it and passing on, as is his way with statues, but we insisted on his pulling up and viewing the thing conscientiously.  We walked him round that statue four times, and showed it to him from every possible point of view.  I think, on the whole, we rather bored him with the thing, but our object was to impress it upon him.  We told him the history of the man who rode upon the horse, the name of the artist who had made the statue, how much it weighed, how much it measured.  We worked that statue into his system.  By the time we had done with him he knew more about that statue, for the time being, than he knew about anything else.  We soaked him in that statue, and only let him go at last on the condition that he would come again with us in the morning, when we could all see it better, and for such purpose we saw to it that he made a note in his pocket-book of the place where the statue stood. Then we accompanied him to his favourite beer hall, and sat beside him, telling him anecdotes of men who, unaccustomed to German beer, and drinking too much of it, had gone mad and developed homicidal mania; of men who had died young through drinking German beer; of lovers that German beer had been the means of parting for ever from beautiful girls. At ten o’clock we started to walk back to the hotel.  It was a stormy-looking night, with heavy clouds drifting over a light moon.  Harris said: “We won’t go back the same way we came; we’ll walk back by the river.  It is lovely in the moonlight.” Harris told a sad history, as we walked, about a man he once knew, who is now in a home for harmless imbeciles.  He said he recalled the story because it was on just such another night as this that he was walking with that man the very last time he ever saw the poor fellow.  They were strolling down the Thames Embankment, Harris said, and the man frightened him then by persisting that he saw the statue of the Duke of Wellington at the corner of Westminster Bridge, when, as everybody knows, it stands in Piccadilly. It was at this exact instant that we came in sight of the first of these wooden copies.  It occupied the centre of a small, railed-in square a little above us on the opposite side of the way.  George suddenly stood still and leant against the wall of the quay. “What’s the matter?” I said; “feeling giddy?” He said: “I do, a little.  Let’s rest here a moment.” He stood there with his eyes glued to the thing. He said, speaking huskily: “Talking of statues, what always strikes me is how very much one statue is like another statue.” Harris said: “I cannot agree with you there—pictures, if you like.  Some pictures are very like other pictures, but with a statue there is always something distinctive.  Take that statue we saw early in the evening,” continued Harris, “before we went into the concert hall.  It represented a man sitting on a horse.  In Prague you will see other statues of men on horses, but nothing at all like that one.” “Yes they are,” said George; “they are all alike.  It’s always the same horse, and it’s always the same man.  They are all exactly alike.  It’s idiotic nonsense to say they are not.” He appeared to be angry with Harris. “What makes you think so?” I asked. “What makes me think so?” retorted George, now turning upon me.  “Why, look at that damned thing over there!” I said: “What damned thing?” “Why, that thing,” said George; “look at it!  There is the same horse with half a tail, standing on its hind legs; the same man without his hat; the same—” Harris said: “You are talking now about the statue we saw in the Ringplatz.” “No, I’m not,” replied George; “I’m talking about the statue over there.” “What statue?” said Harris. George looked at Harris; but Harris is a man who might, with care, have been a fair amateur actor.  His face merely expressed friendly sorrow, mingled with alarm.  Next, George turned his gaze on me.  I endeavoured, so far as lay with me, to copy Harris’s expression, adding to it on my own account a touch of reproof. “Will you have a cab?” I said as kindly as I could to George.  “I’ll run and get one.” “What the devil do I want with a cab?” he answered, ungraciously.  “Can’t you fellows understand a joke?  It’s like being out with a couple of confounded old women,” saying which, he started off across the bridge, leaving us to follow. “I am so glad that was only a joke of yours,” said Harris, on our overtaking him.  “I knew a case of softening of the brain that began—” “Oh, you’re a silly ass!” said George, cutting him short; “you know everything.” He was really most unpleasant in his manner. We took him round by the riverside of the theatre.  We told him it was the shortest way, and, as a matter of fact, it was.  In the open space behind the theatre stood the second of these wooden apparitions.  George looked at it, and again stood still. “What’s the matter?” said Harris, kindly.  “You are not ill, are you?” “I don’t believe this is the shortest way,” said George. “I assure you it is,” persisted Harris. “Well, I’m going the other,” said George; and he turned and went, we, as before, following him. Along the Ferdinand Strasse Harris and I talked about private lunatic asylums, which, Harris said, were not well managed in England.  He said a friend of his, a patient in a lunatic asylum— George said, interrupting: “You appear to have a large number of friends in lunatic asylums.” He said it in a most insulting tone, as though to imply that that is where one would look for the majority of Harris’s friends.  But Harris did not get angry; he merely replied, quite mildly: “Well, it really is extraordinary, when one comes to think of it, how many of them have gone that way sooner or later.  I get quite nervous sometimes, now.” At the corner of the Wenzelsplatz, Harris, who was a few steps ahead of us, paused. “It’s a fine street, isn’t it?” he said, sticking his hands in his pockets, and gazing up at it admiringly. George and I followed suit.  Two hundred yards away from us, in its very centre, was the third of these ghostly statues.  I think it was the best of the three—the most like, the most deceptive.  It stood boldly outlined against the wild sky: the horse on its hind legs, with its curiously attenuated tail; the man bareheaded, pointing with his plumed hat to the now entirely visible moon. “I think, if you don’t mind,” said George—he spoke with almost a pathetic ring in his voice, his aggressiveness had completely fallen from him,—“that I will have that cab, if there’s one handy.” “I thought you were looking queer,” said Harris, kindly.  “It’s your head, isn’t it?” “Perhaps it is,” answered George. “I have noticed it coining on,” said Harris; “but I didn’t like to say anything to you.  You fancy you see things, don’t you?” “No, no; it isn’t that,” replied George, rather quickly.  “I don’t know what it is.” “I do,” said Harris, solemnly, “and I’ll tell you.  It’s this German beer that you are drinking.  I have known a case where a man—” “Don’t tell me about him just now,” said George.  “I dare say it’s true, but somehow I don’t feel I want to hear about him.” “You are not used to it,” said Harris. “I shall give it up from to-night,” said George.  “I think you must be right; it doesn’t seem to agree with me.” We took him home, and saw him to bed.  He was very gentle and quite grateful. One evening later on, after a long day’s ride, followed by a most satisfactory dinner, we started him on a big cigar, and, removing things from his reach, told him of this stratagem that for his good we had planned. “How many copies of that statue did you say we saw?” asked George, after we had finished. “Three,” replied Harris. “Only three?” said George.  “Are you sure?” “Positive,” replied Harris.  “Why?” “Oh, nothing!” answered George. But I don’t think he quite believed Harris. From Prague we travelled to Nuremberg, through Carlsbad.  Good Germans, when they die, go, they say, to Carlsbad, as good Americans to Paris.  This I doubt, seeing that it is a small place with no convenience for a crowd.  In Carlsbad, you rise at five, the fashionable hour for promenade, when the band plays under the Colonnade, and the Sprudel is filled with a packed throng over a mile long, being from six to eight in the morning.  Here you may hear more languages spoken than the Tower of Babel could have echoed.  Polish Jews and Russian princes, Chinese mandarins and Turkish pashas, Norwegians looking as if they had stepped out of Ibsen’s plays, women from the Boulevards, Spanish grandees and English countesses, mountaineers from Montenegro and millionaires from Chicago, you will find every dozen yards.  Every luxury in the world Carlsbad provides for its visitors, with the one exception of pepper.  That you cannot get within five miles of the town for money; what you can get there for love is not worth taking away.  Pepper, to the liver brigade that forms four-fifths of Carlsbad’s customers, is poison; and, prevention being better than cure, it is carefully kept out of the neighbourhood.  “Pepper parties” are formed in Carlsbad to journey to some place without the boundary, and there indulge in pepper orgies. Nuremberg, if one expects a town of mediaeval appearance, disappoints.  Quaint corners, picturesque glimpses, there are in plenty; but everywhere they are surrounded and intruded upon by the modern, and even what is ancient is not nearly so ancient as one thought it was.  After all, a town, like a woman, is only as old as it looks; and Nuremberg is still a comfortable-looking dame, its age somewhat difficult to conceive under its fresh paint and stucco in the blaze of the gas and the electric light.  Still, looking closely, you may see its wrinkled walls and grey towers. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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