UNTER DEN LINDEN
The Berlin of the late eighties was a very different city from the
Berlin of to-day. There is probably no other Continental city which has
undergone so many changes in the same period of time. When I wandered
into the place nearly twenty years ago there were no electric
cars--horses were still the exclusive motive power in the business
streets; there was no rational direction of traffic--there isn't to-day
in some parts; there were no automobiles that I can remember having
seen; there were no great department stores such as now vie with those
of New York; there was no such street lighting as there is to-day; and
there were by no means so many Germans leaning on window sills and on
the streets. Like Moscow, the place resembled a great overgrown village
more than it did the capital of a great country. The people were
provincial, the military upstarts often acted as if they thought the
city had been built and was kept up for their exclusive entertainment,
and strangers, particularly Americans, who ventured to dress as they do
at home--white dresses in summer for ladies, for instance--were stared
at as if they were a new species of human beings. In one particular,
however, the city has not changed, and probably never will, _i.e._, in
the amount of noise the Berliners are equal to when they are turned
loose in the streets, afoot, in trains or in _Drosckken_. If it be true
that the word _German_, philologically dissected, means a shouter in
battle, then the word Berliner means two shouters talking about a
battle. The incessant ya-yaing and nein-neining in the streets, the
perspiring and nervous self-consciousness that comes to a large-boned
populace suddenly advanced to _Welt-Stadt_ significance, the reckless
driving of the cabbies, the screams of the cabbies' victims, these all
contribute to the present provinciality of the metropolis, in spite of
the modern trolleys, automobiles, half-Londonized policemen, and
taxameter cabs. Indeed, these very appurtenances of cosmopolitan, the
crunching trolley, for instance, and the puffing "auto," accentuate very
strikingly the undue emphasis which the town puts in noises, and are
indicative of its lust for more. Twenty years ago the shouting and
buzzing were not so bad, but the city is now making up for any silences
that may have been observed at that time.
Part of the street roar and clamor is due to the unusual amount of small
traffic in the streets, to the thousands and thousands of cabs,
"commercial" tricycles and pushbarrows, all of which claim the right to
play their part in the city's roar and bustle. But a much more
conspicuous cause, if not the main one, is the fact that Berlin has
grown up to Welt-Stadt prominence, overnight, as it were, and the good
Berliners have not yet untangled their feet sufficiently to keep an
orderly pace under the new order of things. Two-thirds of them are still
living under the old horse-car régime, and when they come to congested
corners, where the trolley's clang and the automobile's "toff-toff"
prevail, they very willingly lend a hand in increasing the general
confusion.
At least this is the way the town impressed me a year or two ago, as
compared with the easy-going city I first entered as a coal-passer, with
honorable discharge papers in my pocket, and very little else. But far
be it from me to dwell on this subject, for if there is any city in the
world to which I ought to be grateful, it is Berlin. If it pleases the
Berliners to shout their World City distinction from the housetops, as
if fearful that it might otherwise escape notice, well and good; the
noise sounds funny, that is all--particularly after London and New York.
I began my career in the town in a very "Dutch" ready-made suit of
clothes, high-heeled shoes that could be pulled on at one tug like the
"Romeo" slipper, a ready-made fly-necktie, and a hat the style of which
may be seen at its best in this country in the neighborhood of Ellis
Island; it was local color hatified indeed. While I lay asleep on the
sofa in my mother's library, making up for the loss of sleep at sea, my
mother went out and kindly made these purchases. Washed, dressed and
fed, I may have looked "Dutch," but I was clean at least, and there was
no dusky fireman about to order me to hurry "further mit de coals."
The family physician, a gentleman who has since come on to great things
and is one of Berlin's most famous medical men, for some reason best
known to himself examined me carefully to see how I had stood the
journey. All that he could find out of the way was a considerably
quickened heart action, which did not give him great concern, however.
At that time the good man was just beginning to pick up English, and at
our first meeting made me listen to his rendering of "Early to bed,
early to rise," etc. A few weeks later, when making a professional visit
on an American young lady, a new neighbor of ours, he was emboldened to
give some advice in English--to compose an original sentence. He wanted
the young lady to take more exercise, and this is how he told her to get
it.
"Traw a teep inspiration, take t'ree pig shteeps across te floor, and
ten expire." She pulled through her ailment splendidly.
In those days, the late eighties and early nineties, the American
colony, as it was called, lived mainly in the western part of the city,
in the neighborhood of the Zoological Gardens. The doctor, or professor,
as he is now called, was for years the colony's physician, and many were
the regrets when he gave up visiting us. We were still privileged to
call at his office, but _hospital_ work and Imperial patients made it
impossible for him to call on us, although he kindly made neighborly
visits in my mother's home as long as he remained in our street. He is
now getting old and gray, but I found him as friendly and hospitable on
my last visit to Berlin, in spite of his fine villa, lackeys and
carriages, as when he examined me for broken bones and twisted muscles
after the coal-passing experience. I told him that I was on my way to
Russia to study the heavily-advertised revolution. His face became
grave, as of old when studying a case. "Be careful, my son," he
cautioned me; "be very careful in Poland." The fatherly warning and the
friendly interest brought back to my mind memories of the Berlin that I
had known and in a way loved, the town that took me in and truly gave me
another chance.
Nearly all American colonies abroad are but little more than camps. The
campers tarry a while, for one reason or another--culture is what most
of them claim to be seeking--and then fold their tents and pass on,
those who remain behind having to get acquainted afresh with the new set
of "culturists" who are sure to arrive in due time. In Venice there is
an Anglo-Saxon camp which lays claim to ancient privileges and rights.
In 1894-95 I spent four unforgettable months in the place, and got well
acquainted with many of the campers.
"And how long have you been here?" was one of my questions on meeting an
Englishman or fellow countryman, already beginning to plume myself on my
long residence.
"Eighteen years, thank you!" was the answer I got on numerous occasions.
My four months' sojourn dwindled to a very slight significance when set
over against the old residents' record, but in spite of their long stay
in the city they were, after all, campers. When the Christmas holiday
time came, for instance, they all spoke of going "home" to England.
Venice was not their home. It was simply a desirable abiding place for
the time being.
So it is wherever I have lived on the Continent. Barring a very few
exceptions, the American colonists are transient residents that you have
barely got acquainted with before they are off to some new tenting
ground. Whether such "colossal" life is advantageous for the rearing of
children, or not, is a question which each camping family decides for
itself. In the case of young men, students for example, it has its
advantages and disadvantages. In my own case I think it worked well for
a time. It was not compulsory; I could have returned to America at any
time. And it afforded me an opportunity to see how clean I could keep my
record sheet in a community unacquainted with my previous devilishness.
There was no local reason whatever why I should not hold my head just as
high as anybody--a privilege which, I believe, goes a long way in
explaining the pride I took in trying to deserve such a right.
It is a far cry from the stoke-room of an ocean liner to a refined home
and unexcelled educational opportunities. No one who had seen me passing
coal on the _Elbe_ would ever have expected to meet me in the lecture
rooms of the Berlin University, a few months later, a full-fledged
student in the "philosophical faculty." And no one was more surprised at
such a metamorphosis than the student himself.
It came about in this way: For a fortnight or so after reaching Berlin
there was little that I felt equal to beyond sitting in my mother's
library, resting and reading. The little "Dutch" outfit made me
presentable at least, and I was welcome to spend as much time as I liked
browsing among the books. It seemed strange for a while, to sit there in
comfort and ease, after the long tramp trip and the voyage on the
_Elbe_, but I soon found myself fitting into the new arrangement without
much difficulty. The coal-passing experience had exhausted my physical
resources more than I had at first imagined, and for days lying on a
lounge was about as much as I felt up to. It was during this period, I
recall, that I read Livingstone's "Travels in Africa," George Eliot's
"Daniel Deronda," some of John Stuart Mills' "Political Economy" and
chapters in German history. I seemed to take as naturally to this
selection in my reading as I had formerly taken to tramp
trips--testimony, it seems to me, that two sets of forces were always at
work within me. While poring over these books the Road, _Die Ferne_, and
my former companionships seemed as foreign to my nature as they could
possibly be; indeed, I frequently caught myself looking about the
library, with its pleasant appointments, and wondering whether my
wanderings were not, after all, simply a nightmare.
Friendly care and good food soon restored me to my usual good health,
and then came walks, visits in and about the city, experiments in the
language on long-suffering cabbies and tramway conductors, and a
pleasant round of excursions in the environs. But nothing as yet had
been said or decided about my status in the new home, my mother
apparently wanting me to recuperate first, and then suggest something
myself. My twenty-first birthday was near at hand. I was no longer a boy
with no responsibilities. My own sense of the fitness of things told me
that it was high time for me to be up and doing, if I was going to be of
any use to myself and the family. Yet, for the life of me, I could think
of nothing more remunerative and honorable as a calling, than a
woodchopper's life in the Black Forest. One of the coal trimmers on the
_Elbe_, a "bankrupp" whose acquaintance I had made in the Hoboken
cellar, had told me about this work in South Germany, and I had made up
my mind to go there in case Berlin proved inhospitable. At best it was a
makeshift job, but, for the time being, it was the best outlook that I
had--at least so I thought. My mother, however, had no good opinion of
this plan, and recommended that I consider the whole matter more fully.
I finally decided that another fair test of sea life should be made, not
in the bunkers or stoke-room, but on deck, or wherever my services might
be in demand. For some strange reason I had Egypt as an objective,
perhaps on account of reading Livingstone's book. There was nothing
particular that I can remember now to make Egypt any more attractive
than Italy. But the name seemed to fascinate me, and I told my mother
that if she would help me get to Liverpool, I believed that my rightful
calling would come to light there. A number of days were taken up in
discussing this new project, but I persisted in thinking that Liverpool
and Egypt had something wonderful in store for me. The good housing and
nourishment had very probably awakened my _Wanderlust_ again, but I know
that the projected trip was not meant as a mere wandering in the dark; I
honestly believed that something worth while would come of it. Looking
back over the affair to-day, however, reminds me that probably the old
desire to disappear to unknown parts and come back successful later was
at work within me.
It was evidently decided that I should at least try my hand in
Liverpool, and sufficient money for the trip and more was given to me. I
left Berlin, thinking that I ought to come back at least an admiral of
The Fleet, my mother feeling quite hopeful about me, yet regretting that
I was not then willing to sound Berlin a little more, and see whether I
could not fit in there.
As no particular harm came to me from the Liverpool experiment, perhaps
it is not to be regretted to-day, but it seemed to accomplish very
little at the time. I lodged in the Sailor's Home and tried to act and
talk like a master of a ship, as long as my money lasted, but this was
as far as I got toward becoming an admiral or in the direction of Egypt.
The only "berth" offered me was in a Norwegian schooner as "cook's
mate," or something like that, whatever "that" may mean. Liverpool
itself, however, or rather those sections of it near the Sailors' Home
and Lime Street, was faithfully explored and studied. One experience
that I had may or may not have been worth while, according to the
different views of it that are permissible; but I thought, at the time,
that it was valuable.
A runaway girl from Manchester, a pretty little thing who had lost her
head over the theater, music halls and the ballet, crossed my path. She
told me her story, a stencil-plate affair such as England is full of,
and I told her mine, also about Egypt and my determination to be an
admiral, if possible. She suggested that we combine our stories and
funds, and grow rich and famous together. She was sure that she was
fated to be an actress, a great one, and I was equally sure that
something illustrious awaited me. "Alice"--this was the fair one's
name--arranged the combination of funds very neatly; fortunately the
bulk of mine were in safe keeping in the Sailor's Home. The whole
amount, or rather the amount that I let her have, went for the
cultivation of her voice and "stoil" in Lime Street concert halls; but
she explained this selfishness away with a promise to finance me when
she should be successful and I was passing the final examinations for
the admiral's position. It is not unlikely that I might yet be
struggling to get money for "Alice's" musical education if her charms
had continued to please, but she fainted, or pretended to, in my arms,
in public fashion one evening near the Home, and the spell was broken
then and there. The fainting took place in an alleyway through which
people passed to the rear of the Home and then on to another street. It
came so unexpectedly that in spite of the girl's slight form she nearly
toppled me over in clutching at me. Some newsboys saw me holding her up
and fanning her face with my hat. A squad of policemen, going on night
duty, passed by and snickered.
"I'd doi for that goil, I would," one of the boys screamed, and the
others made similar teasing remarks. "Alice" gradually recovered and
grabbed my neck.
"Save me!" she cried. "Save me! I'm losin' all me high notes."
I "saved" her in double-quick fashion into a cab and sent her home to
look for the high notes. I never saw her again, but five years later,
when a friend and I were tramping in England, I asked about her in the
concert halls in Lime Street, and finally found an old acquaintance who
remembered her.
"Oh, that girl!" the acquaintance exclaimed. "She's got seven days.
She's dotty. Thinks she's a primer donner. Good thing you an' her never
went to housekeeping--ain't it?"
What with my experience with the capricious "Jeminy" of earlier days and
with the screeching "Alice," housekeeping has not entered heavily into
my life. I must thank "Alice," however, for showing me the folly of
trying to be an admiral on a mere coal-passer's experience. Her
light-fingered ingenuity and the resulting depletion of my funds also
assisted in curing me of the Egyptian fever. The upshot of the trip to
England was a hasty return to Germany to try something else--and to
celebrate my coming of age. I meant that that event should mark a
distinct change in my life, and in many ways it did.