Which is serious: as becomes a parting chapter--The German from the Anglo-
Saxon's point of view--Providence in buttons and a helmet--Paradise of
the helpless idiot--German conscience: its aggressiveness--How they hang
in Germany, very possibly--What happens to good Germans when they
die?--The military instinct: is it all-sufficient?--The German as a
shopkeeper--How he supports life--The New Woman, here as everywhere--What
can be said against the Germans, as a people--The Bummel is over and
done.
"Anybody could rule this country," said George; "_I_ could rule it."
We were seated in the garden of the Kaiser Hof at Bonn, looking down upon
the Rhine. It was the last evening of our Bummel; the early morning
train would be the beginning of the end.
"I should write down all I wanted the people to do on a piece of paper,"
continued George; "get a good firm to print off so many copies, have them
posted about the towns and villages; and the thing would be done."
In the placid, docile German of to-day, whose only ambition appears to be
to pay his taxes, and do what he is told to do by those whom it has
pleased Providence to place in authority over him, it is difficult, one
must confess, to detect any trace of his wild ancestor, to whom
individual liberty was as the breath of his nostrils; who appointed his
magistrates to advise, but retained the right of execution for the tribe;
who followed his chief, but would have scorned to obey him. In Germany
to-day one hears a good deal concerning Socialism, but it is a Socialism
that would only be despotism under another name. Individualism makes no
appeal to the German voter. He is willing, nay, anxious, to be
controlled and regulated in all things. He disputes, not government, but
the form of it. The policeman is to him a religion, and, one feels, will
always remain so. In England we regard our man in blue as a harmless
necessity. By the average citizen he is employed chiefly as a signpost,
though in busy quarters of the town he is considered useful for taking
old ladies across the road. Beyond feeling thankful to him for these
services, I doubt if we take much thought of him. In Germany, on the
other hand, he is worshipped as a little god and loved as a guardian
angel. To the German child he is a combination of Santa Claus and the
Bogie Man. All good things come from him: Spielplatze to play in,
furnished with swings and giant-strides, sand heaps to fight around,
swimming baths, and fairs. All misbehaviour is punished by him. It is
the hope of every well-meaning German boy and girl to please the police.
To be smiled at by a policeman makes it conceited. A German child that
has been patted on the head by a policeman is not fit to live with; its
self-importance is unbearable.
The German citizen is a soldier, and the policeman is his officer. The
policeman directs him where in the street to walk, and how fast to walk.
At the end of each bridge stands a policeman to tell the German how to
cross it. Were there no policeman there, he would probably sit down and
wait till the river had passed by. At the railway station the policeman
locks him up in the waiting-room, where he can do no harm to himself.
When the proper time arrives, he fetches him out and hands him over to
the guard of the train, who is only a policeman in another uniform. The
guard tells him where to sit in the train, and when to get out, and sees
that he does get out. In Germany you take no responsibility upon
yourself whatever. Everything is done for you, and done well. You are
not supposed to look after yourself; you are not blamed for being
incapable of looking after yourself; it is the duty of the German
policeman to look after you. That you may be a helpless idiot does not
excuse him should anything happen to you. Wherever you are and whatever
you are doing you are in his charge, and he takes care of you--good care
of you; there is no denying this.
If you lose yourself, he finds you; and if you lose anything belonging to
you, he recovers it for you. If you don't know what you want, he tells
you. If you want anything that is good for you to have, he gets it for
you. Private lawyers are not needed in Germany. If you want to buy or
sell a house or field, the State makes out the conveyance. If you have
been swindled, the State takes up the case for you. The State marries
you, insures you, will even gamble with you for a trifle.
"You get yourself born," says the German Government to the German
citizen, "we do the rest. Indoors and out of doors, in sickness and in
health, in pleasure and in work, we will tell you what to do, and we will
see to it that you do it. Don't you worry yourself about anything."
And the German doesn't. Where there is no policeman to be found, he
wanders about till he comes to a police notice posted on a wall. This he
reads; then he goes and does what it says.
I remember in one German town--I forget which; it is immaterial; the
incident could have happened in any--noticing an open gate leading to a
garden in which a concert was being given. There was nothing to prevent
anyone who chose from walking through that gate, and thus gaining
admittance to the concert without paying. In fact, of the two gates
quarter of a mile apart it was the more convenient. Yet of the crowds
that passed, not one attempted to enter by that gate. They plodded
steadily on under a blazing sun to the other gate, at which a man stood
to collect the entrance money. I have seen German youngsters stand
longingly by the margin of a lonely sheet of ice. They could have skated
on that ice for hours, and nobody have been the wiser. The crowd and the
police were at the other end, more than half a mile away, and round the
corner. Nothing stopped their going on but the knowledge that they ought
not. Things such as these make one pause to seriously wonder whether the
Teuton be a member of the sinful human family or not. Is it not possible
that these placid, gentle folk may in reality be angels, come down to
earth for the sake of a glass of beer, which, as they must know, can only
in Germany be obtained worth the drinking?
In Germany the country roads are lined with fruit trees. There is no
voice to stay man or boy from picking and eating the fruit, except
conscience. In England such a state of things would cause public
indignation. Children would die of cholera by the hundred. The medical
profession would be worked off its legs trying to cope with the natural
results of over-indulgence in sour apples and unripe walnuts. Public
opinion would demand that these fruit trees should be fenced about, and
thus rendered harmless. Fruit growers, to save themselves the expense of
walls and palings, would not be allowed in this manner to spread sickness
and death throughout the community.
But in Germany a boy will walk for miles down a lonely road, hedged with
fruit trees, to buy a pennyworth of pears in the village at the other
end. To pass these unprotected fruit trees, drooping under their burden
of ripe fruit, strikes the Anglo-Saxon mind as a wicked waste of
opportunity, a flouting of the blessed gifts of Providence.
I do not know if it be so, but from what I have observed of the German
character I should not be surprised to hear that when a man in Germany is
condemned to death he is given a piece of rope, and told to go and hang
himself. It would save the State much trouble and expense, and I can see
that German criminal taking that piece of rope home with him, reading up
carefully the police instructions, and proceeding to carry them out in
his own back kitchen.
The Germans are a good people. On the whole, the best people perhaps in
the world; an amiable, unselfish, kindly people. I am positive that the
vast majority of them go to Heaven. Indeed, comparing them with the
other Christian nations of the earth, one is forced to the conclusion
that Heaven will be chiefly of German manufacture. But I cannot
understand how they get there. That the soul of any single individual
German has sufficient initiative to fly up by itself and knock at St.
Peter's door, I cannot believe. My own opinion is that they are taken
there in small companies, and passed in under the charge of a dead
policeman.
Carlyle said of the Prussians, and it is true of the whole German nation,
that one of their chief virtues was their power of being drilled. Of the
Germans you might say they are a people who will go anywhere, and do
anything, they are told. Drill him for the work and send him out to
Africa or Asia under charge of somebody in uniform, and he is bound to
make an excellent colonist, facing difficulties as he would face the
devil himself, if ordered. But it is not easy to conceive of him as a
pioneer. Left to run himself, one feels he would soon fade away and die,
not from any lack of intelligence, but from sheer want of presumption.
The German has so long been the soldier of Europe, that the military
instinct has entered into his blood. The military virtues he possesses
in abundance; but he also suffers from the drawbacks of the military
training. It was told me of a German servant, lately released from the
barracks, that he was instructed by his master to deliver a letter to a
certain house, and to wait there for the answer. The hours passed by,
and the man did not return. His master, anxious and surprised, followed.
He found the man where he had been sent, the answer in his hand. He was
waiting for further orders. The story sounds exaggerated, but personally
I can credit it.
The curious thing is that the same man, who as an individual is as
helpless as a child, becomes, the moment he puts on the uniform, an
intelligent being, capable of responsibility and initiative. The German
can rule others, and be ruled by others, but he cannot rule himself. The
cure would appear to be to train every German for an officer, and then
put him under himself. It is certain he would order himself about with
discretion and judgment, and see to it that he himself obeyed himself
with smartness and precision.
For the direction of German character into these channels, the schools,
of course, are chiefly responsible. Their everlasting teaching is duty.
It is a fine ideal for any people; but before buckling to it, one would
wish to have a clear understanding as to what this "duty" is. The German
idea of it would appear to be: "blind obedience to everything in
buttons." It is the antithesis of the Anglo-Saxon scheme; but as both
the Anglo-Saxon and the Teuton are prospering, there must be good in both
methods. Hitherto, the German has had the blessed fortune to be
exceptionally well governed; if this continue, it will go well with him.
When his troubles will begin will be when by any chance something goes
wrong with the governing machine. But maybe his method has the advantage
of producing a continuous supply of good governors; it would certainly
seem so.
As a trader, I am inclined to think the German will, unless his
temperament considerably change, remain always a long way behind his
Anglo-Saxon competitor; and this by reason of his virtues. To him life
is something more important than a mere race for wealth. A country that
closes its banks and post-offices for two hours in the middle of the day,
while it goes home and enjoys a comfortable meal in the bosom of its
family, with, perhaps, forty winks by way of dessert, cannot hope, and
possibly has no wish, to compete with a people that takes its meals
standing, and sleeps with a telephone over its bed. In Germany there is
not, at all events as yet, sufficient distinction between the classes to
make the struggle for position the life and death affair it is in
England. Beyond the landed aristocracy, whose boundaries are
impregnable, grade hardly counts. Frau Professor and Frau
Candlestickmaker meet at the Weekly Kaffee-Klatsch and exchange scandal
on terms of mutual equality. The livery-stable keeper and the doctor
hobnob together at their favourite beer hall. The wealthy master
builder, when he prepares his roomy waggon for an excursion into the
country, invites his foreman and his tailor to join him with their
families. Each brings his share of drink and provisions, and returning
home they sing in chorus the same songs. So long as this state of things
endures, a man is not induced to sacrifice the best years of his life to
win a fortune for his dotage. His tastes, and, more to the point still,
his wife's, remain inexpensive. He likes to see his flat or villa
furnished with much red plush upholstery and a profusion of gilt and
lacquer. But that is his idea; and maybe it is in no worse taste than is
a mixture of bastard Elizabethan with imitation Louis XV, the whole lit
by electric light, and smothered with photographs. Possibly, he will
have his outer walls painted by the local artist: a sanguinary battle, a
good deal interfered with by the front door, taking place below, while
Bismarck, as an angel, flutters vaguely about the bedroom windows. But
for his Old Masters he is quite content to go to the public galleries;
and "the Celebrity at Home" not having as yet taken its place amongst the
institutions of the Fatherland, he is not impelled to waste his money
turning his house into an old curiosity shop.
The German is a gourmand. There are still English farmers who, while
telling you that farming spells starvation, enjoy their seven solid meals
a day. Once a year there comes a week's feast throughout Russia, during
which many deaths occur from the over-eating of pancakes; but this is a
religious festival, and an exception. Taking him all round, the German
as a trencherman stands pre-eminent among the nations of the earth. He
rises early, and while dressing tosses off a few cups of coffee, together
with half a dozen hot buttered rolls. But it is not until ten o'clock
that he sits down to anything that can properly be called a meal. At one
or half-past takes place his chief dinner. Of this he makes a business,
sitting at it for a couple of hours. At four o'clock he goes to the
cafe, and eats cakes and drinks chocolate. The evening he devotes to
eating generally--not a set meal, or rarely, but a series of snacks,--a
bottle of beer and a Belegete-semmel or two at seven, say; another bottle
of beer and an Aufschnitt at the theatre between the acts; a small bottle
of white wine and a Spiegeleier before going home; then a piece of cheese
or sausage, washed down by more beer, previous to turning in for the
night.
But he is no gourmet. French cooks and French prices are not the rule at
his restaurant. His beer or his inexpensive native white wine he prefers
to the most costly clarets or champagnes. And, indeed, it is well for
him he does; for one is inclined to think that every time a French grower
sells a bottle of wine to a German hotel- or shop-keeper, Sedan is
rankling in his mind. It is a foolish revenge, seeing that it is not the
German who as a rule drinks it; the punishment falls upon some innocent
travelling Englishman. Maybe, however, the French dealer remembers also
Waterloo, and feels that in any event he scores.
In Germany expensive entertainments are neither offered nor expected.
Everything throughout the Fatherland is homely and friendly. The German
has no costly sports to pay for, no showy establishment to maintain, no
purse-proud circle to dress for. His chief pleasure, a seat at the opera
or concert, can be had for a few marks; and his wife and daughters walk
there in home-made dresses, with shawls over their heads. Indeed,
throughout the country the absence of all ostentation is to English eyes
quite refreshing. Private carriages are few and far between, and even
the droschke is made use of only when the quicker and cleaner electric
car is not available.
By such means the German retains his independence. The shopkeeper in
Germany does not fawn upon his customers. I accompanied an English lady
once on a shopping excursion in Munich. She had been accustomed to
shopping in London and New York, and she grumbled at everything the man
showed her. It was not that she was really dissatisfied; this was her
method. She explained that she could get most things cheaper and better
elsewhere; not that she really thought she could, merely she held it good
for the shopkeeper to say this. She told him that his stock lacked
taste--she did not mean to be offensive; as I have explained, it was her
method;--that there was no variety about it; that it was not up to date;
that it was commonplace; that it looked as if it would not wear. He did
not argue with her; he did not contradict her. He put the things back
into their respective boxes, replaced the boxes on their respective
shelves, walked into the little parlour behind the shop, and closed the
door.
"Isn't he ever coming back?" asked the lady, after a couple of minutes
had elapsed.
Her tone did not imply a question, so much as an exclamation of mere
impatience.
"I doubt it," I replied.
"Why not?" she asked, much astonished.
"I expect," I answered, "you have bored him. In all probability he is at
this moment behind that door smoking a pipe and reading the paper."
"What an extraordinary shopkeeper!" said my friend, as she gathered her
parcels together and indignantly walked out.
"It is their way," I explained. "There are the goods; if you want them,
you can have them. If you do not want them, they would almost rather
that you did not come and talk about them."
On another occasion I listened in the smoke-room of a German hotel to a
small Englishman telling a tale which, had I been in his place, I should
have kept to myself.
"It doesn't do," said the little Englishman, "to try and beat a German
down. They don't seem to understand it. I saw a first edition of _The
Robbers_ in a shop in the Georg Platz. I went in and asked the price. It
was a rum old chap behind the counter. He said: 'Twenty-five marks,' and
went on reading. I told him I had seen a better copy only a few days
before for twenty--one talks like that when one is bargaining; it is
understood. He asked me 'Where?' I told him in a shop at Leipsig. He
suggested my returning there and getting it; he did not seem to care
whether I bought the book or whether I didn't. I said:
"'What's the least you will take for it?'
"'I have told you once,' he answered; 'twenty-five marks.' He was an
irritable old chap.
"I said: 'It's not worth it.'
"'I never said it was, did I?' he snapped.
"I said: 'I'll give you ten marks for it.' I thought, maybe, he would
end by taking twenty.
"He rose. I took it he was coming round the counter to get the book out.
Instead, he came straight up to me. He was a biggish sort of man. He
took me by the two shoulders, walked me out into the street, and closed
the door behind me with a bang. I was never more surprised in all my
life."
"Maybe the book was worth twenty-five marks," I suggested.
"Of course it was," he replied; "well worth it. But what a notion of
business!"
If anything change the German character, it will be the German woman. She
herself is changing rapidly--advancing, as we call it. Ten years ago no
German woman caring for her reputation, hoping for a husband, would have
dared to ride a bicycle: to-day they spin about the country in their
thousands. The old folks shake their heads at them; but the young men, I
notice, overtake them and ride beside them. Not long ago it was
considered unwomanly in Germany for a lady to be able to do the outside
edge. Her proper skating attitude was thought to be that of clinging
limpness to some male relative. Now she practises eights in a corner by
herself, until some young man comes along to help her. She plays tennis,
and, from a point of safety, I have even noticed her driving a dog-cart.
Brilliantly educated she always has been. At eighteen she speaks two or
three languages, and has forgotten more than the average Englishwoman has
ever read. Hitherto, this education has been utterly useless to her. On
marriage she has retired into the kitchen, and made haste to clear her
brain of everything else, in order to leave room for bad cooking. But
suppose it begins to dawn upon her that a woman need not sacrifice her
whole existence to household drudgery any more than a man need make
himself nothing else than a business machine. Suppose she develop an
ambition to take part in the social and national life. Then the
influence of such a partner, healthy in body and therefore vigorous in
mind, is bound to be both lasting and far-reaching.
For it must be borne in mind that the German man is exceptionally
sentimental, and most easily influenced by his women folk. It is said of
him, he is the best of lovers, the worst of husbands. This has been the
woman's fault. Once married, the German woman has done more than put
romance behind her; she has taken a carpet-beater and driven it out of
the house. As a girl, she never understood dressing; as a wife, she
takes off such clothes even as she had, and proceeds to wrap herself up
in any odd articles she may happen to find about the house; at all
events, this is the impression she produces. The figure that might often
be that of a Juno, the complexion that would sometimes do credit to a
healthy angel, she proceeds of malice and intent to spoil. She sells her
birth-right of admiration and devotion for a mess of sweets. Every
afternoon you may see her at the cafe, loading herself with rich cream-
covered cakes, washed down by copious draughts of chocolate. In a short
time she becomes fat, pasty, placid, and utterly uninteresting.
When the German woman gives up her afternoon coffee and her evening beer,
takes sufficient exercise to retain her shape, and continues to read
after marriage something else than the cookery-book, the German
Government will find it has a new and unknown force to deal with. And
everywhere throughout Germany one is confronted by unmistakable signs
that the old German Frauen are giving place to the newer Damen.
Concerning what will then happen one feels curious. For the German
nation is still young, and its maturity is of importance to the world.
They are a good people, a lovable people, who should help much to make
the world better.
The worst that can be said against them is that they have their failings.
They themselves do not know this; they consider themselves perfect, which
is foolish of them. They even go so far as to think themselves superior
to the Anglo-Saxon: this is incomprehensible. One feels they must be
pretending.
"They have their points," said George; "but their tobacco is a national
sin. I'm going to bed."
We rose, and leaning over the low stone parapet, watched the dancing
lights upon the soft, dark river.
"It has been a pleasant Bummel, on the whole," said Harris; "I shall be
glad to get back, and yet I am sorry it is over, if you understand me."
"What is a 'Bummel'?" said George. "How would you translate it?"
"A 'Bummel'," I explained, "I should describe as a journey, long or
short, without an end; the only thing regulating it being the necessity
of getting back within a given time to the point from which one started.
Sometimes it is through busy streets, and sometimes through the fields
and lanes; sometimes we can be spared for a few hours, and sometimes for
a few days. But long or short, but here or there, our thoughts are ever
on the running of the sand. We nod and smile to many as we pass; with
some we stop and talk awhile; and with a few we walk a little way. We
have been much interested, and often a little tired. But on the whole we
have had a pleasant time, and are sorry when 'tis over."