My French acquaintances all said the same thing, when I told them I
wanted to go over to England: "What on earth do you want there?" Though
only a few hours' journey from England, they had never felt the least
curiosity to see the country. "And London! It was said to be a very
dull city; it was certainly not worth putting one's self out to go
there." Or else it was: "If you are going to London, be careful! London
is full of thieves and rascals; look well to your pockets!"
Only a few days later, the Parisians were shaken out of their calm,
without, however, being shaken out of their self-satisfaction. The Duc
de Grammont's speech on the 6th of July, which amounted to the
statement that France was not going to stand any Hohenzollern on the
throne of Spain, made the people fancy themselves deeply offended by
the King of Prussia, and a current of martial exasperation ran through
the irritable and misled people, who for four years had felt themselves
humiliated by Prussia's strong position. All said and believed that in
a week there would be war, and on both sides everything was so ordered
that there might be. There was still hope that common sense might get
the better of warlike madness in the French Government; but this much
was clear, there was going to be a sudden downfall of everything.
Between Dover and Calais the waves beat over the ship. From Dover, the
train went at a speed of sixty miles an hour, and made one think him a
great man who invented the locomotive, as great as Aristotle and Plato
together. It seemed to me that John Stuart Mill was that kind of man.
He opened, not roads, but railroads; his books were like iron rails,
unadorned, but useful, leading to their goal. And what will there was
in the English locomotive that drew our train,--like the driving
instinct of England's character!
Two things struck me on my journey across, a type of mechanical
Protestant religiosity which was new to me, and the knowledge of the
two languages along the coasts. A pleasant English doctor with whom I
got into conversation sat reading steadily in a little Gospel of St.
John that he carried with him, yawning as he read. The seamen on the
ship and the coast dwellers both in England and France spoke English
and French with about equal ease. It is probably the same in all border
countries, but it occurred to me that what came about here quite
naturally will in time be a possibility all over the world, namely, the
mastery of a second and common language, in addition to a people's own.
I drove into London through a sea of houses. When I had engaged a room,
changed my clothes, and written a letter that I wanted to send off at
once, the eighteen-year-old girl who waited on me informed me that no
letters were accepted on Sundays. As I had some little difficulty in
making out what she said, I supposed she had misunderstood my question
and thought I wanted to speak to the post-official. For I could not
help laughing at the idea that even the letterboxes had to enjoy their
Sabbath rest. But I found she was right. At the post-office, even the
letter-box was shut, as it was Sunday; I was obliged to put my letter
in a pillar-box in the street.
In Paris the Summer heat had been oppressive. In London, to my
surprise, the weather was fresh and cool, the air as light as it is in
Denmark in Autumn. My first visit was to the Greek and Assyrian
collections in the British Museum. In the Kensington Museum and the
Crystal Palace at Sydenham, I added to my knowledge of Michael Angelo,
to whom I felt drawn by a mighty affection. The admiration for his art
which was to endure undiminished all my life was even then profound. I
early felt that although Michael Angelo had his human weaknesses and
limitations, intellectually and as an artist he is one of the five or
six elect the world has produced, and scarcely any other great man has
made such an impression on my inner life as he.
In the British Museum I was accosted by a young Dane with whom I had
sometimes ridden out in the days of my riding lessons; this was Carl
Bech, now a landed proprietor, and in his company I saw many of the
sights of London and its environs. He knew more English than I, and
could find his way anywhere. That the English are rigid in their
conventions, he learnt one day to his discomfort; he had put on a pair
of white trousers, and as this was opposed to the usual precedent and
displeased, we were stared at by every man, woman and child we met, as
if the young man had gone out in his underclothing. I had a similar
experience one day as I was walking about the National Gallery with a
young German lady whose acquaintance I had made. An Englishwoman
stopped her in one of the rooms to ask:
"Was it you who gave up a check parasol downstairs?" and receiving an
answer in the affirmative, she burst out laughing in her face and went
off.
On July 16th came the great daily-expected news. War was declared, and
in face of this astounding fact and all the possibilities it presented,
people were struck dumb. The effect it had upon me personally was that
I made up my mind to return as soon as possible to France, to watch the
movement there. In London, where Napoleon III. was hated, and in a
measure despised, France was included in the aversion felt for him.
Everywhere, when I was asked on which side my sympathies were, they
broke in at once: "We are all for Prussia."