BERLIN EN PASSANT.
Snow! Last night the moon shone with a steel-blue light in the cloudless
heavens, and the sentinel stars stood out clear and bright, as on a
frosty winter’s evening. Never had I seen Berlin look more beautiful.
Long after the good citizens had retired to their homes, I lingered
under the lime-trees and gave myself up to the enchantment of the scene.
It was five-and-twenty years almost to the day since I had set foot
within the Prussian capital, and old memories crowded about me as I was
lost in reverie. It was not until I turned my steps homeward that I
found out how bitterly cold it was. I had not had time to think about
the weather, or to remember what season of the year it was. But, walking
home, it suddenly occurred to me that it was the merry month of May, and
that in a few weeks it would be June. In Berlin it might have been a
good old-fashioned Christmas Eve.
And to-day it is snowing--snowing in a way not to be mistaken. There is
no half-hearted business about this snow. It doesn’t change to rain just
as it falls, like a snow that is ashamed of itself and endeavours to
conceal its true character. Down it comes in flakes the size of shilling
pieces, and the wayfarers’ umbrellas are as white as their noses are red
and their lips are blue.
Only forty-eight hours before, as I stepped gaily into the train at
Victoria on the day of the Two Thousand Guineas, I said jokingly, ‘When
I travel I like to see Snow.’ But I didn’t mean the snow that fell upon
me so unmercifully in Berlin. I meant the excellent Mr. Snow, who,
promoted from the Club train to the management of the Sleeping Car
Company’s London office, still devotes himself to the comfort of
Continental travellers, and makes the way pleasant before them. I had
reason to be grateful to this most seasonable Snow. Not only did he take
the trouble to send me the winner of the Two Thousand to Dover, but when
I arrived at Calais I found that he had ordered by telegraph an
excellent dinner for me at the buffet, and had reserved me a compartment
in the Cologne express, for all of which I felt exceedingly grateful.
The snow that awaited me at Berlin was not nearly so agreeable. Still,
as it is over, and the sun once more asserts its rights in the heavens,
we may as well take the unseasonable downfall as a little practical joke
on the part of the clerk of the weather, and say no more about it.
The sleeping cars which run between Calais and Cologne in connection
with the Club train are excellent, but as I didn’t go to sleep until
midnight, and had to turn out at half-past two fully dressed at the
frontier and fit obstinate keys into troublesome locks, and then had to
undress again with the pleasant knowledge that at five a.m. I should be
turned out at Cologne, I can’t say that, taken as a whole, my night’s
rest was all that a selfish man could wish for himself. At half-past
five, however, I had some excellent coffee at the Cologne buffet, and
then went into the cathedral and assisted at a most interesting
ceremony, in which a bishop was taking the leading part. I stayed in the
cathedral till seven, and at twenty minutes to eight I found one of the
nicest trains I ever saw in my life waiting to take me on to Berlin. It
wasn’t a special train of luxury due to private enterprise, with a
premium of fifty or seventy-five per cent. to pay for the privilege of
sitting in it, but a train provided by the Government for ordinary first
and second class passengers.
A polite conductor, having inspected my ticket, begged me to do him the
honour of seating myself, and ushered me into a comfortable compartment
containing four easy-chairs and a small dining-table. At the same time
he handed me a card containing a map of the route, the time of arrival
at each station, and a list of various hot and cold delicacies and
refreshing beverages which could be served _en route_ to the traveller.
The prices attached were most moderate. For instance, feeling hungry
about eleven o’clock (remember, I breakfasted soon after five), I
touched an electric bell, and instantly a waiter appeared bowing and
smiling in front of my easy-chair. I ordered a beefsteak and potatoes
and a bottle of Mosel wine. The steak was tenderness itself, and the
potatoes were excellent. For this repast, including bread, butter, and
cheese, I paid, according to the tariff, 1s. 6d., and the bottle of wine
was 2s. Everything on the bill was as moderately priced. For instance, a
plate of soup and bread is 4d.; a plate of cold meat, with the usual
etceteras, 1s.; half a cold chicken and bread, 1s. 6d. The ‘drinks’ are
quite as reasonable. A bottle of seltzer is 3d.; a lemonade, 3d.; a
bottle of beer, 3d.; and the wines are proportionately cheap. When you
think of these prices you must also remember that the entire train is on
the corridor system, and is luxuriously fitted up in first and second
class sitting-rooms, with every convenience for the toilet, and that
there is a large staff of attendants. Whatever faults the German
Government may have, it has made express railway travelling the comfort
of the many instead of the luxury of the few.
In Berlin, when you arrive at a railway-station, an official gives you a
huge brass plate with a number of a cab on it, and you can’t have a cab
without you have the brass plate. It is an excellent idea if you can get
a porter to carry the plate; if you can’t, it takes less out of you to
walk to your destination.
Berlin cabs are first-class and second-class. The first-class cab is one
in which the united ages of the driver, the horse, and the cab are under
one hundred years. As soon as they are more than that they become second
class.
Berlin is, I should fancy, now the cleanest and the best-lighted city in
Europe. After months of darkest London, brightest Berlin is a distinct
relief to me. From end to end in every street and in every shop it is a
blaze of electric light and clean white colour.
I went to the steeplechases at Charlottenburg, where a few days
previously our well-known gentleman rider, Mr. ‘Charley Thompson,’ had
captured the hearts of the Berliners by his plucky riding in the race
for the gold cup, which he won after being thrown heavily and having a
can-can performed upon his chest by his horse. Berlin racing is a calm
and serious affair. The officers (in uniform) ride their own horses, and
all the soldiers on the course come to attention and salute as they pass
by. No bookmakers are allowed, and you have to pay ten marks for a
special ticket before you can even back a horse at the ‘totalizer.’ The
object of this is to make it impossible for the working classes to
gamble, and it is highly effective.
At one time anybody could patronize the Pari-Mutuel, but the working
classes lost their money and then kicked up a row about it, and said
they were ruined. The Kaiser heard of it, and stopped all racing at
once. But after about six weeks he cooled down and gave permission for
racing to be resumed again under certain conditions. The ten marks
admission to the Pari-Mutuel enclosure is one of them. It is thus that a
paternal Government protects the earnings of its workmen. With a view
also of keeping the working classes from the racecourse, no racing is
now permitted on Sunday. This is ‘all on account of the ‘Lizer'--the
totalizer.
Kaiser Wilhelm, in spite of his eccentricities, which the Germans freely
acknowledge, is undoubtedly immensely popular with his people. He is a
German of Germans, and the Germany-for-the-Germans feeling was never so
strong as it is at present. Our national motto is ‘Made in Germany,’ but
the Vaterland does not return the compliment. ‘Made in England’ is not a
common object of the seashore in the Kaiser’s dominions.
They tell many amusing stories in Berlin of the strength of the
‘national’ feeling. When Queen Victoria sent the Kaiser’s baby-boy a
pair of shoes, knitted with her own royal and great-grandmotherly hands,
the Emperor shook his head and laid them aside. ‘A German prince,’ he
said, ‘must wear German shoes.’ And the baby’s little feet were at once
duly encased in the home-made article.
I was in a blissful condition of lazy don’t-careism, enjoying myself in
my own way, lounging in the sunshine (it turned suddenly warm after that
snowstorm) ‘unter den Linden,’ sitting outside the confectioner’s eating
ices, smoking cigarettes, and drinking chocolate, when in an evil hour I
came suddenly upon an old German friend, who has been long a resident in
Berlin. He insisted at once upon being my guide, philosopher, and
friend. He said that he would ‘take me about’ and show me everything.
He has kept his word, and I have had to telegraph home for new boots.
I remember an old song which was in years gone by a great favourite with
Italian prime donne during the London opera season. They used to take it
as an encore in the middle of various centuries and under every variety
of surrounding circumstances. I think it was called ‘Home, Sweet Home.’
There was a passage in it which, as far as I could gather from the
singers’ accent and ‘variations,’ ran somewhat after this fashion:
‘Through places and palaces though I may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.’
Since my friend swooped down on me I have been roaming through nothing
but places and palaces--especially palaces. Last Sunday, although I was
dog tired, he banged at my bedroom-door at the unearthly hour of nine,
and bore me off breakfastless to Potsdam and palaced me to such an
extent that the sight of an ordinary middle-class dwelling would have
been a positive relief.
He conducted me through Babelsburg, the charming summer palace of old
Kaiser Wilhelm; he took me all over the Marble Palace, in which the
Crown Princes of Prussia reside as soon as they are old enough; and he
made me visit every nook and corner of Sans Souci, and gave off the life
of Frederick the Great in chapters--a chapter in each room. I have
always respected the memory of Frederick the Great because he was so
kind to his dogs, and buried them in the palace grounds and put up
stones to their memory. For that I long ago forgave him for playing the
flute and painting ladies with two right feet and other anatomical
eccentricities; but after three hours of Sans Souci I began to resent
Frederick the Great as a personal injustice, and I wasn’t in the least
sympathetic when my friend explained to me that the great man was a
martyr to the gout and suffered terribly with his nerves.
I was trotted over more Potsdam palaces after Sans Souci, and was
graciously admitted to the private apartments of the imperial family,
not usually shown to strangers. At any other time I should have felt
flattered, but so thoroughly worn out was I that even the sight of the
imperial nursery and the imperial clothes-horse, on which the imperial
baby-linen is dried in front of the imperial fire, failed to put me in a
good temper; and at last, as my friend was dragging me up the steps of
another palace to show me a room in which everything was solid silver, I
turned round and fled, and never halted until I had jumped into a train
that was starting for Berlin, where I arrived just in time to put on a
pair of carpet-slippers, and in these I had to rush off to Kroll’s
Theatre to see ‘Die lustigen Weiber von Windsor’ ('The Merry Wives of
Windsor'), as the performance commenced at the unearthly hour of seven.
I have gone through a great deal in my time, but I never expected to
have to go through six palaces in one day. After that you will easily
understand how the words of the poet who preferred his humble home to
roaming through palaces came home to me.