TRAVELS ON THE CONTINENT
Only in travel do we find rest. For our world is a moving platform,
and he who would mark time must run—certainly he must run.—DR.
DIVES: _Abraham the Pedestrian_.
The choice of a profession, which naturally began to exercise me when I
had gone down, was not at that time at all an easy one. The effect of
Indian Home Rule had been, not only to disappoint many who had aspired
to the Indian Civic Service, but to send home from India a whole host of
Europeans who had lost their positions there and were now in search of
employment. The field was consequently narrowed. Canon Dives was very
urgent with me to take Holy Orders. “It is just your sort we want,” he
was kind enough to say: “people who have stripped Life of its mysteries
and looked Truth in the face.” I objected that I felt disqualified on
theological grounds: my geographical training had taught me that what is
nowhere is nothing, and the idea of a Supreme Being who was ubiquitous
affronted my intelligence. Could I, then, honestly take the pay of a
Church which taught the existence of a God, when I myself believed in
nothing of the sort? He was quite unshaken in his opinion. “After all,”
he said, “relativity is in the air, and we are coming to realize, I
think, that all truth is relative to the person who believes it. To
preach to a congregation of orthodox people and bid them live up to
their lights is not necessarily the work of one who is herself an
orthodox believer. Besides, you would not get much pay at first. And, as
time went on, you might well find that your own ideas would come to
frame themselves in a more traditional setting.” I thus very nearly
became a deaconess (it was not, of course, till nearly twenty years
later that women could attain any higher rank in the ministry). But
family opposition (“My dear,” said Miss Linthorpe, “you’d run off with
the examining chaplain”) combined with my absence of any definite
religious convictions to prevent it. There was some talk of my going
into my father’s business, but its prospects were still far from
reassuring, and my mother urged, with some common sense, that it would
be a mistake to have all our eggs in one basket. And then the
authorities at St. Lucy’s solved the difficulty by obtaining for me, as
the result of my geographical successes, a travelling scholarship which,
on condition of my residing abroad, would make it unnecessary for me to
think further about my career for the next two years.
I travelled by train. The aeroplane had not then come to its own, even
for long journeys. A series of accidents in the five previous years, not
traceable to any one cause, but simply one of those runs of bad luck
which mere observation cannot but detect in the nature of things, had
made the public nervous and the insurance premiums prohibitive. On the
other side, the American Trust which had just taken over the main
arteries of Continental Travel—one hardly hears it spoken of now, or
only in the same breath with the Darien Canal and the South Sea Company,
but to us the Belgium to Bosphorus Trunk Railway was the latest
achievement of the human genius—had undoubtedly revolutionized the train
journey. The continuous cinema performances, even if you did not
patronize them yourself, at least drew off from you the importunate
infants that are the bane of the railway carriages (Juliet Savage
profanely said that when she went by train she always prayed “Deliver
me, O Lord, from the hands of strange children”). Wireless installations
and a tape machine made it possible to keep in touch with the news of
the world at large. The libraries paid their way, although they were
said to reckon on a loss of about £5 by thefts every journey! I believe
billiard-players complained of the motion, even the very slight motion
which the patent springs had not managed to eliminate, but for myself I
always found Badminton made a better game when you had the swing of the
train under you to complicate the problem of keeping your feet. With all
these amenities, we did not trouble about speed (these _trains de luxe_
only averaged about thirty miles an hour), and the pleasant days passed
all too quickly on them. Well, it was another item added to the great
list of human follies! And yet it is good discipline for the soul to
have seen many such and to have outlived them.
With such leisurely progress I visited, during the latter part of ’38
and almost the whole of ’39, the principal centres of that mid-European
republic which we now call Magiria, but which still went, at the time of
my visit, by the name of Mittel-Europa. I went from Geneva to Munich,
from Munich to Innsbruck, from Innsbruck to Vienna, from Vienna to
Bayreuth and Prague, from Prague to Buda-Pest, from Buda-Pest back to
Dresden and Leipzig, from Leipzig to Mainz, and so back again to Basle,
without crossing a frontier, having my luggage examined, or being asked
to produce a passport—I got tired of counting how often I must have
submitted to such nuisances if I had done the same journey ten years
earlier. I was not a mere sight-seer; I had a purpose in view. Although
a travelling scholarship did not entail any conditions as to how you
should occupy your time, there was still a feeling that you ought to
produce, when it lapsed, a thesis of some sort to justify your
intellectual existence. For myself, I determined to write a monograph,
which I subsequently published and which gained me honorary admission to
the Royal Geographical Society, on the constitution and the general
conditions of life which I had observed in the then quite new country of
Mittel-Europa. I hope my readers will not accuse me of unnecessary
vanity if I print here some few paragraphs from it, which are not, after
all, without their interest: it is instructive to read, at this distant
date, the estimate which an impartial observer could then form of the
prospects of that unique state, which had not then passed, as it has
since passed triumphantly, the test of more than fifty years’ untroubled
permanence.
“Twenty years ago, when the break up of the ramshackle Empire of
Austria-Hungary had brought into being a whole welter of incompetent
states, at variance with one another and in themselves, at the very
heart of Europe, it would have seemed well-nigh impossible that a single
stroke of statesmanship should, in so brief a compass of time, solve all
their problems and unite them afresh, this time upon acceptable terms
and upon a real, living basis of common interest. Austria itself, shorn
of its seaboard and apparently destitute of all hope of
self-development; Hungary with its unquiet political agitations;
Czecho-Slovakia with its national, its constitutional, its religious
dissensions; Bavaria and Saxony, still loosely attached to the German
confederation, yet ready upon the slightest pretext to part company with
their uncongenial neighbours—it would have seemed impossible, a mere
Utopian dream, that all these units should be merged in a single
Republic, by the far-seeing genius, not of a politician, not of a
religious leader, not of a national hero, but of a Tourists’ Agency—and
that agency one which had its centre neither in Vienna nor in Prague nor
in Munich, but—_tu regere imperio populos, Romane, memento_—in the busy
thoroughfare of Ludgate Circus.
“The old Republic of Switzerland was of course the model, as it
consented to become the nucleus, of this vast political experiment. Here
were people of three different races—French, German, and Italian—people
who not only differed, but had in time past differed even to blood, in
their religious outlook, living together in perfect harmony and
unparalleled prosperity. The Swiss character is not naturally pacific;
on the contrary, in the late Middle Ages the Swiss were the most venal
and the most savage mercenaries to be obtained in Europe: yet the little
Republic not only kept itself clear, poorly armed as it was, from the
turmoil of the Great War,[1] but laboured, not unsuccessfully, to draw
the combatants together and to invite exchanges of opinion. Further, its
prosperity seemed in no way diminished by the fact that it had no
seaboard and depended upon the good-will of its more powerful neighbours
for the whole maintenance of its import and export trade. What could be
the secret of this phenomenon on the political horizon, this living
disproof of all our most cherished theories as to the conditions which
guarantee the unity and the well-being of a nation?
“The answer to this enigma was already known in Ludgate Circus. The
Swiss prospered as they did because they were a nation of hotel-keepers.
Hotel-keepers, by the very nature of their profession, are bound to keep
the peace as far as possible not only with but among their neighbours.
They are bound to avoid even the threat or the appearance of strikes and
disturbances in their own country, for fear of awaking panic in the
hearts of those maiden ladies who are their chief patronesses.
Hotel-keepers are not troubled by any petty differences of religion or
nationality, so long as they are united in a common endeavour to make
money out of the foreigner. Hotel-keepers, finally, do not trouble about
a seaboard—any sort of board is good enough for them. It followed that
there was only one remedy to apply to the distracted politics of Middle
Europe. A larger Switzerland must be formed, which should contain as
many as possible of the important tourists’ resorts, and must be
organized on the Swiss model, to constitute a solid block of pacific
influence, bound together by an indissoluble bond of common commercial
interest, which should extend from the South of the Rhineland to the
very gates of Galicia.
“It is amazing to see, as one travels about the country, how the lesser
difficulties which at first sight seemed likely to attend the scheme
solved themselves on the general principles which guided its promoters.
Thus, the religious question, which had been acute in several of the old
states, gave no further trouble when it was understood that the state
would pay for the upkeep of all Church buildings by a _pro rata_ grant,
proportional to the number of foreign travellers who had visited each in
the course of the last census period. The old political divisions of the
whole area were obliterated, and replaced by a new division based on
railway facilities; when exception was taken to the use of the word
‘cantons,’ as implying that the Swiss system had overrun its natural
boundaries, it was decided that these new geographical units should go
by the name of ‘coupons.’ Once it was realized that the whole nation had
only a single aim, viz. the exploitation of the foreigner, all
democratic institutions speedily disappeared, and the present Senate was
set up, consisting of the proprietors of those hotels which are marked
with a star in Baedeker’s Guide. Taxes were abolished, and replaced by a
five per cent. duty on all commissions and tips. The army was disbanded;
for it was rightly argued that there was no danger of friction with
foreign nations: if they have grievances to ventilate, they are
requested to communicate direct with Ludgate Circus. The language
problem was solved by the introduction of American as the official
language of the State; the exchange difficulty, which had threatened to
strangle the commercial life of Central Europe, was easily met by the
self-sacrificing policy of the Agency. The Agency retains very real
rights as a power behind the throne, but in no way obtrudes itself on
the notice of the people at large; and if the policemen, customs
officers, etc., have the distinguishing initials T.C. on their caps,
this is only because they create confidence in the mind of the
traveller.
“Mittel-Europa has, of course, no diplomatic service; nor does she,
except for the Papal Nuncio, admit any foreign representatives. Yet she
looms large in the Councils of Europe, and the League of Nations is even
now holding—we trust, not unfruitfully—its 218th session at
Ober-Ammergau. Her exports are enormous, consisting chiefly of
paper-knives, crucifixes, picture-postcards, and unclaimed baggage. Her
Parliament meets only once a year, during the months of July, August,
and September, not in a single, fixed capital, but in a series of cities
taken in rotation—this was, of course, at one time the custom in our own
country, when men could speak of the Parliament of Oxford, the
Parliament of Gloucester, and so on. The city in which the Parliament is
to meet for that year is, of course, for that year the Mecca of all the
principal ‘personally conducted tours’ from this country and from the
United States, and the proceeds of these tours ordinarily serve to
defray the whole expenses of the members. There are no effective
political parties, though there is naturally a certain amount of rivalry
between the various local interests, debate occasionally becoming
acrimonious on the respective salubrity of the various health resorts:
in general, however, every one is permitted to say what he will of his
own department or ‘coupon,’ provided that he does not explicitly
disparage the amenities of any other. Crime is practically unknown
there; the majority of the criminal classes have abandoned theft as
being less lucrative than the normal occupations of their
fellow-countrymen.
“It is greatly to be hoped that in the event of another European War the
central position of Mittel-Europa would have a powerful influence in
putting a speedy end to the conflict. It would clearly be impossible for
the Republic to take sides with either belligerent, since it would
immediately strangle all its industries by doing so. Being neutral, it
would necessarily interpose a barrier between any two great powers who
were trying to fly at one another’s throats. It is true that this ideal
has only been imperfectly realized, since the suggestion of including
the whole Rhine country, with parts of Alsace-Lorraine, within the
boundaries of the new state, was negatived by France, always suspicious
of unfriendly motives: an equally intransigent attitude was, most
unfortunately, observed by Poland. But even within its lesser confines
Mittel-Europa cannot fail to be an influence for good.”
Such was my impression of the situation at the time: and those who
remember the incidents of the Great War—how it was Magiria which very
nearly prevented the declaration of war in 1972, how Magirian
ambassadors were everywhere the natural protectors of the neutral
interest, how, finally, it was on Magirian soil, at Zürich, that the
Peace Conference met in 1975—will not be disposed to quarrel with the
accuracy of my estimate. The rest of my paper would not be of much
interest to modern readers; but I will add some private reminiscences in
the form of extracts from my diary, which will not, I hope, seem out of
place: Mittel-Europa was, then as since, a great meeting-ground for the
fashionable world of all countries, and it will easily be imagined that,
fresh from the almost conventual seclusion of my life at Challow and at
Oxford, I missed no opportunity of extending my acquaintance and
improving my knowledge of men and manners during my time abroad.
* * * * *
Nuremberg, December 26, 1939. Yesterday, Christmas Day, was solemnly
kept by all classes in the town; even the Socialists flying their flag
half-mast and in many cases going about in mourning. To church in the
morning at St. Sebald’s (I find St. Laurence’s has been given back to
the Catholics); we heard a most eloquent lay sermon from one of the
Senators, who is a rich hotel-proprietor in the town. He preached on
Home-love, of which instinct he said, rather arbitrarily I thought, that
the Christus-myth was an objective-becoming. He grew quite eloquent over
the lack of accommodation at Bethlehem recorded in the Gospel, and
plainly implied that it was the sort of thing which would not be allowed
to happen nowadays. He said he was glad to be able to preach about
home-love, since he saw so many people in church who were clearly exiled
for the moment from their native country; it was, however, he said, the
object of the Government to make us all feel as much at home as
possible. Immediately after Church went to an enormous Christmas dinner
given by the manager of our hotel, to which most of the notabilities of
the town and several distinguished foreigners had been invited. The
dinner lasted from twelve noon on Christmas Day till two o’clock this
morning.
I sat next to one of the new nobility, the Landgrab von Fleissing. He
said he was a great reader of English poetry, especially Byron and Mrs.
Wilcox: I said neither of them were ever read in England nowadays, and
he seemed disappointed; so I asked him whether he read Kipling, which
was a fortunate shot: he said “The Beast-mark” was his favourite story.
I found he came from Prague, so asked him whether he was a Catholic. He
said no, he belonged to the State Church, which broke away from the
Catholics in 1920, because they demanded a vernacular liturgy and a
married clergy. I asked whether he approved of the married clergy, and
he said no, because they did not believe in religion: for himself, he
was pious, and thought it was stupid not to believe in God. I explained
something of my own doubts, to which he only replied, “Ah, you English,
you are so big you get along without him.”
On the other side of me was a Russian, whose name I could not catch: he
was very proud of his country, which was, he said, the first
revolutionary country, and was still a sort of model of revolution to
all others. He was very rich, and kept four motor-cars. When I expressed
surprise about this, he explained that communism did not mean an equal
sharing of all possessions by all the people, but a free opportunity for
men’s natural powers of leadership to come out. (I was told afterwards
that his came out in the form of holding up a supply of wheat, for
which, my informant added, he would certainly have been lynched in
America.) He was very enthusiastic about education, which naturally
interested me, and I asked him what sort of curriculum the children went
through in the elementary schools. He said they learned not to respect
the nobility, not to believe in God, not to love their wives, not to
obey their parents, not to join the army, and many, many other things. I
said it all sounded rather negative, but he could not understand this
word; so I said I did not understand why people needed to be _taught_
such things, but he could not see this.
The room got very hot towards the end of the proceedings. We sang Auld
Lang Syne before we separated. We go back to Munich to-morrow.
Vienna, June 24, 1939. I met one of the greatest doctors here at a
dance, and he danced so badly that I sat out with him and talked hard to
prevent him wanting to go back to the ball-room. He said I ought to go
and see the patients at the great Hospital of Rest, where there was a
new treatment being tried; you had to sit in a series of draughts, which
were carefully graduated so as to get stronger and stronger. It was a
wonderful thing, especially for rheumatism. There was another cure which
meant that you had to be coated with tar all over. I asked whether they
made any charge for admission to see these patients, and he said yes,
unless I had got one of the new “Go-everywhere” coupons. I asked whether
the psycho-analysts were still strong among the medical faculty, and he
said he thought their influence was declining. They had declared that
all music was demoralizing, and that had made trouble with the Senators
at Bayreuth. They had also wanted to kill all pet dogs.
Bayreuth, August 3, 1939. Almost the first thing we did when we got here
was to go to the much-advertised “continuous performance” of the “Ring.”
So far as the music was concerned, I simply proved once more the
mendacity of the friends who always tell you you don’t have to be
musical to appreciate Wagner—not a note of it meant anything to me. And,
though the scenery was certainly gorgeous, the whole thing seemed to me
over-acted, especially in the amount of facial expression the actors
found it necessary to put in. But what enthralled me was the merely
_mechanical_ triumph of the whole thing; never for one moment did the
cinema-operator get out of time with the gramophone; of course if he had
the effect would have lowered the dignity of the whole performance. It
was wonderful to watch how the devotees sat there silent, hour after
hour; I had one old gentleman pointed out to me who attends every day
from nine to one, and again from half-past two to half-past six. It was
impossible not to be impressed. With my “Go-everywhere” coupon I was
allowed to look behind the scenes, and the gramophone was certainly
marvellous. It is said to be the largest in the world, and I could
easily have stood up in the mouth of the funnel. There is a story of a
cinema-operator who was so worried at having got the pictures _one bar
out_ that he went home and shot himself—they are a marvellous people. We
also went to the Wagner Mausoleum, where they have continuous lectures
on the operas. An old professor, whose name I did not catch, brought
forward various reasons, which I did not understand, for believing that
Parsifal was written with some special political object, whose nature I
cannot remember.
Buda-Pest, September 18, 1939. I was introduced to the great Hungarian
novelist, Myslok. He asked me how many of his works I had read; I said
none. As he seemed disappointed, I added that I had recently had to
spend most of my time reading geography. “Geography!” he said. “What is
that? It is only the science of the earth, and what is earth? Only one
big piece of dirt”—he pronounced the word with great emphasis and
contempt. I was rather nettled, and said I supposed at that rate
geography was very much the same as reading modern novels. He asked me
which of his characters I liked best: I said I had not read any of his
works. He said that was very strange, because they had all been
translated into English. I said I always found translations of foreign
books dull reading; somehow the thing altered so much in the process. He
agreed with me enthusiastically, and said that when his last novel was
translated the English publisher had insisted on cutting out the part
where the hero (I forget his name now) trampled on the heroine because
he did not like her dress. I was feeling rather vague and inattentive,
and asked, “Did it kill her?” He said no, but she limped like a crab all
the rest of the book. He then asked if I did not think this the finest
book he had ever written. I said I had not had the pleasure of reading
any of his works. He then asked me to call on him, but he looks so
dreadfully like poor Mr. Hoskyns that I really don’t think I can.
Mainz, November 2, 1939. There is a great Congress of Food Reformers
going on here, and the hotel-keepers are in despair. Our waiter told us
that we were the only people in the hotel who would take the table
d’hôte, and even of the diners _à la carte_ three complained that they
were starving owing to a shortage of their favourite diet. Dates, he
said, were what they wanted mostly, and all the dates in the town had
been sold out long since. “Why they not go hold blinking Congress in the
Sahara?” he said, polishing the plates furiously. We went to a lecture
on the nutritive qualities of the locust, which I had always hitherto
regarded as a sort of _pis aller_, and I am afraid I came away
unconverted. Any number of journalists were present, and we asked the
waiter afterwards whether they did not help out the cuisine rather; but
he said they took nothing except beer.
* * * * *
These, I am afraid, are only selections from the faded old leaves of my
foreign diary, and they are not even representative selections—I seem to
have thought a great deal about clothes in those days, and a good deal
about young men. I had two proposals, one in Munich and one in Prague,
but I managed to get rid of my suitors without invoking the aid of old
Miss Linthorpe. It was the news of her dangerous illness that called me
back to England before my time was really up. I arrived at home quite
unexpected; my father, I remember, greeted me on the door-step with
“Hullo, Opal! I’ve been round in 81.”