"Any Hebrew or Chinese?"
"Not a word."
"Sure?"
"Not so much as a full stop in any of them."
"That's a blessing," said B., much relieved. "You would be trying to
palm off one or other of them on some simple-minded peasant for German,
if you did!"
It is a wearisome journey, through the long, hot hours of the morning, to
Cologne. The carriage is stifling. Railway travellers, I have always
noticed, regard fresh air as poison. They like to live on the refuse of
each other's breath, and close up every window and ventilator tight. The
sun pours down through glass and blind and scorches our limbs. Our heads
and our bodies ache. The dust and soot drift in and settle on our
clothes, and grime our hands and face. We all doze and wake up with a
start, and fall to sleep again upon each other. I wake, and find my
neighbour with his head upon my shoulder. It seems a shame to cast him
off; he looks so trustful. But he is heavy. I push him on to the man
the other side. He is just as happy there. We roll about; and when the
train jerks, we butt each other with our heads. Things fall from the
rack upon us. We look up surprised, and go to sleep again. My bag
tumbles down upon the head of the unjust man in the corner. (Is it
retribution?) He starts up, begs my pardon, and sinks back into
oblivion. I am too sleepy to pick up the bag. It lies there on the
floor. The unjust man uses it for a footstool.
We look out, through half-closed eyes, upon the parched, level, treeless
land; upon the little patchwork farms of corn and beetroot, oats and
fruit, growing undivided, side by side, each looking like a little garden
dropped down into the plain; upon the little dull stone houses.
A steeple appears far away upon the horizon. (The first thing that we
ask of men is their faith: "What do you believe?" The first thing that
they show us is their church: "_This_ we believe.") Then a tall chimney
ranges itself alongside. (First faith, then works.) Then a confused
jumble of roofs, out of which, at last, stand forth individual houses,
factories, streets, and we draw up in a sleeping town.
People open the carriage door, and look in upon us. They do not appear
to think much of us, and close the door again quickly, with a bang, and
we sleep once more.
As we rumble on, the country slowly wakes. Rude V-shaped carts, drawn by
yoked oxen, and even sometimes by cows, wait patiently while we cross the
long, straight roads stretching bare for many a mile across the plain.
Peasants trudge along the fields to work. Smoke rises from the villages
and farm-houses. Passengers are waiting at the wayside stations.
Towards mid-day, on looking out, we see two tiny spires standing side by
side against the sky. They seem to be twins, and grow taller as we
approach. I describe them to B., and he says they are the steeples of
Cologne Cathedral; and we all begin to yawn and stretch, and to collect
our bags and coats and umbrellas.