Troubles of a Tourist Agent.--His Views on Tourists.--The English Woman
Abroad.--And at Home.--The Ugliest Cathedral in Europe.--Old Masters and
New.--Victual-and-Drink-Scapes.--The German Band.--A "Beer Garden."--Not
the Women to Turn a Man's Head.--Difficulty of Dining to Music.--Why one
should Keep one's Mug Shut.
I think myself it is Saturday. B. says it is only Friday; but I am
positive I have had three cold baths since we left Ober-Ammergau, which
we did on Wednesday morning. If it is only Friday, then I have had two
morning baths in one day. Anyhow, we shall know to-morrow by the shops
being open or shut.
We travelled from Oberau with a tourist agent, and he told us all his
troubles. It seems that a tourist agent is an ordinary human man, and
has feelings just like we have. This had never occurred to me before. I
told him so.
"No," he replied, "it never does occur to you tourists. You treat us as
if we were mere Providence, or even the Government itself. If all goes
well, you say, what is the good of us, contemptuously; and if things go
wrong, you say, what is the good of us, indignantly. I work sixteen
hours a day to fix things comfortably for you, and you cannot even look
satisfied; while if a train is late, or a hotel proprietor overcharges,
you come and bully _me_ about it. If I see after you, you mutter that I
am officious; and if I leave you alone, you grumble that I am neglectful.
You swoop down in your hundreds upon a tiny village like Ober-Ammergau
without ever letting us know even that you are coming, and then threaten
to write to the _Times_ because there is not a suite of apartments and a
hot dinner waiting ready for each of you.
"You want the best lodgings in the place, and then, when at a tremendous
cost of trouble, they have been obtained for you, you object to pay the
price asked for them. You all try and palm yourselves off for dukes and
duchesses, travelling in disguise. You have none of you ever heard of a
second-class railway carriage--didn't know that such things were made.
You want a first-class Pullman car reserved for each two of you. Some of
you have seen an omnibus in the distance, and have wondered what it was
used for. To suggest that you should travel in such a plebeian
conveyance, is to give you a shock that takes you two days to recover
from. You expect a private carriage, with a footman in livery, to take
you through the mountains. You, all of you, must have the most expensive
places in the theatre. The eight-mark and six-mark places are every bit
as good as the ten-mark seats, of which there are only a very limited
number; but you are grossly insulted if it is hinted that you should sit
in anything but the dearest chairs. If the villagers would only be
sensible and charge you ten marks for the eight-mark places you would be
happy; but they won't."
I must candidly confess that the English-speaking people one meets with
on the Continent are, taken as a whole, a most disagreeable contingent.
One hardly ever hears the English language spoken on the Continent,
without hearing grumbling and sneering.
The women are the most objectionable. Foreigners undoubtedly see the
very poorest specimens of the female kind we Anglo-Saxons have to show.
The average female English or American tourist is rude and
self-assertive, while, at the same time, ridiculously helpless and
awkward. She is intensely selfish, and utterly inconsiderate of others;
everlastingly complaining, and, in herself, drearily uninteresting. We
travelled down in the omnibus from Ober-Ammergau with three perfect
specimens of the species, accompanied by the usual miserable-looking man,
who has had all the life talked out of him. They were grumbling the
whole of the way at having been put to ride in an omnibus. It seemed
that they had never been so insulted in their lives before, and they took
care to let everybody in the vehicle know that they had paid for
first-class, and that at home they kept their own carriage. They were
also very indignant because the people at the house where they had lodged
had offered to shake hands with them at parting. They did not come to
Ober-Ammergau to be treated on terms of familiarity by German peasants,
they said.
There are many women in the world who are in every way much better than
angels. They are gentle and gracious, and generous and kind, and
unselfish and good, in spite of temptations and trials to which mere
angels are never subjected. And there are also many women in the world
who, under the clothes, and not unfrequently under the title of a lady,
wear the heart of an underbred snob. Having no natural dignity, they
think to supply its place with arrogance. They mistake noisy bounce for
self-possession, and supercilious rudeness as the sign of superiority.
They encourage themselves in sleepy stupidity under the impression that
they are acquiring aristocratic "repose." They would appear to have
studied "attitude" from the pages of the _London Journal_, coquetry from
barmaids--the commoner class of barmaids, I mean--wit from three-act
farces, and manners from the servants'-hall. To be gushingly fawning to
those above them, and vulgarly insolent to everyone they consider below
them, is their idea of the way to hold and improve their position,
whatever it may be, in society; and to be brutally indifferent to the
rights and feelings of everybody else in the world is, in their opinion,
the hall-mark of gentle birth.
They are the women you see at private views, pushing themselves in front
of everybody else, standing before the picture so that no one can get
near it, and shouting out their silly opinions, which they evidently
imagine to be brilliantly satirical remarks, in strident tones: the women
who, in the stalls of the theatre, talk loudly all through the
performance; and who, having arrived in the middle of the first act, and
made as much disturbance as they know how, before settling down in their
seats, ostentatiously get up and walk out before the piece is finished:
the women who, at dinner-party and "At Home"--that cheapest and most
deadly uninteresting of all deadly uninteresting social functions--(You
know the receipt for a fashionable "At Home," don't you? Take five
hundred people, two-thirds of whom do not know each other, and the other
third of whom cordially dislike each other, pack them, on a hot day, into
a room capable of accommodating forty, leave them there to bore one
another to death for a couple of hours with drawing-room philosophy and
second-hand scandal; then give them a cup of weak tea, and a piece of
crumbly cake, without any plate to eat it on; or, if it is an evening
affair, a glass of champagne of the
you-don't-forget-you've-had-it-for-a-week brand, and a ham-sandwich, and
put them out into the street again)--can do nothing but make spiteful
remarks about everybody whose name and address they happen to know: the
women who, in the penny 'bus (for, in her own country, the lady of the
new school is wonderfully economical and business-like), spreads herself
out over the seat, and, looking indignant when a tired little milliner
gets in, would leave the poor girl standing with her bundle for an hour,
rather than make room for her--the women who write to the papers to
complain that chivalry is dead!
B., who has been looking over my shoulder while I have been writing the
foregoing, after the manner of a _Family Herald_ story-teller's wife in
the last chapter (fancy a man having to write the story of his early life
and adventures with his wife looking over his shoulder all the time! no
wonder the tales lack incident), says that I have been living too much on
sauerkraut and white wine; but I reply that if anything has tended to
interfere for a space with the deep-seated love and admiration that, as a
rule, I entertain for all man and woman-kind, it is his churches and
picture-galleries.
We have seen enough churches and pictures since our return to Munich to
last me for a very long while. I shall not go to church, when I get home
again, more than twice a Sunday, for months to come.
The inhabitants of Munich boast that their Cathedral is the ugliest in
Europe; and, judging from appearances, I am inclined to think that the
claim must be admitted. Anyhow, if there be an uglier one, I hope I am
feeling well and strong when I first catch sight of it.
As for pictures and sculptures, I am thoroughly tired of them. The
greatest art critic living could not dislike pictures and sculptures more
than I do at this moment. We began by spending a whole morning in each
gallery. We examined each picture critically, and argued with each other
about its "form" and "colour" and "treatment" and "perspective" and
"texture" and "atmosphere." I generally said it was flat, and B. that it
was out of drawing. A stranger overhearing our discussions would have
imagined that we knew something about painting. We would stand in front
of a canvas for ten minutes, drinking it in. We would walk round it, so
as to get the proper light upon it and to better realise the artist's
aim. We would back away from it on to the toes of the people behind,
until we reached the correct "distance," and then sit down and shade our
eyes, and criticise it from there; and then we would go up and put our
noses against it, and examine the workmanship in detail.
This is how we used to look at pictures in the early stages of our Munich
art studies. Now we use picture galleries to practise spurts in.
I did a hundred yards this morning through the old Pantechnicon in
twenty-two and a half seconds, which, for fair heel-and-toe walking, I
consider very creditable. B. took five-eighths of a second longer for
the same distance; but then he dawdled to look at a Raphael.
The "Pantechnicon," I should explain, is the name we have, for our own
purposes, given to what the Munichers prefer to call the Pinakothek. We
could never pronounce Pinakothek properly. We called it "Pynniosec,"
"Pintactec," and the "Happy Tack." B. one day after dinner called it the
"Penny Cock," and then we both got frightened, and agreed to fix up some
sensible, practical name for it before any mischief was done. We finally
decided on "Pantechnicon," which begins with a "P," and is a dignified,
old-established name, and one that we can both pronounce. It is quite as
long, and nearly as difficult to spell, before you know how, as the
other, added to which it has a homely sound. It seemed to be the very
word.
The old Pantechnicon is devoted to the works of the old masters; I shall
not say anything about these, as I do not wish to disturb in any way the
critical opinion that Europe has already formed concerning them. I
prefer that the art schools of the world should judge for themselves in
the matter. I will merely remark here, for purposes of reference, that I
thought some of the pictures very beautiful, and that others I did not
care for.
What struck me as most curious about the exhibition was the number of
canvases dealing with food stuffs. Twenty-five per cent. of the pictures
in the place seem to have been painted as advertisements for somebody's
home-grown seeds, or as coloured supplements to be given away with the
summer number of the leading gardening journal of the period.
"What could have induced these old fellows," I said to B., "to choose
such very uninteresting subjects? Who on earth cares to look at the
life-sized portrait of a cabbage and a peck of peas, or at these no doubt
masterly representations of a cut from the joint with bread and
vegetables? Look at that 'View in a ham-and-beef shop,' No. 7063, size
sixty feet by forty. It must have taken the artist a couple of years to
paint. Who did he expect was going to buy it? And that Christmas-hamper
scene over in the corner; was it painted, do you think, by some poor,
half-starved devil, who thought he would have something to eat in the
house, if it were only a picture of it?"
B. said he thought that the explanation was that the ancient patrons of
art were gentry with a very strong idea of the fitness of things. For
"their churches and cathedrals," said B., "they had painted all those
virgins and martyrs and over-fed angels that you see everywhere about
Europe. For their bedrooms, they ordered those--well, those bedroom sort
of pictures, that you may have noticed here and there; and then I expect
they used these victual-and-drink-scapes for their banqueting halls. It
must have been like a gin-and-bitters to them, the sight of all that
food."
In the new Pantechnicon is exhibited the modern art of Germany. This
appeared to me to be exceedingly poor stuff. It seemed to belong to the
illustrated Christmas number school of art. It was good, sound,
respectable work enough. There was plenty of colour about it, and you
could tell what everything was meant for. But there seemed no
imagination, no individuality, no thought, anywhere. Each picture looked
as though it could have been produced by anyone who had studied and
practised art for the requisite number of years, and who was not a born
fool. At all events, this is my opinion; and, as I know nothing whatever
about art, I speak without prejudice.
One thing I have enjoyed at Munich very much, and that has been the
music. The German band that you hear in the square in London while you
are trying to compose an essay on the civilising influence of music, is
not the sort of band that you hear in Germany. The German bands that
come to London are bands that have fled from Germany, in order to save
their lives. In Germany, these bands would be slaughtered at the public
expense and their bodies given to the poor for sausages. The bands that
the Germans keep for themselves are magnificent bands.
Munich of all places in the now united Fatherland, has, I suppose, the
greatest reputation for its military bands, and the citizens are allowed,
not only to pay for them, but to hear them. Two or three times a day in
different parts of the city one or another of them will be playing _pro
bono publico_, and, in the evening, they are loaned out by the
authorities to the proprietors of the big beer-gardens.
"Go" and dash are the chief characteristics of their method; but, when
needed, they can produce from the battered, time-worn trumpets, which
have been handed down from player to player since the regiment was first
formed, notes as soft and full and clear as any that could start from the
strings of some old violin.
The German band in Germany has to know its business to be listened to by
a German audience. The Bavarian artisan or shopkeeper understands and
appreciates good music, as he understands and appreciates good beer. You
cannot impose upon him with an inferior article. A music-hall audience
in Munich are very particular as to how their beloved Wagner is rendered,
and the trifles from Mozart and Haydn that they love to take in with
their sausages and salad, and which, when performed to their
satisfaction, they will thunderously applaud, must not be taken liberties
with, or they will know the reason why.
The German beer-garden should be visited by everyone who would see the
German people as well as their churches and castles. It is here that the
workers of all kinds congregate in the evening. Here, after the labours
of the day, come the tradesman with his wife and family, the young clerk
with his betrothed and--also her mother, alack and well-a-day!--the
soldier with his sweetheart, the students in twos and threes, the little
grisette with her cousin, the shop-boy and the workman.
Here come grey-haired Darby and Joan, and, over the mug of beer they
share between them, they sit thinking of the children--of little Lisa,
married to clever Karl, who is pushing his way in the far-off land that
lies across the great sea; of laughing Elsie, settled in Hamburg, who has
grandchildren of her own now; of fair-haired Franz, his mother's pet, who
fell in sunny France, fighting for the fatherland. At the next table
sits a blushing, happy little maid, full of haughty airs and graces, such
as may be excused to a little maid who has just saved a no doubt
promising, but at present somewhat awkward-looking, youth from lifelong
misery, if not madness and suicide (depend upon it, that is the
alternative he put before her), by at last condescending to give him the
plump little hand, that he, thinking nobody sees him, holds so tightly
beneath the table-cloth. Opposite, a family group sit discussing
omelettes and a bottle of white wine. The father contented,
good-humoured, and laughing; the small child grave and solemn, eating and
drinking in business-like fashion; the mother smiling at both, yet not
forgetting to eat.
I think one would learn to love these German women if one lived among
them for long. There is something so sweet, so womanly, so genuine about
them. They seem to shed around them, from their bright, good-tempered
faces, a healthy atmosphere of all that is homely, and simple, and good.
Looking into their quiet, steadfast eyes, one dreams of white household
linen, folded in great presses; of sweet-smelling herbs; of savoury,
appetising things being cooked for supper; of bright-polished furniture;
of the patter of tiny feet; of little high-pitched voices, asking silly
questions; of quiet talks in the lamp-lit parlour after the children are
in bed, upon important questions of house management and home politics,
while long stockings are being darned.
They are not the sort of women to turn a man's head, but they are the
sort of women to lay hold of a man's heart--very gently at first, so that
he hardly knows that they have touched it, and then, with soft, clinging
tendrils that wrap themselves tighter and tighter year by year around it,
and draw him closer and closer--till, as, one by one, the false visions
and hot passions of his youth fade away, the plain homely figure fills
more and more his days--till it grows to mean for him all the better,
more lasting, true part of life--till he feels that the strong, gentle
mother-nature that has stood so long beside him has been welded firmly
into his own, and that they twain are now at last one finished whole.
We had our dinner at a beer-garden the day before yesterday. We thought
it would be pleasant to eat and drink to the accompaniment of music, but
we found that in practice this was not so. To dine successfully to music
needs a very strong digestion--especially in Bavaria.
The band that performs at a Munich beer-garden is not the sort of band
that can be ignored. The members of a Munich military band are big,
broad-chested fellows, and they are not afraid of work. They do not talk
much, and they never whistle. They keep all their breath to do their
duty with. They do not blow their very hardest, for fear of bursting
their instruments; but whatever pressure to the square inch the trumpet,
cornet, or trombone, as the case may be, is calculated to be capable of
sustaining without permanent injury (and they are tolerably sound and
well-seasoned utensils), that pressure the conscientious German bandsman
puts upon each square inch of the trumpet, cornet, or trombone, as the
case may be.
If you are within a mile of a Munich military band, and are not stone
deaf, you listen to it, and do not think of much else. It compels your
attention by its mere noise; it dominates your whole being by its sheer
strength. Your mind has to follow it as the feet of the little children
followed the playing of the Pied Piper. Whatever you do, you have to do
in unison with the band. All through our meal we had to keep time with
the music.
We ate our soup to slow waltz time, with the result that every spoonful
was cold before we got it up to our mouth. Just as the fish came, the
band started a quick polka, and the consequence of that was that we had
not time to pick out the bones. We gulped down white wine to the
"Blacksmith's Galop," and if the tune had lasted much longer we should
both have been blind drunk. With the advent of our steaks, the band
struck up a selection from Wagner.
I know of no modern European composer so difficult to eat beefsteak to as
Wagner. That we did not choke ourselves is a miracle. Wagner's
orchestration is most trying to follow. We had to give up all idea of
mustard. B. tried to eat a bit of bread with his steak, and got most
hopelessly out of tune. I am afraid I was a little flat myself during
the "Valkyries' Ride." My steak was rather underdone, and I could not
work it quickly enough.
After getting outside hard beefsteak to Wagner, putting away potato salad
to the garden music out of _Faust_ was comparatively simple. Once or
twice a slice of potato stuck in our throat during a very high note, but,
on the whole, our rendering was fairly artistic.
We rattled off a sweet omelette to a symphony in G--or F, or else K; I
won't be positive as to the precise letter; but it was something in the
alphabet, I know--and bolted our cheese to the ballet music from
_Carmen_. After which we rolled about in agonies to all the national
airs of Europe.
If ever you visit a German beer-hall or garden--to study character or
anything of that kind--be careful, when you have finished drinking your
beer, to shut the cover of the mug down tight. If you leave it with the
cover standing open, that is taken as a sign that you want more beer, and
the girl snatches it away and brings it back refilled.
B. and I very nearly had an accident one warm night, owing to our
ignorance of this custom. Each time after we had swallowed the quart, we
left the pot, standing before us with the cover up, and each time it was,
in consequence, taken away, and brought back to us, brimming full again.
After about the sixth time, we gently remonstrated.
"This is very kind of you, my good girl," B. said, "but really I don't
think we _can_. I don't think we ought to. You must not go on doing
this sort of thing. We will drink this one now that you have brought it,
but we really must insist on its being the last."
After about the tenth time we expostulated still more strongly.
"Now, you know what I told you four quarts ago!" remarked B., severely.
"This can't go on for ever. Something serious will be happening. We are
not used to your German school of drinking. We are only foreigners. In
our own country we are considered rather swagger at this elbow-raising
business, and for the credit of old England we have done our best. But
now there must be an end to it. I simply decline to drink any more. No,
do not press me. Not even another gallon!"
"But you both sit there with both your mugs open," replies the girl in an
injured tone.
"What do you mean, 'we sit with our mugs open'?" asks B. "Can't we have
our mugs open if we like?"
"Ah, yes," she explains pathetically; "but then I think you want more
beer. Gentlemen always open their mugs when they want them filled with
beer."
We kept our mugs shut after that.