ordinary circumstances the possibility of horse-meat would have caused
me to abstain, I hastily came down from my box and purchased a pair of
his charges.
“Can you give me some paper,” I said, “to wrap them up in?”
The sausage-man looked at me in surprise. “Bless my buttons,” he
said,--“paper?”
I perceived that I was betraying myself. So I turned quickly away,
and seeing the policeman at that moment, I handed him my check. Then
I scrambled up on the box once more, and devoured the sausages. I
thereupon moved into a corner of the box, wrapped myself up close in my
mantle, and fell asleep. A tremendous uproar awoke me. The train had
arrived; the cabs from the right and left were set in rattling motion;
in the portico stood a man bellowing, “One thousand two hundred and
thirty-two,” at the top of his voice. He seemed to have been occupied
in this way for some time, for his face was purple with the exertion.
“Very good,” I said, smiling to myself; “there is a passenger who can’t
find his cab; probably it will come to an altercation between him and
the driver, and some of the most characteristic of Berlin phrases and
expressions will come to light. Novelist, prick up your ears; don’t
let anything escape you.”
[Illustration: “IN THE PORTICO STOOD A MAN BELLOWING, ‘ONE THOUSAND TWO
HUNDRED AND THIRTY-TWO!’”]
“One thousand two hundred and thirty-two!” called out the man once
more. I looked at him closely; he seemed to be a travelling merchant; a
medley of trunks, bandboxes, and travelling-bags were lying about him
on the ground.
I looked about me smiling. “One thousand two hundred and thirty-two
seems to be sleeping as sweetly as need be,” I said to myself.
At that moment a voice struck my ear: “Twelve thirty-two--what’s the
matter, old noodle-head? Are you sitting on your ears?”
Quick as a flash I turned around. One of the small boys that hang
around stations to help passengers find their cabs had pulled open the
door of my cab.
My stars! It occurred to me then that I myself was number one thousand
two hundred and thirty-two.
Before I had time to reprove the impudent lad, the passenger, who was
quite blue in the face, began to fly at me.
“Look ye here,” he cried in a loud voice, “it’s likely you left your
ears at home! Here I’ve been standing an hour injuring my lungs by
yelling out your confounded number!”
I was trembling with rage. “Sir,” I said, inclining my head to him from
my box, “I must politely request you to address me in a more befitting
manner!”
“I don’t want any of your impudence,” bellowed the azure-hued merchant.
“It’s your business to prick up your ears, that’s all; and if you don’t
do it, I’ll ask you to accompany me to the police-station!”
My blood was boiling with indignation, and, what was worse, I dared not
reply, for fear my language would betray me.
“Boys, fetch my things!” the merchant called out to the lads who were
clustering about, and all the trunks, handbags, and bandboxes were set
in motion.
Meanwhile my colleagues--as many of them as had not driven
away--gathered about us, and I now heard my fill of the peculiarities
of the Berlin vernacular that I had previously longed for.
“Better put your spectacles on your ears, so you’ll hear better,” cried
one.
I tried to keep silent--but could I let such a brutal speech pass
unchallenged? “It is very bad taste,” I replied with dignity, “to
reproach a person for physical infirmities; if my near-sightedness
enjoins the necessity of wearing spectacles----”
“Don’t lose your breath, cabby,” cried a second, and a general laugh
interrupted my speech.
“Cabby sees with his ears and hears with his eyes,” shrieked one of
the wretched boys. There was a laugh again; I was perspiring with
indignation.
“Take that up on the box,” cried my passenger in an insolent tone,
thumping a heavy brass-nailed trunk down on my feet.
I was about to recommend greater caution when he handed me a couple of
curtain-poles wrapped in paper and tied together with a cord.
“Take that too,” he commanded, “and see that it doesn’t slip down.”
So it was a provincial upholsterer who was treating me thus! In spite
of that, there was nothing for it but to obey his orders. I set the
curtain-poles up on end and put my left arm around them.
Now there was an uproar among the boys once more. “Cabby, hold the
crow-bars tight!” cried one. “Cabby with the crow-bars!” yelled the
boys, shrieking, bellowing, and whistling in a diabolical chorus.
“To the tavern ‘Green Tree’ in the Klosterstrasse!” cried the
overbearing voice of the upholsterer. He got into the cab, and shut the
door with a bang.
I seized the reins, the nag stood still, as if it were none of his
concern.
“Go along with ye, you wretched beast! Hello there! Skip along!” I
muttered between my teeth; the abominable quadruped persisted in
stubborn indifference. I brought the whip down upon him “toward the
front,” as Gustav had advised me, and, sure enough, suddenly the cab
quivered, struck with the hoofs of the balking steed.
An infernal concert of wild jubilations arose about me. I sat upon my
box in a state of wretched helplessness, and, to make matters worse,
the travelling merchant put his head out of the cab.
“How long is it going to take you to get started?” he called out,
following up his words with a perfect volley of oaths. “Did anybody
ever see the like of this?”
One of my colleagues of the box was moved with brotherly pity, seized
the malicious steed by the head, and put him in motion.
* * * * *
The other drivers sat on their boxes taking a nap, and there was no
opportunity of entering into conversation with them. I was very much
depressed, took off my mantle, for it was growing warm, climbed up into
my seat, and drove away to try my luck elsewhere.
As we were jolting slowly across the Schlossplatz, there came straight
across the square from the red Schloss a figure, the sight of which
made my blood run cold--it was my friend Otto.
Supposing he should recognise me,--I dared not think the thought, I
felt myself blush and then turn pale under my beard. I turned my head
to the other side, toward the Schloss, but as I involuntarily looked
at him askance, it seemed to me that he was standing still. In fact so
he was,--he stood there beckoning to me! I was seized with horror!
“Beckon away as hard as you please,” I said to myself, driving on. Now
I heard his voice: “Hello there, cabman!” I pretended not to hear, and
still drove on.
Then he came rushing with tremendous strides across the square.
“Confound you!” he cried. “Don’t you hear me?”
There was no further possibility of escape; I must needs pull up.
Like a criminal over whom sentence of death has just been passed, I
hung my head; with the corner of my left eye I saw that my friend Otto
had on his best suit, and was carrying his summer overcoat over his arm.
“Kanonierstrasse No.----,” he said, jumping airily into the cab. I
started involuntarily. What did he want to go to the Kanonierstrasse
for? I knew that he did not live there--none of our boon companions
lived there, I knew that also,--but some one dwelt within that house
whom I knew very well, and that was Emma, my friend of the ballet, my
Emma! That Emma was true, true as gold, I knew, thank Heaven! At the
same time a vague unrest took possession of me, and in flying haste did
I urge my steed in the direction of the Kanonierstrasse.
I riveted my eyes upon the house long before we reached it. Did my
suspicion deceive me? Up there between the hyacinths did I not see some
one look out? The wheels of my cab came rattling up before the door, no
further mistake was possible; out of Emma’s window inclined a head with
raven curls--it was hers! At the same moment my friend Otto impetuously
pulled open the door of the cab, jumped out, and threw kisses to her.
Then he put his hand to his mouth and called out: “I’ll wait for you
down here with the cab. Come down, and we will have a drive in the
Thiergarten.”
I fell back into the corner of my seat. This was too much! The wretch!
My own faithless beloved I was to take on a drive in the Thiergarten!
Through my horn spectacles I cast one annihilating glance above; it
fell upon no one, for Emma had left the window.
For a moment I considered--should I tear the wig, spectacles, and
beard from off my face, and so drop my disguise before the traitors?
But the ridicule, the eternal ridicule! It seemed to me the whole
Kanonierstrasse would stand on its head in appreciation of the joke.
“Turn the top down,” commanded my friend Otto. “It is stifling in here.”
Worse and worse! But what could I do? I scrambled down and began to do
as I was bid. Meanwhile the street-door opened and Emma floated across
the threshold. A sombre oath escaped me.
“Now drive to the Thiergarten,” said my friend Otto.
“Very well,” I replied, with terrible irony in my savage voice.
The wretched couple behind my back seemed to be in the best of spirits,
and as the cab was now open I could understand every word they spoke.
“Did you receive my post-card?” asked the villain.
“Of course I did,” replied the faithless one. “I did not know he was
going out of town. Are you quite sure he’s gone? I’m in mortal terror.”
“Never fear, my love,” he replied; “I was in his rooms this morning. He
must have left very early.”
I was furious. So this was the meaning of his interested questions the
night before!
Full of wrath I brought down my whip upon my horse.
“Don’t beat that horse so!” cried my friend Otto from the cab; “we are
in no particular hurry.”
I burst into a roar of hysterical laughter. The villain! he was pitiful
toward the horse, more than toward his friend. Again the nag was
called upon to bear the brunt of my indignation at my friend Otto.
“The fellow must be mad,” said my friend Otto.
“Don’t talk so loud,” begged Emma.
“Nonsense,” he replied. “I told you that he is as deaf as a poker;
moreover, look at him. I believe he has false hair!”
My wig had evidently become dislocated. I heard them giggle. For a
moment I considered the propriety of turning my whip to good purpose
behind me--but that of course would have betrayed me.
The noise of passing carriages on Leipzigerstrasse made it impossible
for me to hear what was passing between the couple; it was not until we
had reached more quiet streets that I again caught some bits of their
conversation. I perceived that I was again the subject thereof.
“How do you get along with him?” asked my friend Otto.
“Oh well,” responded Emma, “he’s a good enough fellow.”
Whack,--the nag caught it again then, for the tone in which she said it
roused my ire.
“That’s so,” continued my friend Otto; “but he is a bore, an
intolerable bore.”
The knave! With bated breath I listened to hear what she would reply to
this calumny.
Emma giggled; that was as much as to say, “You are right.”
I was in a fever of wrath.
“Does he ever read any of his things to you?” asked my friend Otto.
“Does he write?” she queried in surprise. The uneducated goose! The
superficial hussy! Did she not know that I had already published two
volumes of lyrical poetry? And she asks if I write!
“I should think so,” replied my friend Otto, with an infamous roar of
laughter. “Every little while he hatches a new poem a yard or two long,
and reads it to his friends.”
Emma shook with laughter.
“So far he has spared me,” she observed.
“Never fear, my love, never fear,” I muttered into my false beard; “you
shan’t have any more opportunity to be bored by me!”
In my mind I was composing the crushing farewell-note I intended to
write to the faithless one on the morrow.
After a time which seemed endless to me we reached the garden
restaurant called “Charlottenhof.”
“Hold on, driver!” bellowed my friend Otto, who, taking me to be deaf,
considered it necessary to address me in his loudest tones. Then he
turned to Emma.
“Come, sweetheart,” he said, “we will have a glass of beer.” He helped
her get down. “Wait till we come back,” he said to me. At the gate
stood a waiter: “Fetch a glass of beer for the driver,” he added, and
before I had time to enter protest he had stepped into the garden,
arm-in-arm with his lady-love.
Fully an hour and a half did my friend Otto see best to keep me waiting
at the door, while he was amusing himself in the garden with his adored.
I occupied myself with writing my obituary in spirit, and tears of
emotion over my sad fate trickled down my beard. “By the fickleness
of a heartless woman”--thus read the last page of my obituary--“and
the depravity of a man whom he took to be his friend, was this poet’s
heart broken, and this glorious possibility of immeasurable promise for
Germany was nipped in the bud.”
_Ernst von Wildenbruch._
_BON-MOTS._
EVERYBODY is a genius, at least once in his life. The only difference
is that the so called geniuses have their good ideas thicker. This
shows how wise it is to put everything on paper.
IT always grieves me when a man of talent dies, for earth has more need
of him than heaven.
THIS book had the effect which all good books have: it made the dull
duller, the wise wiser, and the other millions remained unchanged.
ONE of the greatest discoveries which human reason has made in modern
times is, in my opinion, the art of judging books without having read
them.
HE had a couple of warts on his nose in a position which made them
likely to be mistaken for the heads of nails, by means of which that
feature might have been fastened to his face.
IT is no art to say a thing in few words when you have something to
say, like Tacitus. But when you have nothing to say, and write a big
book, that’s what I call merit.
HE combined the qualities of the greatest men in history: he carried
his head on one side like Alexander the Great, he was always scratching
his head like Cæsar, he could drink coffee like Leibnitz, and when he
was comfortable in his easy-chair he would forget to eat and drink like
Newton, and like him it was often necessary to wake him.
“OUR forests are growing thinner, the supply of wood is declining, what
shall we do?” Oh, when our forests are used up there is surely nothing
to hinder our burning books until there is a new supply.
OF all commodities in the market there is none more remarkable than
books. Printed by persons who do not understand them; sold by people
who do not understand them; bound, reviewed, and read by people who do
not understand them; and, best of all, written by people who do not
understand them.
HE was a most meritorious boy: before he was six years old he could say
the Lord’s Prayer backwards.
I HAVE found throughout life that when all other means fail there is
nothing that will give you a surer clue to a man’s character than a
joke which he takes amiss.
I SUPPOSE there is no man in the world who, if he turns thief for a
thousand thalers, would not for half the money have preferred to remain
the honest fellow he was.
WHOSOEVER says he hates all kinds of flattery, and says it in good
faith, has surely not become acquainted with all kinds, in matter or
in form. To be sure, people of sense hate ordinary flattery, because
they must necessarily feel mortified at the amount of credulity with
which the flatterer credits them. That is, they hate ordinary flattery,
because to them it is no flattery. According to my experience, there
is no very great difference in human nature. Each has his own coin for
which he will sell himself. It is human invention to differentiate
between human beings; it is pride which supports these distinctions.
Nobility of soul is very much of a piece with nobility of birth.
TO make persons of discernment believe that you are somewhat which you
are not is as a general thing more difficult than to become what you
would appear to be.
IF you would know what other people think about an affair which
concerns you, consider what you would think of them under like
circumstances. Do not take any one for more moral in this matter than
you are, or for more credulous. This remark is more than half true, and
this is saying a great deal for a maxim which a person lays down in his
thirtieth year, as I do this one.
ONE may rail at the faults of a great man, but one must not rail at the
man for all that.
IT is safe to take it as a sure sign that you are growing better when
paying your debts gives you as much pleasure as making money.
VIRTUE which is the result of good intention is not worth much. Impulse
or custom is the thing.
THAT a false hypothesis is often to be preferred to the true one is
shown by the theory of the freedom of human volition. Certainly we
are not free, but it requires a very profound study of philosophy not
to be misled by this knowledge. Freedom is the easiest explanation,
and will remain the most popular one because appearances are for
it.--_Lichtenberg._
THE story was told how St. Dionysius, after he had been beheaded,
walked two miles with his head in his hand. “Two miles?” asked one of
the company. “Yes, two miles; there is not the least doubt of it,”
was the reply. “I will gladly believe you,” said a lady, wittier than
the others; “on such occasions it is only the first step which is
difficult.”
THE French ambassador came to Charles V. with the request that Milan
should be ceded to his master the king. Whereupon the emperor merely
replied, “The wish of my brother, the King of France, is my own.”
THE Duchess of Klingston desired to be admitted to the court circle
at Berlin. She requested the Russian minister to take occasion to
assure the king of her high esteem, and to tell him that she had been
heard to say her fortune was in Rome, her fleet at Venice, and her
heart in Berlin. When the king heard this he quickly responded with,
“My compliments to the Duchess, and tell her I greatly fear she has
favoured us with the least of her possessions.”
A GREAT gentleman said to his servant in a moment of caprice, “Tell me,
John, supposing the devil should come to get one of us, which one do
you think he would take?”
“He’d take me, without a doubt, your honour.”
“Why so, you absurd fellow?”
“Because he has some chance of losing me, but he is quite sure of you,”
was the reply.
A WITTY king, in travelling through his lands, passed a small
provincial town in which great honour was shown him by the magistrate
and burgomaster, the latter greeting the monarch in a solemn address.
The most conspicuous thing about the portly little man was the
well-rounded expansion of his spotless white vest. The day was very
cold, and the speech was interminable. Suddenly the king interrupted
the speaker, and, as if concerned about his health, pointing to the
snowy vest, he graciously remarked, “My dear sir, I fear your _Mont
Blanc_ will catch cold!”
THE presence of a university makes the country stupid for miles
about.--_Börne._
WITH them (the troubadours) it is always the winter that goes and the
spring that comes, and the _ennui_ that remains.--_Schiller._
IF called upon to choose between the pangs of conscience and the pangs
of toothache I should unhesitatingly choose the former.
IN other countries when a citizen becomes dissatisfied with his
government he emigrates, in France he requests the government to
emigrate.--_Heine._
_THE EARLY DAYS OF A GENIUS._
THE ancients considered it as a piece of rare good fortune if the
gods permitted a person to be born in a celebrated town. As, however,
this good fortune has not befallen some very celebrated men, since
Bethlehem, Eisleben, Stratford, Kamenz, and Marbach were not originally
brilliant points in the thoughts of men, I trust Hans Unwirrsch was not
put out by the fact of first seeing the light of day in a small town
called Neustadt. There are not a few towns and boroughs bearing the
same name; but they have never quarrelled over the honour of counting
our hero among their citizens. Johannes Jakob Nikolaus Unwirrsch did
not make his birthplace any more celebrated in the world.
Ten thousand inhabitants did this poor little town have in 1819; to-day
it has one hundred and fifty more. It lay, and still lies, in a broad
valley, surrounded by hills and mountains, down the sides of which the
forest comes straggling into the precincts of the town. In spite of
its name it is no longer new; painfully has it struggled along through
stormy centuries, and is now enjoying a peaceful, sleepy old age.
The hope of making a mark in the world it has gradually given up, and
feels none the less contented for this. The sound of its church-bells
makes an agreeable impression upon the wanderer, as he steps out of the
woods on the nearest hill-top; and when it so happens that the sun is
mirrored in the windows of the two churches and the houses, this same
wanderer seldom remembers that all is not gold that glitters, and that
evening-bells, fruitful fields, green meadows, and a pretty little town
in a valley, is not enough by far to make an idyl. Amyntas, Palæmon,
Daphnis, and Doris often lead anything but an idyllic life in the
valley below. As the fleecing of lambs and sheep had gone somewhat out
of fashion, people were reduced to pitching into each other’s wool, and
sometimes fleeced each other with a will. But there was much marrying
and giving in marriage, and altogether people passed through life with
a measure of comfort; that they found living not particularly dear,
bore a part in this happy consummation. The devil take things when
fruit and cider fail, and milk and honey is rare in Arcadia!
But we shall probably have further opportunity to lose words about this
here and there, and if not it is no matter. For the present we must
turn back to the young Arcadian, Hans Unwirrsch, and see how he finds
his way about in life.
A very uneducated woman was the wife of the shoemaker. She could read
and write in an exigency, but her philosophical education had been
completely neglected; she wept easily, and with pleasure. Born in
darkness, she remained in darkness; suckled her child, set him on his
feet, and taught him to walk--put him on his feet for life, and taught
him to walk for life. That is great praise, and the most cultured
mother can do no more for her child.
In a low, dark room, into which but little fresh air and still less
sunshine came, did Hans awake to consciousness; and that was well
in one respect. Later on he was not too much afraid of the caves, in
which by far the greater part of humanity partaking of the blessings
of civilisation are obliged to spend their lives. All his life he took
light and air for what they are, luxuries which fate gives or denies,
and which it seems to deny more willingly than to give.
The room on the street-side, which had at the same time been Meister
Anton’s workshop, was kept unchanged in its former condition. With
anxious care did the widow see to it that none of the tools belonging
to the deceased were moved. Her uncle Grünebaum had declared his
willingness to purchase all the unnecessary implements at an acceptable
price; but Frau Christine could not bring herself to sell a single
piece. In all her leisure hours she sat at her wonted seat beside the
shoemaker’s work-table, and in the evening it was, as we know, only
by the light of the glass-ball that she could knit or sew or read her
hymnal.
The poor woman worked hard to gain an honest living for herself and her
child. In the little bedroom, the windows of which looked out into the
yard, she lay many a night wakeful and anxious, while Hans Unwirrsch
in his father’s large bedstead was dreaming of the large rolls and
buttered slices of bread that the neighbours’ happy children enjoyed.
Wise Meister Grünebaum did what he could by his relatives, but he was
not very successful in his trade; he was too fond of delivering long
speeches at the ale-house; and his customers were more willing to give
him a pair of shaky boots to be mended than to order a new pair of
him. It was with difficulty that he kept his head above water; but he
was never chary about giving advice, indeed he gave it gladly and in
large quantities, and unfortunately we must call attention to the not
unusual fact that the quantity stood for the most part in no proper
relation to the quality. Cousin Schlotterbeck, though by no means so
wise as Meister Grünebaum, was more practical, and it was upon _her_
advice that Frau Christine became a washerwoman, getting up in the
morning between two and three, and returning at night tired and aching,
to still the primary, physical hunger of her child, and translate his
dreams into reality.