We went from Gibraltar to Berlin in January by way of Italy.
The Mediterranean is a charming sea in summer, but in winter is
a good deal like the Atlantic. The cause of the blueness of its
water is not completely settled; but its sharing this color with
Lake Geneva, which is tinged with detritus from the shore, might
lead one to ascribe it to substances held in solution. The color is
noticeable even in the harbor of Malta, to which we had a pleasant
though not very smooth passage of five days.
Here was our first experience of an Italian town of a generation
ago. I had no sooner started to take a walk than a so-called
guide, who spoke what he thought was English, got on my track,
and insisted on showing me everything. If I started toward a shop,
he ran in before me, invited me in, asked what I would like to buy,
and told the shopman to show the gentleman something. I could not
get rid of him till I returned to the hotel, and then he had the
audacity to want a fee for his services. I do not think he got it.
Everything of interest was easily seen, and we only stopped to take
the first Italian steamer to Messina. We touched at Syracuse and
Catania, but did not land.
Etna, from the sea, is one of the grandest sights I ever saw.
Its snow-covered cone seems to rise on all sides out of the sea
or the plain, and to penetrate the blue sky. In this it gives an
impression like that of the Weisshorn seen from Randa, but gains by
its isolation.
At Messina, of course, our steamer was visited by a commissionnaire,
who asked me in good English whether I wanted a hotel. I told him
that I had already decided upon a hotel, and therefore did not need
his services. But it turned out that he belonged to the very hotel
I was going to, and was withal an American, a native-born Yankee, in
fact, and so obviously honest that I placed myself unreservedly in
his hands,--something which I never did with one of his profession
before or since. He said the first thing was to get our baggage
through the custom-house, which he could do without any trouble,
at the cost of a franc. He was as good as his word. The Italian
custom-house was marked by primitive rigor, and baggage was commonly
subjected to a very thorough search. But my man was evidently well
known and fully trusted. I was asked to raise the lid of one trunk,
which I did; the official looked at it, with his hands in his pockets,
gave a nod, and the affair was over. My Yankee friend collected one
franc for that part of the business. He told us all about the place,
changed our money so as to take advantage of the premium on gold,
and altogether looked out for our interests in a way to do honor to
his tribe. I thought there might be some curious story of the way
in which a New Englander of such qualities could have dropped into
such a place, but it will have to be left to imagination.
We reached the Bay of Naples in the morning twilight, after making
an unsuccessful attempt to locate Scylla and Charybdis. If they
ever existed, they must have disappeared. Vesuvius was now and
then lighting up the clouds with its intermittent flame. But we
had passed a most uncomfortable night, and the morning was wet and
chilly. A view requires something more than the objective to make
it appreciated, and the effect of a rough voyage and bad weather
was such as to deprive of all its beauty what is considered one of
the finest views in the world. Moreover, the experience made me so
ill-natured that I was determined that the custom-house officer at the
landing should have no fee from me. The only article that could have
been subject to duty was on top of everything in the trunk, except
a single covering of some loose garment, so that only a touch was
necessary to find it. When it came to the examination, the officer
threw the top till contemptuously aside, and devoted himself to a
thorough search of the bottom. The only unusual object he stumbled
upon was a spyglass inclosed in a shield of morocco. Perhaps a
gesture and a remark on my part aroused his suspicions. He opened
the glass, tried to take it to pieces, inspected it inside and out,
and was so disgusted with his failure to find anything contraband
in it that he returned everything to the trunk, and let us off.
It is commonly and quite justly supposed that the more familiar the
traveler is with the language of the place he visits, the better he
will get along. It is a common experience to find that even when
you can pronounce the language, you cannot understand what is said.
But there are exceptions to all rules, and circumstances now and then
occur in which one thus afflicted has an advantage over the native.
You can talk to him, while he cannot talk to you. There was an
amusing case of this kind at Munich. The only train that would take
us to Berlin before nightfall of the same day left at eight o'clock
in the morning, by a certain route. There was at Munich what we
call a union station. I stopped at the first ticket-office where I
saw the word "Berlin" on the glass, asked for a ticket good in the
train that was going to leave at eight o'clock the next morning for
Berlin, and took what the seller gave me. He was a stupid-looking
fellow, so when I got to my hotel I showed the ticket to a friend.
"That is not the ticket that you want at all," said he; "it will
take you by a circuitous route in a train that does not leave until
after nine, and you will not reach Berlin until long after dark."
I went directly back to the station and showed my ticket to the agent.
"I--asked--you--for--a--ticket--good--in--the--train--which--
leaves--at--eight--o'--clock. This--ticket--is--not--good--
in--that--train. Sie--haben--mich--betruegen. I--want--you--
to--take--the--ticket--back--and--return--me--the--money.
What--you--say--can--I--not--understand."
He expostulated, gesticulated, and fumed, but I kept up the
bombardment until he had to surrender. He motioned to me to step
round into the office, where he took the ticket and returned the
money. I mention the matter because taking back a ticket is said
to be quite unusual on a German railway.
At Berlin, the leading astronomers then, as now, were Foerster,
director of the observatory, and Auwers, permanent secretary of the
Academy of Sciences. I was especially interested in the latter,
as we had started in life nearly at the same time, and had done
much work on similar lines. It was several days before I made his
acquaintance, as I did not know that the rule on the Continent
is that the visitor must make the first call, or at least make
it known by direct communication that he would be pleased to see
the resident; otherwise it is presumed that he does not wish to
see callers. This is certainly the more logical system, but it is
not so agreeable to the visiting stranger as ours is. The art of
making the latter feel at home is not brought to such perfection on
the Continent as in England; perhaps the French understand it less
than any other people. But none can be pleasanter than the Germans,
when you once make their acquaintance; and we shall always remember
with pleasure the winter we passed in Berlin.
To-day, Auwers stands at the head of German astronomy. In him is
seen the highest type of the scientific investigator of our time,
one perhaps better developed in Germany than in any other country.
The work of men of this type is marked by minute and careful research,
untiring industry in the accumulation of facts, caution in propounding
new theories or explanations, and, above all, the absence of effort
to gain recognition by being the first to make a discovery. When men
are ambitious to figure as Newtons of some great principle, there is
a constant temptation to publish unverified speculations which are
likely rather to impede than to promote the advance of knowledge.
The result of Auwers's conscientiousness is that, notwithstanding
his eminence in his science, there are few astronomers of note whose
works are less fitted for popular exposition than his. His specialty
has been the treatment of all questions concerning the positions and
motions of the stars. This work has required accurate observations
of position, with elaborate and careful investigations of a kind that
offer no feature to attract public attention, and only in exceptional
cases lead to conclusions that would interest the general reader.
He considers no work as ready for publication until it is completed
in every detail.
The old astronomical observations of which I was in quest might
well have been made by other astronomers than those of Paris, so
while awaiting the end of the war I tried to make a thorough search
of the writings of the medieval astronomers in the Royal Library.
If one knew exactly what books he wanted, and had plenty of time
at his disposal, he would find no difficulty in consulting them
in any of the great Continental libraries. But at the time of my
visit, notwithstanding the cordiality with which all the officials,
from Professor Lepsius down, were disposed to second my efforts,
the process of getting any required book was very elaborate.
Although one could obtain a book on the same day he ordered it,
if he went in good time, it was advisable to leave the order the
day before, if possible. When, as in the present case, one book
only suggests another, this a third, and so on, in an endless chain,
the carrying on of an extended research is very tedious.
One feature of the library strongly impressed me with the
comparatively backward state of mathematical science in our own
country. As is usual in the great European libraries, those books
which are most consulted are placed in the general reading-room, where
any one can have access to them, at any moment. It was surprising to
see amongst these books a set of Crelle's "Journal of Mathematics,"
and to find it well worn by constant use. At that time, so far
as I could learn, there were not more than two or three sets of
the Journal in the United States; and these were almost unused.
Even the Library of Congress did not contain a set. There has
been a great change since that time,--a change in which the Johns
Hopkins University took the lead, by inviting Sylvester to this
country, and starting a mathematical school of the highest grade.
Other universities followed its example to such an extent that,
to-day, an American student need not leave his own country to hear
a master in any branch of mathematics.
I believe it was Dr. B. A. Gould who called the Pulkova Observatory
the astronomical capital of the world. This institution was founded
in 1839 by the Emperor Nicholas, on the initiative of his greatest
astronomer. It is situated some twelve miles south of St. Petersburg,
not far from the railway between that city and Berlin, and gets its
name from a peasant village in the neighborhood. From its foundation
it has taken the lead in exact measurements relating to the motion
of the earth and the positions of the principal stars. An important
part of its equipment is an astronomical library, which is perhaps the
most complete in existence. This, added to all its other attractions,
induced me to pay a visit to Pulkova. Otto Struve, the director,
had been kind enough to send me a message, expressing the hope that
I would pay him a visit, and giving directions about telegraphing
in advance, so as to insure the delivery of the dispatch. The time
from Berlin to St. Petersburg is about forty-eight hours, the only
through train leaving and arriving in the evening. On the morning
of the day that the train was due I sent the dispatch. Early in
the afternoon, as the train was stopping at a way station, I saw
an official running hastily from one car to another, looking into
each with some concern. When he came to my door, he asked if I had
sent a telegram to Estafetta. I told him I had. He then informed
me that Estafetta had not received it. But the train was already
beginning to move, so there was no further chance to get information.
The comical part of the matter was that "Estafetta" merely means a
post or postman, and that the directions, as Struve had given them,
were to have the dispatch sent by postman from the station to Pulkova.
It was late in the evening when the train reached Zarsko-Selo,
the railway station for Pulkova, which is about five miles away.
The station-master told me that no carriage from Pulkova was waiting
for me, which tended to confirm the fear that the dispatch had not
been received. After making known my plight, I took a seat in the
station and awaited the course of events, in some doubt what to do.
Only a few minutes had elapsed when a good-looking peasant, well
wrapped in a fur overcoat, with a whip in his hand, looked in at
the door, and pronounced very distinctly the words, "Observatorio
Pulkova." Ah! this is Struve's driver at last, thought I, and I
followed the man to the door. But when I looked at the conveyance,
doubt once more supervened. It was scarcely more than a sledge,
and was drawn by a single horse, evidently more familiar with hard
work than good feeding. This did not seem exactly the vehicle that
the great Russian observatory would send out to meet a visitor;
yet it was a far country, and I was not acquainted with its customs.
The way in which my doubt was dispelled shows that there is one
subject besides love on which difference of language is no bar to
the communication of ideas. This is the desire of the uncivilized
man for a little coin of the realm. In South Africa, Zulu chiefs,
who do not know one other word of English, can say "shilling" with
unmistakable distinctness. My Russian driver did not know even this
little English word, but he knew enough of the universal language.
When we had made a good start on the snow-covered prairie, he stopped
his horse for a moment, looked round at me inquiringly, raised his
hand, and stretched out two fingers so that I could see them against
the starlit sky.