Brunswick--Its beauty--High level of culture--The Brunswick
Theatre--Its excellence--Gas vs. electricity--Primitive theatre
toilets--Operatic stars in private life--Some operas unknown in
London--Dramatic incidents in them--Levasseur's parody of
"Robert"--Some curious details about operas--Two fiery old
Pan-Germans--Influence of the teaching profession on modern
Germany--The "French and English Clubs"--A meeting of the "English
Club"--Some reflections about English reluctance to learn foreign
tongues--Mental attitude of non-Prussians in 1875--Concerning various
beers--A German sportsman--The silent, quinine-loving youth--The Harz
Mountains--A "Kettle-drive" for hares--Dialects of German--The odious
"Kaffee-Klatsch"--Universal gossip--Hamburg's overpowering
hospitality--Hamburg's attitude towards Britain--The city itself--Trip
to British Heligoland--The island--Some peculiarities--Migrating
birds--Sir Fitzhardinge Maxse--Lady Maxse--The Heligoland
Theatre--Winter in Heligoland.
BRUNSWICK had been selected for me as a suitable spot in which to learn
German, and to Brunswick I accordingly went. As I was then eighteen
years old, I did not care to go to a regular tutor's, but wished to
live in a German family, where I was convinced I could pick up the
language in far shorter time. I was exceedingly fortunate in this
respect. A well-to-do Managing Director of some jute-spinning mills had
recently built himself a large house. Mr. Spiegelberg found not only
that his new house was unnecessarily big for his family, but he also
discovered that it had cost him a great deal more than he had
anticipated. He was quite willing, therefore, to enter into an
arrangement for our mutual benefit.
Brunswick is one of the most beautiful old towns in Europe, Its narrow,
winding streets are (or, perhaps, were) lined with fifteenth and
sixteenth century timbered houses, each storey projecting some two feet
further over the street than the one immediately below it, and these
wooden house-fronts were one mass of the most beautiful and elaborate
carving. Imagine Staples Inn in Holborn double its present height, and
with every structural detail chiselled with patient care into intricate
patterns of fruit and foliage, and you will get some idea of a
Brunswick street. The town contained four or five splendid old
churches, and their mediaeval builders had taken advantage of the
dead-flat, featureless plain in which Brunswick stands, to erect such
lofty towers as only the architects in the Low Countries ever devised;
towers which served as landmarks for miles around, their soaring height
silhouetted against the pale northern sky. The irregular streets and
open places contained one or two gems of Renaissance architecture, such
as the stone-built Town Hall and "Guild House," both very similar in
character to buildings of the same date in sleepy old Flemish towns.
The many gushing fountains of mediaeval bronze and iron-work in the
streets added to the extraordinary picturesqueness of the place. It was
like a scene from an opera in real life. It always puzzled me to think
how the water for these fountains can have been provided on that
dead-flat plain in pre-steam days. There must have been pumps of some
sort. Before 1914, tens of thousands of tourists visited Nuremberg
annually, but the guide-books are almost silent about Brunswick, which
is fully as picturesque.
The standard of material comfort appeared far higher in Brunswick than
in a French provincial town. The manner in which the Spiegelbergs'
house was fitted up seemed very elaborate after the simple appointments
of the Ducros' farm-house, though nothing in the world would have
induced me to own one single object that this Teutonic residence
contained. The Spiegelbergs treated me extremely kindly, and I was
fortunate in being quartered on such agreeable people.
At Nyons there was not one single bookseller, but Brunswick bristled
with book-shops, and, in addition, there were two of those most
excellent lending libraries to be found in every German town. Here
almost every book ever published in German or English was to be found,
as well as a few very cautiously selected French ones, for German
parents were careful then as to what their daughters read.
The great resource of Brunswick was the theatre, such a theatre as does
not exist in any French provincial town, and such a theatre as has
never even been dreamed of in any British town. It was fully as large
as Drury Lane, and was subsidised by the State. I really believe that
every opera ever written was given here, and given quite admirably. In
this town of 60,000 inhabitants, in addition to the opera company,
there was a fine dramatic company, as well as a light opera company,
and a corps de ballet. Sunday, Tuesday and Saturday were devoted to
grand opera, Monday to classical drama (Schiller or Shakespeare),
Wednesday to modern comedy, Friday to light opera or farce. The bill
was constantly changing, and every new piece produced in Berlin or
Vienna was duly presented to the Brunswick public. There are certainly
some things we can learn from Germany! The mounting of the operas was
most excellent, and I have never seen better lighting effects than on
the Brunswick stage, and this, too, was all done by gas, incandescent
electric light not then being dreamed of even. I had imagined in my
simplicity that effects were far easier to produce on the modern stage
since the introduction of electric light. Sir Johnston
Forbes-Robertson, than whom there can be no greater authority, tells me
that this is not so. To my surprise, he declares that electric light is
too crude and white, and that it destroys all illusion. He informs me
that it is impossible to obtain a convincing moonlight effect with
electricity, or to give a sense of atmosphere. Gas-light was yellow,
and colour-effects were obtained by dropping thin screens of coloured
silk over the gas-battens in the flies. This diffused the light, which
a crude blue or red electric bulb does not do. Sir Johnston
Forbes-Robertson astonished me by telling me that Henry Irving always
refused to have electric light on the stage at the Lyceum, though he
had it in the auditorium. All those marvellous and complicated effects,
which old playgoers must well recollect in Irving's Lyceum productions,
were obtained with gas. I remember the lovely sunset, with its
after-glow fading slowly into night, in the garden scene of the Lyceum
version of Faust, and this was all done with gas. The factor of safety
is another matter. With rows of flaming gas-battens in the flies,
however carefully screened off, and another row of "gas lengths" in the
wings, and flaring "ground-rows" in close proximity to highly
inflammable painted canvas, the inevitable destiny of a gas-lit theatre
is only a question of time. The London theatres of the "sixties" all
had a smell of mingled gas and orange-peel, which I thought delicious.
Mr. Spiegelberg most sensibly suggested that as I was absolutely
ignorant of German, the easiest manner in which I could accustom my
ears to the sound of the language would be to take an abonnement at the
theatre, and to go there nightly. So for the modest sum of thirty
shillings per month, I found myself entitled to a stall in the second
row, with the right of seeing thirty performances a month. I went every
night to the theatre, and there was no monotony about it, for the same
performance was never repeated twice in one month. I have seen, I
think, every opera ever written, and every single one of Shakespeare's
tragedies. A curious trait in the German character is petty
vindictiveness. A certain Herr Behrens had signed a contract as
principal bass with the Brunswick management. Getting a far more
lucrative offer from Vienna, the prudent Behrens had paid a fine, and
thrown over the Brunswick theatre. For eighteen months the unfortunate
man was pilloried every night on the theatre programmes. Every
play-bill had printed on it in large letters, "Kontrakt-bruchig Herr
Behrens," never allowing the audience to forget that poor Behrens was a
convicted "contract-breaker."
Half Brunswick went to the theatre every night of its life. The ladies
made no pretence of elaborate toilets, but contented themselves with
putting two tacks into the necks of their day gowns so as to make a
V-shaped opening. (With present fashions this would not be necessary.)
Over this they placed one of those appalling little arrangements of
imitation lace and blue or pink bows, to be seen in the shop windows of
every German town, and known, I think, as Theater-Garnitures. They then
drew on a pair of dark plum-coloured gloves, and their toilet was
complete. The contrast between the handsome white-and-gold theatre and
the rows of portly, dowdy matrons, each one with her ample bosom
swathed in a piece of antimacassar, was very comical. Every abonne had
his own peg for hanging his coat and hat on, and this, and the fact
that one's neighbours in the stalls were invariably the same, gave
quite a family atmosphere to the Brunswick theatre.
The conductor was Franz Abt the composer, and the musical standard of
the operatic performances was very high indeed. The mounting was always
excellent, but going to the theatre night after night, some of the
scenery became very familiar. There was a certain Gothic hall which
seemed to share the mobile facilities of Aladdin's palace. This hall
was ubiquitous, whether the action of the piece lay in Germany, Italy,
France, or England, Mary Queen of Scots sobbed in this hall;
Wallenstein in Schiller's tragedy ranted in it; Rigoletto reproved his
flighty daughter in it. It seemed curious that personages so widely
different should all have selected the same firm of upholsterers to fit
up their sanctums.
The Spiegelbergs had many friends in the theatrical world, and I was
immensely thrilled one evening at learning that after the performance
of Lohengrin, Elsa and the Knight of the Swan were coming home to
supper with us. When Elsa appeared on the balcony in the second act,
and the moon most obligingly immediately appeared to light up her
ethereal white draperies, I was much excited at reflecting that in two
hours' time I might be handing this lovely maiden the mustard, and it
seemed hardly credible that the resplendent Lohengrin would so soon
abandon his swan in favour of the homely goose that was awaiting him at
the Spiegelbergs', although the latter would enjoy the advantage of
being roasted.
I was on the tip-toe of expectation until the singers arrived. Fraulein
Scheuerlein, the soprano, was fat, fair, and forty, all of them perhaps
on the liberal side. As she burst into the room, the first words I
heard from the romantic Elsa, whom I had last seen sobbing over her
matrimonial difficulties, were: "Dear Frau Spiegelberg, my..." (Elsa
here used a blunt dissyllable to indicate her receptacle for food) "is
hanging positively crooked with hunger. Quick! For the love of Heaven,
some bread and butter and sausage, or I shall faint;" so the first
words the heroine of the evening addressed to me were somewhat blurred
owing to her mouth being full of sausage, which destroyed most of the
glamour of the situation. Hedwig Scheuerlein was a big, jolly, cheery
South-German, and she was a consummate artist in spite of her large
appetite, as was the tenor Schrotter too. Schrotter was a fair-bearded
giant, who was certainly well equipped physically for playing "heroic"
parts. He had one of those penetrating virile German tenor voices that
appeal to me. These good-natured artists would sing us anything we
wanted, but it was from them that I first got an inkling of those petty
jealousies that are such a disagreeable feature of the theatrical world
in every country. Buxom Scheuerlein was a very good sort, and I used to
feel immensely elated at receiving in my stall a friendly nod over the
footlights from Isolde, Aida, Marguerite, or Lucia, as the case might
be.
I wonder why none of Meyerbeer's operas are ever given in London. The
"books," being by Scribe, are all very dramatic, and lend themselves to
great spectacular display; Meyerbeer's music is always melodious, and
has a certain obvious character about it that would appeal to an
average London audience. This is particularly true with regard to the
Prophete. The Coronation scene can be made as gorgeous as a Drury Lane
pantomime, and the finale of the opera is thrilling, though the three
Anabaptists are frankly terrible bores. As given at Brunswick, in the
last scene the Prophet, John of Leyden, is discovered at supper with
some boon companions in rather doubtful female society. In the middle
of his drinking-song the palace is blown up. There is a loud crash; the
stage grows dark; hall, supper-table, and revellers all disappear; and
the curtain comes down slowly on moonlight shining over some ruins, and
the open country beyond. A splendid climax! Again, the third act of
Robert le Diable is magnificently dramatic. Bertram, the Evil One in
person, leads Robert to a deserted convent whose nuns, having broken
the most important of their vows, have all been put to death. The
curtain goes up on the dim cloisters of the convent, the
cloister-garth, visible through the Gothic arches of the arcade, bathed
in bright moonlight beyond. Bertram begins his incantations, recalling
the erring nuns from the dead. Very slowly the tombs in the cloister
open, and dim grey figures, barely visible in the darkness, creep
silently out from the graves. Bertram waves his arms over the
cloister-garth, and there, too, the tombs gape apart, and more shadowy
spectres emerge. Soon the stage is full of these faint grey spectral
forms. Bertram lifts his arms. The wicked nuns throw off their grey
wrappers, and appear glittering in scarlet and gold; the stage blazes
with light, and the ballet, the famous "Pas de Fascination," begins.
When really well done, this scene is tremendously impressive.
I once heard in Paris, Levasseur, the French counterpart of our own
Corney Grain, giving a skit on Robert le Diable, illustrating various
stage conventions. Levasseur, seated at his piano, and keeping up an
incessant ripple of melody, talked something like this, in French, of
course:--
"The stage represents Isabelle's bedroom. As is usual with stage
bedrooms, Isabelle's bower is about the size of an average cathedral.
It is very sparsely furnished, but near the footlights is a large gilt
couch, on which Isabelle is lying fast asleep. Robert enters on tip-toe
very very gently, so as not to disturb his beloved, and sings in a
voice that you could hear two miles off, 'Isa-belle!' dropping a full
octave on the last note. Isabelle half awakes, and murmurs, 'I do
believe I heard something. I feel so nervous!' Robert advances a yard,
and sings again, if anything rather louder, 'Isa-belle!' Isabelle says:
'Really, my nerves do play me such tricks! I can't help fancying that
there is some one in the room, and I am so terribly afraid of burglars.
Perhaps it is only a mouse.' Robert advances right up to Isabelle's
bed, and shouts for the third time in a voice that makes the chandelier
ring again, 'Isa-belle!' Isabelle says, 'I don't think that I can have
imagined that. There really is some one in the room. I'm terribly
frightened, and don't quite know what to do,' so she gets out of bed,
and anxiously scans the stalls and boxes over the footlights for signs
of an intruder. Finding no one there but the audience, she then
searches the gallery fruitlessly, and getting a sudden inspiration, she
looks behind her, and, to her immense astonishment, finds her lover
standing within a foot of her." This, as told with Levasseur's
inimitable drollery, was excruciatingly funny.
Robert is an expensive opera to put on, for, owing to hideous
jealousies at the Paris Opera, Meyerbeer was compelled to write two
prima-donna parts which afforded the rival ladies exactly equal
opportunities. In the same way Halevy, the composer of La Juive, had to
re-arrange and transpose his score, for Adolphe Nourrit, the great
Paris tenor, in 1835, when the opera was first produced, was jealous of
the splendid part the bass had been given, the tenor's role being quite
insignificant. So it came about that La Juive is the only opera in
which the grey-bearded old father is played by the principal tenor,
whilst the lover is the light tenor. Mehul's Biblical Joseph and his
Brethren is the one opera in which there are no female characters,
though "Benjamin" is played by the leading soprano. In both the
Prophete and Favorita the contralto plays the principal part, the
soprano having a very subsidiary role. Meyerbeer wrote the part of the
Prophet himself specially for Roger, the great tenor, and that of
"Fides" for Mme. Viardot. By the way, the famous skating scene in the
Prophete was part of the original production in Paris of 1849, and yet
we think roller-skating an invention of yesterday.
I had German lessons from a Professor Hentze. This old man was the
first example of a militant German that I had come across. He was
always talking of Germany's inevitable and splendid destiny. Although a
Hanoverian by birth, he was a passionate admirer of Bismarck and
Bismarck's policy, and was a furious Pan-German in sentiment. "Where
the German tongue is heard, there will be the German Fatherland," he
was fond of quoting in the original. As he declared that both Dutch and
Flemish were but variants of Low German, he included Holland and
Belgium in the Greater Germany of the future, as well as the
German-speaking Cantons of Switzerland, and Upper and Lower Austria.
Mentally, he possibly included a certain island lying between the North
Sea and the Atlantic as well, though, out of regard for my feelings, he
never mentioned it. Hentze taught English and French in half a dozen
boys' and girls' schools in Brunswick, and his brother taught history
in the "Gymnasium." These two mild-mannered be-spectacled old
bachelors, who in their leisure moments took snuff and played with
their poodle, were tremendous fire-eaters. They were both enormously
proud of the exploits of a cousin of theirs who, under the guise of a
harmless commercial traveller in wines, had been engaged in spying and
map-making for five years in Eastern France prior to 1870. It was, they
averred (no doubt truthfully enough), owing to the labours of their
cousin and of countless others like him, that the Franco-Prussian War
of 1870-71 had been such an overwhelming success for Germany. Where
German interests were concerned, these two old brothers could see
nothing under a white light. And remember that they were teachers and
trainers of youth; it was they who had the moulding of the minds of the
young generation. I think that any one who knows Germany well will
agree with me that it is the influence of the teaching class, whether
in school or university, that has transformed the German mentality so
greatly during the last forty years. These two mild-mannered old
Hentzes must have infected scores and hundreds of lads with their own
aggressively militant views. By perpetually holding up to them their
own dream of a Germany covering half Europe, they must have transmitted
some of their own enthusiasm to their pupils, and underlying that
enthusiasm was a tacit assumption that the end justified any means;
that provided the goal were attained, the manner in which it had been
arrived at was a matter of quite secondary importance. I maintain that
the damnable spirit of modern Germany is mainly due to the teaching
profession, and to the doctrines it consistently instilled into German
youth.
The Hentzes took in eight resident German pupils who attended the
various schools in the town, mostly sons of wealthy Hamburg
business-people. Hentze was always urging me to associate more with
these lads, three of whom were of my own age, but I could discover no
common ground whatever on which to meet them. The things that
interested me did not appeal to them, and vice versa. They seemed to me
dull youths, heavy alike in mind and body. From lack of sufficient
fresh air and exercise they had all dull eyes, and flabby, white faces
that quivered like blancmanges when they walked. In addition, they
obstinately refused to talk German with me, looking on me as affording
an excellent opportunity for obtaining a gratuitous lesson in English.
One of Hentze's pupils was a great contrast, physically, to the rest,
for he was very spare and thin, and seldom opened his mouth. I was to
see a great deal of this silent, slim lad later on.
Mr. Spiegelberg was a prominent member of the so-called English and
French Club in Brunswick. This was not in the least what its name would
seem to indicate; the members of the Club were not bursting with
overwhelming love for our language and institutions, nor were they
consumed with enthusiastic admiration for French art and literature.
They were merely some fifteen very practical Brunswick commercial men,
who, realising that a good working knowledge of English and French
would prove extremely useful to them in their business relations, met
at each other's houses in rotation on one night a week during the
winter months, when the host of the evening provided copious supplies
of wine, beer and cigars. For one hour and a half the members of the
Club had to talk English or French as the case might be, under a
penalty of a fine of one thaler (three shillings) for every lapse into
their native German. Mr. Spiegelberg informed me that I had been
elected an honorary member of the English and French Club, which
flattered my vanity enormously at the time. In the light of more mature
experience I quite understand that the presence of a youth to whom
knotty points in both languages could be submitted would be a
considerable asset to the Club, but I then attributed my election
solely to my engaging personality. These Club evenings amused me
enormously, though incidentally they resulted in my acquiring a
precocious love of strong, rank Hamburg cigars. Let us imagine fifteen
portly, be-spectacled, middle-aged or elderly men seated around a table
groaning under a collection of bottles of all shapes and sizes,
addressing each other in laboured inverted English. The German love of
titles is a matter of common knowledge. All these business men had
honorific appellations which they translated into English and
introduced scrupulously into every sentence. The conversation was
something like this:
"But, Mr. Over-Inspector of Railways, I do not think that you
understand rightly what Mr. Factory Director Spiegelberg says. Mr.
Factory Director also spins jute. To make concurrenz with Dundee in
Schottland, he must produce cheaply. To produce cheaply he must
become...no, obtain new machinery from Leeds in England. If that
machinery is duty-payable, Mr. Factory Director cannot produce so
cheaply. That seems to me clear. Once our German industries established
are, then we will see. That is another matter."
"I take the liberty to differ, Mr. Councillor of Commerce. How then
shall our German industries flourish, if they not protected be? What
for a doctrine is that? Mr. Factory Director Spiegelberg thinks only of
jute. Outside jute, the German world of commerce is greater, and with
in-the-near-future-to-be-given railways facilities, vast and imposing
shortly shall be."
"What Mr. Councillor of Commerce just has said, is true. You, Mr.
Over-Inspector of Railways, and also you, Mr. Ducal Supervisor of
Forests, are not merchants like us, but much-skilled specialists; so is
the point of view different, Mr. Town Councillor Balhorn, you have
given us most brilliant beer to-night. This is no beer of here, it must
be real Munich. It tastes famous. Prosit!"
"I thank you, Mr. Court Councillor. In the place, gentlemen, of
with-anger-discussing Free Trade, let us all drink some Munich beer.
Discussion is good, but beer with content is better."
Now I put it to you--could any one picture fifteen English business men
in Manchester, Liverpool, or Leeds doing anything so sensible as to
meet once a week amongst themselves, to acquire proficiency and fluency
in French, Spanish, or German, all of which languages they must
presumably require at times for the purposes of their business. Every
one knows that it is unthinkable. No Englishman could be bothered to
take the trouble. Why is it that English people have this extraordinary
reluctance to learn any foreign language? It is certainly not from want
of natural ability to do so, though this natural aptitude may be
discounted by the difficulty most English people experience in keeping
their minds concentrated. I venture to assert unhesitatingly that, with
the exception of Dutch and Russian people, English folk learn foreign
languages with greater ease than any other nationality. This is notably
true with regard to Russian and Spanish. The English throat is more
flexible than that of the Frenchman or German, and, with the one
exception of French, there are no unwonted sounds in any European
language that an Englishman cannot reproduce fairly accurately. We have
something like the hard Russian "l" in the last syllable of
"impossible," and to the Scottish or Irish throat the Dutch hard
initial guttural, and the Spanish soft guttural offer but little
difficulty. "Jorje," which looks like "George" spelt phonetically, but
is pronounced so very differently, can easily be mastered, and that
real teaser "gracht," the Dutch for "canal," with a strong guttural at
either end of it, comes easily out of a Scottish throat. The power to
acquire these tongues is there, but the inclination is woefully lacking.
Some ten years ago I went out to Panama to have a look at the canal
works. On board the mail-steamer there were twelve commercial
travellers representing British firms, bound for the West Coast of
South America. Ten of these twelve were Germans, all speaking English
and Spanish fluently in addition to their native German. The other two
were English, not knowing one word of any language but their own. I had
a long talk with these two Englishmen, and asked them whether they were
familiar with the varying monetary standards of the countries they were
going to visit; for the nominal dollar represents a widely different
value in each South American State. No, they knew nothing whatever
about this, and were quite ignorant of Spanish-American weights and
measures. Now what possible object did the firms sending out these
ill-equipped representatives hope to attain? Could they in their
wildest moments have supposed that they would get one single order
through their agency? And how came it about that these young men were
so ignorant of the language and customs of the countries they were
proposing to travel? During the voyage I noticed the German travellers
constantly conversing with South Americans from the Pacific Coast, in
an endeavour to improve their working knowledge of Spanish; meanwhile
the young Englishmen played deck-quoits and talked English. That in
itself is quite sufficiently characteristic. In Manchester there is a
firm who do a large business in manufacturing brightly coloured
horse-trappings for the South American market. I speak with some
confidence about this, for I have myself watched those trappings being
made. Most of the "ponchos" used in the Argentine are woven in Glasgow.
Why is it that in these two great industrial centres no one seems to
have thought of establishing a special class in any of the numerous
schools and colleges for training youths as commercial travellers in
foreign countries? They would have, in addition to learning two or
three languages, to get used to making quick calculations in dollars
and cents, and in dollars of very varying values; they would also have
to learn to THINK quickly in weights and measures different to those to
which they had been accustomed. Why should British firms be compelled
to use German travellers, owing to the ineptitude of their own
countrymen? The power to learn is there; it is only the will that is
lacking, and in justice I must add, perhaps the necessary facilities.
People who do not mind taking trouble will always in the end get a pull
over people who hate all trouble. I think that our present King once
cried, "Buck up, England!" and his Majesty spoke true; very few things
can be done in this world without taking a little trouble.
To return, after this long digression, to the portly German middle-aged
business men who met weekly in Brunswick to improve their working
knowledge of French and English, I must candidly say that I never
detected the faintest shadow of animosity to Great Britain in them.
They were not Prussians--they were Hanoverians and Brunswickers. They
felt proud, I think, that the throne of Britain was then occupied by a
branch of their own ancient House of Guelph; they remembered the
hundred years' connection between Britain and Hanover; as business men
they acknowledged Britain's then unquestioned industrial supremacy, and
they recognised that men of their class enjoyed in England a position
and a power which was not accorded to them in Germany. Certainly they
never lost an opportunity of pointing out that Britain was neither a
military nor a fighting nation, and would never venture again to
conduct a campaign on the Continent. Recent events will show how
correct they were in their forecasts.
I liked the society of these shrewd, practical men, for from being so
much with the French judges, I had become accustomed to associating
with men double or treble my own age. There was nothing corresponding
to the gaiete francaise about them, though at times a ponderous
playfulness marked their lighter moments, and flashes of elephantine
jocularity enlivened the proceedings of the Club. I picked up some
useful items of knowledge from them, for I regret to admit that up to
that time I had no idea what a bill of lading was, or a ship's
manifest; after a while, even such cryptic expressions, too, as f.o.b.
and c.i.f. ceased to have any mysteries for me. Let the inexperienced
beware of "Swedish Punch," a sickly, highly-scented preparation of
arrack. I do not speak from personal experience, for I detest the
sweet, cloying stuff; but it occasionally fell to my lot to guide
down-stairs the uncertain footsteps of some ventripotent
Kommerzien-Rath, or even of Mr. Over-Inspector of Railways himself,
both temporarily incapacitated by injudicious indulgence in Swedish
Punch. "So, Herr Ober-Inspector, endlich sind wir glucklich herunter
gekommen. Jetz konnen Sie nach Hause immer aug gleichem Fusse gehen.
Naturlich! Jedermann weisst wie abscheulich kraftig Schwedischer Punsch
ist. Die Strasse ist ganz leer. Gluckliche Heimkehr, Herr
Ober-Inspector!"
It was difficult to attend the Club without becoming a connoisseur in
various kinds of German beer. Brunswick boasts a special local sweet
black beer, brewed from malted wheat instead of barley, known as
"Mumme"--heavy, unpalatable stuff. If any one will take the trouble to
consult Whitaker's Almanac, and turn to "Customs Tariff of the United
Kingdom," they will find the very first article on the list is "Mum."
"Berlin white beer" follows this. One of the few occasions when I have
ever known Mr. Gladstone nonplussed for an answer, was in a debate on
the Budget (I think in 1886) on a proposed increase of excise duties.
Mr. Gladstone was asked what "Mum" was, and confessed that he had not
the smallest idea. The opportunity for instructing the omniscient Mr.
Gladstone seemed such a unique one, that I nearly jumped up in my place
to tell him that it was a sweet black beer brewed from wheat, and
peculiar to Brunswick; but being a very young Member of the House then,
I refrained, as it looked too much like self-advertisement; besides,
"Mum" was so obviously the word. "White beer" is only made in Berlin;
it is not unlike our ginger-beer, and is pleasant enough. The orthodox
way of ordering it in Berlin is to ask the waiter for "eine kuhle
Blonde." I do not suppose that one drop of either of these beverages
has been imported into the United Kingdom for a hundred years; equally
I imagine that the first two Georges loved them as recalling their
beloved Hanover, and indulged freely in them; whence their place in our
Customs tariff.
One of the members of the English and French Club was a Mr. Vieweg, at
that time, I believe, the largest manufacturer of sulphate of quinine
in Europe. Mr. Vieweg was that rara avis amongst middle-class German
business-men, a born sportsman. He had already made two sporting trips
to Central Africa after big game, and rented a large shooting estate
near Brunswick. In common with the other members of the Club, he
treated me very kindly and hospitably, and I often had quaint repasts
at his house, beginning with sweet chocolate soup, and continuing with
eels stewed in beer, carp with horseradish, "sour-goose," and other
Teutonic delicacies. Mr. Vieweg's son was one of Hentze's pupils, and
was the thin, silent boy I have already noticed. I remember well how
young Vieweg introduced himself to me in laboured English, "Are you a
friend to fishing with the fly?" he asked. "I also fish most gladly,
and if you wish, we will together to the Harz Mountains go, and there
many trout catch." As the Harz Mountains are within an hour of
Brunswick by train, off we went, and young Vieweg was certainly a most
expert fisherman. My respect for him was increased enormously when I
found that he did not mind in the least how wet he got whilst fishing.
Most German boys of his age would have thought standing in cold water
up to their knees a certain forerunner of immediate death.
Vieweg told me, with perfect justice, that he knew every path and every
track in the Northern Harz, and that he had climbed every single hill.
He complained that none of his German friends cared for climbing or
walking, and asked whether I would accompany him on one of his
expeditions. So a week later we went again to the Harz, and Vieweg led
me an interminable and very rough walk up-hill and down-dale. He
afterwards confessed that he was trying to tire me out, in which he
failed signally, for I have always been, and am still, able to walk
very long distances without fatigue. He had taken four of his
fellow-pupils from Hentze's over the same road, and they had all
collapsed, and had to be driven back to the railway in a hay-cart, in
the last stages of exhaustion. Finding that he could not walk me down,
Vieweg developed an odd sort of liking for me, just as I had admired
him for standing up to his knees in very cold water for a couple of
hours on end whilst fishing. So a queer sort of friendship sprang up
between me and this taciturn youth. The only subject which moved Vieweg
to eloquence was quinine, out of which his father had made his fortune.
I confess that at that time I knew no more about that admirable
prophylactic than the Queen of Sheba knew about dry-fly fishing, and
had not the faintest idea of how quinine was made. Vieweg, warming to
his subject, explained to me that the cinchona bark was treated with
lime and alcohol, and informed me that his father now obtained the bark
from Java instead of from South America as formerly. He did his utmost
to endeavour to kindle a little enthusiasm in me on the subject of this
valuable febrifuge. When not talking of quinine, he kept silence. This
singular youth was obsessed with a passionate devotion to the lucrative
drug.
The Harz Mountains are pretty without being grand. The far-famed
Brocken is not 4000 ft. high, but rising as these hills do out of the
dead-flat North German plain, the Harz have been glorified and
magnified by a people accustomed to monotonous levels, and are the
setting for innumerable German legends. The Brocken is, of course, the
traditional scene of the "Witches Sabbath" on Walpurgis-Nacht, and many
of the rock-strewn valleys seem to have pleasant traditions of
bloodthirsty ogres and gnomes associated with them. There is no real
climbing in the Harz, easy tracks lead to all the local lions. As is
customary in methodical Germany, signposts direct the pedestrian to
every view and every waterfall, and I need hardly add that if one post
indicates the Aussichtspunkt, a corresponding one will show the way to
the restaurant without which no view in Germany would be complete.
Through rocky defiles and pine-woods, over swelling hills and past
waterfalls, Vieweg and I trudged once a week in sociable silence,
broken only by a few scraps of information from my companion as to the
prospects of that year's crop of cinchona bark, and the varying
wholesale price of that interesting commodity. At times, before a fine
view, Vieweg would make quite a long speech for him: "Du Fritz! Schon
was?" using, of course, the German diminutive to my Christian name,
after which he would gaze on the prospect and relapse into silence, and
dreamy meditations on sulphate of quinine and its possibilities.
I think Vieweg enjoyed these excursions, for on returning to Brunswick
after about four hours' un-broken silence, he would always say on
parting, "Du Fritz! War nicht so ubel;" or, "Fritz, it wasn't so bad,"
very high praise from so sparing a talker.
Mr. Vieweg senior invited me to shoot with him on several occasions
during the winter months. The "Kettle-drive" (Kessel-Treib) is the
local manner of shooting hares. Guns and beaters form themselves into
an immense circle, a mile in diameter, over the treeless, hedgeless
flats, and all advance slowly towards the centre of the circle. At
first, it is perfectly safe to fire into the circle, but as it
diminishes in size, a horn is sounded, the guns face round, back to
back, and as the beaters advance alone, hares are only killed as they
run out of the ring. Hares are very plentiful in North Germany, and
"Kettle-drives" usually resulted in a bag of from thirty to forty of
them. To my surprise, in the patches of oak-scrub on the moor-lands,
there were usually some woodcock, a bird which I had hitherto
associated only with Ireland. Young Vieweg was an excellent shot; in
common with all his father's other guests, he was arrayed in high
boots, and in one of those grey-green suits faced with dark green, dear
to the heart of the German sportsman. The guns all looked like the
chorus in the Freischutz, and I expected them to break at any moment
into the "Huntsmen's Chorus." Young Vieweg was greatly pained at my
unorthodox costume, for I wore ordinary homespun knickerbockers, and
sported neither a green Tyrolese hat with a blackcock's tail in it, nor
high boots; my gun had no green sling attached to it, nor did I carry a
game-bag covered with green tassels, all of which, it appeared, were
absolutely essential concomitants to a Jagd-Partie.
In these country districts round Brunswick nothing but Low German
("Platt-Deutsch") was talked. Low German is curiously like English at
times. The sentence, "the water is deep," is identical in both tongues.
"Mudder," "brudder," and "sister" have all a familiar ring about them,
too. The word "watershed," as applied to the ridge separating two river
systems, had always puzzled me. In High German it is "Wasser-scheide,"
i.e. water-parting; in Low German it is "Water-shed," with the same
meaning, thus making our own term perfectly clear. "Low" German, of
course, only means the dialect spoken in the low-lying North German
plains: "High" German, the language spoken in the hilly country south
of the Harz Mountains. High German only became the literary language of
the country owing to Luther having deliberately chosen that dialect for
the translation of the Bible. The Nibelungen-Lied and the poems of the
twelfth and thirteenth centuries were all in Middle-High German
(Mittel-Hoch Deutsch).
I remember being told as a boy, when standing on the terrace of Windsor
Castle, that in a straight line due east of us there was no such
corresponding an elevation until the Ural Mountains were reached, on
the boundary between Europe and Asia. This will give some idea of the
extreme flatness of Northern Europe, for the terrace at Windsor can
hardly be called a commanding eminence.
I am sorry to say that for over forty years I have quite lost sight of
Vieweg. My connection with quinine, too, has been usually quite
involuntary. I have had two very serious bouts of malarial fever, one
in South America, the other in the West Indies, and on both occasions I
owed my life to quinine. Whilst taking this bitter, if beneficent drug,
I sometimes wondered whether it had been prepared under the auspices of
the friend of my youth. So ignorant am I of the quinine world, that I
do not know whether the firm of Buchler & Vieweg still exists. One
thing I do know: Vieweg must be now sixty-three years old, should he be
still alive, and I am convinced that he remains an upright and
honourable gentleman. I would also venture a surmise that business
competitors find it very hard to overreach him, and that he has escaped
the garrulous tendencies of old age.
One of the curses of German towns is the prevalence of malicious and
venomous gossip. This is almost entirely due to that pestilent
institution the "Coffee Circle," or Kaffee Klatsch, that standing
feature of German provincial life. Amongst the bourgeoisie, the ladies
form associations, and meet once a week in turn at each others' houses.
They bring their work with them, and sit for two hours, eating sweet
cakes, drinking coffee, and tearing every reputation in the towns to
tatters. All males are jealously excluded from these gatherings. Mrs.
Spiegelberg was a pretty, fluffy little English woman, without one
ounce of malice in her composition. She had lived long enough in
Germany, though, to know that she would not be welcomed at her "Coffee
Circle" unless she brought her budget of pungent gossip with her, so
she collected it in the usual way. The instant the cook returned from
market, Mrs. Spiegelberg would rush into the kitchen with a breathless,
"Na, Minna, was gibt's neues?" or "Now, Minna, what is the news?"
Minna, the cook, knowing what was expected of her, proceeded to unfold
her items of carefully gathered gossip: Lieutenant von Trinksekt had
lost three hundred marks at cards, and had been unable to pay; it was
rumored that Fraulein Unsittlich's six weeks' retirement from the world
was not due to an attack of scarlet fever, as was alleged, but to a
more interesting cause, and so on, and so on. The same thing was
happening, simultaneously, in every kitchen in Brunswick, and at the
next "Coffee Circle" all these rumours would be put into circulation
and magnified, and the worst possible interpretation would be given
them. All German women love spying, as is testified by those little
external mirrors fixed outside almost every German window, by which the
mistress of the house can herself remain unseen, whilst noting every
one who passes down the street, or goes into the houses on either side.
I speak with some bitterness of the poisonous tongues of these women,
for I cannot forget how a harmless episode, when I happened to meet a
charming friend of mine, and volunteered to carry her parcels home, was
distorted and perverted.
One of Hentze's pupils, a heavy, bovine youth, invited me to Hamburg to
his parents' silver wedding festivities. I was anxious to see Hamburg,
so I accepted. Moser's parents inhabited an opulent and unimaginably
hideous villa on the outskirts of Hamburg. They treated me most
hospitably and kindly, but never had I pictured such vast eatings and
drinkings as took place in their house. Moser's other relations were
equally hospitable, until I became stupid and comatose from excessive
nourishment. I could not discover the faintest trace of hostility to
England amongst these wealthy Hamburg merchants. They had nearly all
traditional business connections with England, and most of them had
commenced their commercial careers in London. They resented, on the
other hand, the manner in which they were looked down on by the
Prussian Junkers, who, on the ground of their having no "von" before
their names, tried to exclude them from every branch of the public
service. The whole of Germany had not yet become Prussianised.
These Hamburg men were intensely proud of their city. They boasted, and
I believe with perfect reason, that the dock and harbour facilities of
Hamburg far exceeded anything to be found in the United Kingdom. I was
taken all over the docks, and treated indeed with such lavish
hospitality that every seam of my garments strained under the unwonted
pressure of these enormous repasts. Hamburg being a Free Port,
travellers leaving for any other part of Germany had to undergo a
regular Customs examination at the railway station, as though it were a
frontier post. Hamburg impressed me as a vastly prosperous, handsome,
well-kept town. The attractive feature of the place is the "Alster
Bassin," the clear, fresh-water lake running into the very heart of the
town. All the best houses and hotels were built on the stone quays of
the Alster facing the lake. Geneva, Stockholm, and Copenhagen are the
only other European towns I know of with clear lakes running into the
middle of the city. The Moser family's silver wedding festivities did
not err on the side of niggardliness. The guests all assembled in full
evening dress at three in the afternoon, when there was a conjuring and
magic-lantern performance for the children. This was followed by an
excellent concert, which in its turn was succeeded by a vast and
Gargantuan dinner. Then came an elaborate display of fireworks, after
which dancing continued till 4 a.m., only interrupted by a second
colossal meal, thus affording, as young Moser proudly pointed out,
thirteen hours' uninterrupted amusement.
As I felt certain that I should promptly succumb to apoplexy, had I to
devour any more food, I left next day for Heligoland, then, of course,
still a British Colony, an island I had always had the greatest
curiosity to see. A longer stay in Hamburg might have broadened my
mind, but it would also unquestionably have broadened my waist-belt as
well.
The steamer accomplished the journey from Hamburg in seven hours, the
last three over the angry waters of the open North Sea. To my surprise
the steamer, though island-owned, did not fly the British red ensign,
but the Heligoland flag of horizontal bars of white, green, and red.
There is a local quatrain explaining these colours, which may be
roughly Englished as--
"White is the strand,
But green the land,
Red the rocks stand
Round Heligoland."
Heligoland is the quaintest little spot imaginable, shaped like an
isosceles triangle with the apex pointing northwards. The area of the
whole island is only three-fourths of a square mile; it is barely a
mile long, and at its widest only 500 yards broad. It is divided into
Underland and Overland; the former a patch of shore on the sheltered
side of the island, covered with the neatest little toy streets and
houses. In its neatness and smallness it is rather like a Japanese
town, and has its little theatre and its little Kurhaus complete. There
are actually a few trees in the Underland. Above it, the red ramparts
of rock rise like a wall to the Overland, only to be reached by an
endless flight of steps. On the green tableland of the Overland, the
houses nestle and huddle together for shelter on the leeward side of
the island, the prevailing winds being westerly. The whole population
let lodgings, simply appointed, but beautifully neat and clean, as one
would expect amongst a seafaring population. There are a few patches of
cabbages and potatoes trying to grow in spite of the gales, and all the
rest is green turf. There is not one tree on the wind-swept Overland. I
heard nothing but German and Frisian talked around me, and the only
signs of British occupation were the Union Jack flying in front of
Government House (surely the most modest edifice ever dignified with
that title), and a notice-board in front of the powder-magazine on the
northern point of the island. This notice-board was inscribed, "V.R.
Trespassers will be prosecuted," which at once gave a homelike feeling,
and made one realise that it was British soil on which one was standing.
The island had only been ceded to us in 1814, and we handed it over to
Germany in 1890, so our tenure was too brief for us to have struck root
deeply into the soil. Heligoland was a splendid recruiting ground for
the Royal Navy, for the islanders were a hardy race of seafarers, and
made ideal material for bluejackets. There was not a horse or cow on
the island, ewes supplying all the milk. As sheep's milk has an
unappetising green tinge about it, it took a day or two to get used to
this unfamiliar-looking fluid. There being no fresh water on
Heligoland, the rain water from the roofs was all caught and stored in
tanks. On that rainswept rock I cannot conceive it likely that the
water supply would ever fail. Some-how the idea was prevalent in
England that Heligoland was undermined by rabbits. There was not one
single rabbit on the island, for even rabbits find it hard to burrow
into solid rock.
Professor Gatke's books on the migrations of birds are well known.
Heligoland lies in the track of migrating birds, and Dr. Gatke had
established himself there for some years to observe them, and there was
a really wonderful ornithological museum close to the lighthouse. The
Heligoland lighthouse is a very powerful one, and every single one of
these stuffed birds had committed suicide against the thick glass of
the lantern. The lighthouse keepers told me that during the migratory
periods, they sometimes found as many as a hundred dead birds on the
external gallery of the light in the morning, all of whom had killed
themselves against the light.
From 1830 to 1871 there were public gaming-tables in Heligoland, and
the Concessionaire paid such a high price for his permit that the
colonial finances were in the most flourishing condition. In 1871,
Downing Street stopped this, with disastrous effect on the island
budget. Fortunately, Germans took to coming over in vast numbers for
the excellent sea-bathing, and so money began to flow in again. The
place attracted them with its glorious sea air; it had all the
advantages of a ship, without the ship's motion.
I paid a second visit to Heligoland three years later, when I was
Attache at our Berlin Embassy. Sir Fitzhardinge Maxse, the uncle of Mr.
Leo Maxse of the National Review, was Governor then. Sir Fitzhardinge
had done his utmost to anglicise the island, and the "Konigstrasse" and
"Oststrasse" had now become "King Street" and "East Street." He had
induced, too, some of the shop-keepers to write the signs over their
shops in English, at times with somewhat eccentric spelling; for one
individual proclaimed himself a "Familie Grozer." How astonished the
Governor and I would have been to know that in twenty years' time his
much-loved island would be transformed into one solid concreted German
fortress! Sir Fitzhardinge had a great love for the theatre. He was, I
believe, the only person who had ever tried to write plays in two
languages. His German plays had been very successful, and two one-act
plays he wrote in English had been produced on the London stage. He
always managed to engage a good German company to play in the little
Heligoland theatre during the summer months, and having married the
leading tragic actress of the Austrian stage, both he and Lady Maxse
occasionally appeared on the boards themselves, playing, of course, in
German. It looked curious seeing a bill of the "Theatre Royal on
Heligoland," announcing Shakespeare's tragedy of Macbeth, with "His
Excellency the Governor as Macbeth, and Lady Maxse as Lady Macbeth."
There is a fine old Lutheran Church on Heligoland. It is the only
Protestant church in which I have ever seen ex votos. When the island
fishermen had weathered an unusually severe gale, it was their custom
to make a model of their craft, and to present it as a thank-offering
to the church. There were dozens of these models, all beautifully
finished, suspended from the roof of the church by wires, and the
fronts of the galleries were all hung with fishing nets. The singing in
that church was remarkably good.
It was a pleasant, unsophisticated little island; a place of fresh
breezes, and red cliffs with great sweeping surges breaking against
them; a place of sunshine, and huge expanses of pale dappled sky.
Lady Maxse told me that it was impossible for any one to picture the
unutterable dreariness of Heligoland in winter; when little Government
House rocked ceaselessly under the fierce gales, and the whole island
was drenched in clouds of spindrift; the rain pounding on the
window-panes like small-shot, and the howling of the wind drowning all
other sounds. She said that they were frequently cut off from the
mainland for three weeks on end, without either letters, newspapers, or
fresh meat, as the steamers were unable to make the passage. There was
nothing to do, nowhere to go, and no one to speak to. It must have been
a considerable change for any one accustomed to the life of careless,
easy-going, glittering Vienna in the old days. Even Sir Fitzhardinge
confessed that during the winter gales he had frequently to make his
way on all fours from the stairs from the Underland to Government
House, to avoid being blown over the cliffs. Lady Maxse hung an extra
pair of pink muslin curtains over every window in Government House, to
shut out the sight of the wintry sea, but the angry, grey and white
rollers of the restless North Sea asserted themselves even through the
pink muslin.
I am glad that I saw this wind-swept little rock whilst it was still a
scrap of British territory. When my time came for leaving Brunswick, I
was genuinely sorry to go. I confess that I liked Germany and the
Germans; I had been extremely well treated, and had got used to German
ways.
The teaching profession were only then sowing broadcast the seed which
was to come to maturity thirty years later. They were moulding the
minds of the rising generation to the ideals which find their most
candid exponent in Nietzsche. The seed was sown, but had not yet
germinated; the greater portion of Germany in 1875 was still
un-Prussianised, but effect followed cause, and we all know the rest.