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Home -> Jerome K. Jerome -> Three Men on the Bummel -> Chapter 7

Three Men on the Bummel - Chapter 7

1. Chapter 1

2. Chapter 2

3. Chapter 3

4. Chapter 4

5. Chapter 5

6. Chapter 6

7. Chapter 7

8. Chapter 8

9. Chapter 9

10. Chapter 10

11. Chapter 11

12. Chapter 12

13. Chapter 13

14. Chapter 14


George wonders--German love of order--"The Band of the Schwarzwald
Blackbirds will perform at seven"--The china dog--Its superiority
over all other dogs--The German and the solar system--A tidy
country--The mountain valley as it ought to be, according to the
German idea--How the waters come down in Germany--The scandal of
Dresden--Harris gives an entertainment--It is unappreciated--George
and the aunt of him--George, a cushion, and three damsels.

At a point between Berlin and Dresden, George, who had, for the
last quarter of an hour or so, been looking very attentively out of
the window, said:

"Why, in Germany, is it the custom to put the letter-box up a tree?
Why do they not fix it to the front door as we do? I should hate
having to climb up a tree to get my letters. Besides, it is not
fair to the postman. In addition to being most exhausting, the
delivery of letters must to a heavy man, on windy nights, be
positively dangerous work. If they will fix it to a tree, why not
fix it lower down, why always among the topmost branches? But,
maybe, I am misjudging the country," he continued, a new idea
occurring to him. "Possibly the Germans, who are in many matters
ahead of us, have perfected a pigeon post. Even so, I cannot help
thinking they would have been wiser to train the birds, while they
were about it, to deliver the letters nearer the ground. Getting
your letters out of those boxes must be tricky work even to the
average middle-aged German."

I followed his gaze out of window. I said:

"Those are not letter-boxes, they are birds' nests. You must
understand this nation. The German loves birds, but he likes tidy
birds. A bird left to himself builds his nest just anywhere. It
is not a pretty object, according to the German notion of
prettiness. There is not a bit of paint on it anywhere, not a
plaster image all round, not even a flag. The nest finished, the
bird proceeds to live outside it. He drops things on the grass;
twigs, ends of worms, all sorts of things. He is indelicate. He
makes love, quarrels with his wife, and feeds the children quite in
public. The German householder is shocked. He says to the bird:

"'For many things I like you. I like to look at you. I like to
hear you sing. But I don't like your ways. Take this little box,
and put your rubbish inside where I can't see it. Come out when
you want to sing; but let your domestic arrangements be confined to
the interior. Keep to the box, and don't make the garden untidy.'"

In Germany one breathes in love of order with the air, in Germany
the babies beat time with their rattles, and the German bird has
come to prefer the box, and to regard with contempt the few
uncivilised outcasts who continue to build their nests in trees and
hedges. In course of time every German bird, one is confident,
will have his proper place in a full chorus. This promiscuous and
desultory warbling of his must, one feels, be irritating to the
precise German mind; there is no method in it. The music-loving
German will organise him. Some stout bird with a specially well-
developed crop will be trained to conduct him, and, instead of
wasting himself in a wood at four o'clock in the morning, he will,
at the advertised time, sing in a beer garden, accompanied by a
piano. Things are drifting that way.

Your German likes nature, but his idea of nature is a glorified
Welsh Harp. He takes great interest in his garden. He plants
seven rose trees on the north side and seven on the south, and if
they do not grow up all the same size and shape it worries him so
that he cannot sleep of nights. Every flower he ties to a stick.
This interferes with his view of the flower, but he has the
satisfaction of knowing it is there, and that it is behaving
itself. The lake is lined with zinc, and once a week he takes it
up, carries it into the kitchen, and scours it. In the geometrical
centre of the grass plot, which is sometimes as large as a
tablecloth and is generally railed round, he places a china dog.
The Germans are very fond of dogs, but as a rule they prefer them
of china. The china dog never digs holes in the lawn to bury
bones, and never scatters a flower-bed to the winds with his hind
legs. From the German point of view, he is the ideal dog. He
stops where you put him, and he is never where you do not want him.
You can have him perfect in all points, according to the latest
requirements of the Kennel Club; or you can indulge your own fancy
and have something unique. You are not, as with other dogs,
limited to breed. In china, you can have a blue dog or a pink dog.
For a little extra, you can have a double-headed dog.

On a certain fixed date in the autumn the German stakes his flowers
and bushes to the earth, and covers them with Chinese matting; and
on a certain fixed date in the spring he uncovers them, and stands
them up again. If it happens to be an exceptionally fine autumn,
or an exceptionally late spring, so much the worse for the
unfortunate vegetable. No true German would allow his arrangements
to be interfered with by so unruly a thing as the solar system.
Unable to regulate the weather, he ignores it.

Among trees, your German's favourite is the poplar. Other
disorderly nations may sing the charms of the rugged oak, the
spreading chestnut, or the waving elm. To the German all such,
with their wilful, untidy ways, are eyesores. The poplar grows
where it is planted, and how it is planted. It has no improper
rugged ideas of its own. It does not want to wave or to spread
itself. It just grows straight and upright as a German tree should
grow; and so gradually the German is rooting out all other trees,
and replacing them with poplars.

Your German likes the country, but he prefers it as the lady
thought she would the noble savage--more dressed. He likes his
walk through the wood--to a restaurant. But the pathway must not
be too steep, it must have a brick gutter running down one side of
it to drain it, and every twenty yards or so it must have its seat
on which he can rest and mop his brow; for your German would no
more think of sitting on the grass than would an English bishop
dream of rolling down One Tree Hill. He likes his view from the
summit of the hill, but he likes to find there a stone tablet
telling him what to look at, find a table and bench at which he can
sit to partake of the frugal beer and "belegte Semmel" he has been
careful to bring with him. If, in addition, he can find a police
notice posted on a tree, forbidding him to do something or other,
that gives him an extra sense of comfort and security.

Your German is not averse even to wild scenery, provided it be not
too wild. But if he consider it too savage, he sets to work to
tame it. I remember, in the neighbourhood of Dresden, discovering
a picturesque and narrow valley leading down towards the Elbe. The
winding roadway ran beside a mountain torrent, which for a mile or
so fretted and foamed over rocks and boulders between wood-covered
banks. I followed it enchanted until, turning a corner, I suddenly
came across a gang of eighty or a hundred workmen. They were busy
tidying up that valley, and making that stream respectable. All
the stones that were impeding the course of the water they were
carefully picking out and carting away. The bank on either side
they were bricking up and cementing. The overhanging trees and
bushes, the tangled vines and creepers they were rooting up and
trimming down. A little further I came upon the finished work--the
mountain valley as it ought to be, according to German ideas. The
water, now a broad, sluggish stream, flowed over a level, gravelly
bed, between two walls crowned with stone coping. At every hundred
yards it gently descended down three shallow wooden platforms. For
a space on either side the ground had been cleared, and at regular
intervals young poplars planted. Each sapling was protected by a
shield of wickerwork and bossed by an iron rod. In the course of a
couple of years it is the hope of the local council to have
"finished" that valley throughout its entire length, and made it
fit for a tidy-minded lover of German nature to walk in. There
will be a seat every fifty yards, a police notice every hundred,
and a restaurant every half-mile.

They are doing the same from the Memel to the Rhine. They are just
tidying up the country. I remember well the Wehrthal. It was once
the most romantic ravine to be found in the Black Forest. The last
time I walked down it some hundreds of Italian workmen were
encamped there hard at work, training the wild little Wehr the way
it should go, bricking the banks for it here, blasting the rocks
for it there, making cement steps for it down which it can travel
soberly and without fuss.

For in Germany there is no nonsense talked about untrammelled
nature. In Germany nature has got to behave herself, and not set a
bad example to the children. A German poet, noticing waters coming
down as Southey describes, somewhat inexactly, the waters coming
down at Lodore, would be too shocked to stop and write alliterative
verse about them. He would hurry away, and at once report them to
the police. Then their foaming and their shrieking would be of
short duration.

"Now then, now then, what's all this about?" the voice of German
authority would say severely to the waters. "We can't have this
sort of thing, you know. Come down quietly, can't you? Where do
you think you are?"

And the local German council would provide those waters with zinc
pipes and wooden troughs, and a corkscrew staircase, and show them
how to come down sensibly, in the German manner.

It is a tidy land is Germany.

We reached Dresden on the Wednesday evening, and stayed there over
the Sunday.

Taking one consideration with another, Dresden, perhaps, is the
most attractive town in Germany; but it is a place to be lived in
for a while rather than visited. Its museums and galleries, its
palaces and gardens, its beautiful and historically rich
environment, provide pleasure for a winter, but bewilder for a
week. It has not the gaiety of Paris or Vienna, which quickly
palls; its charms are more solidly German, and more lasting. It is
the Mecca of the musician. For five shillings, in Dresden, you can
purchase a stall at the opera house, together, unfortunately, with
a strong disinclination ever again to take the trouble of sitting
out a performance in any English, French, or, American opera house.

The chief scandal of Dresden still centres round August the Strong,
"the Man of Sin," as Carlyle always called him, who is popularly
reputed to have cursed Europe with over a thousand children.
Castles where he imprisoned this discarded mistress or that--one of
them, who persisted in her claim to a better title, for forty
years, it is said, poor lady! The narrow rooms where she ate her
heart out and died are still shown. Chateaux, shameful for this
deed of infamy or that, lie scattered round the neighbourhood like
bones about a battlefield; and most of your guide's stories are
such as the "young person" educated in Germany had best not hear.
His life-sized portrait hangs in the fine Zwinger, which he built
as an arena for his wild beast fights when the people grew tired of
them in the market-place; a beetle-browed, frankly animal man, but
with the culture and taste that so often wait upon animalism.
Modern Dresden undoubtedly owes much to him.

But what the stranger in Dresden stares at most is, perhaps, its
electric trams. These huge vehicles flash through the streets at
from ten to twenty miles an hour, taking curves and corners after
the manner of an Irish car driver. Everybody travels by them,
excepting only officers in uniform, who must not. Ladies in
evening dress, going to ball or opera, porters with their baskets,
sit side by side. They are all-important in the streets, and
everything and everybody makes haste to get out of their way. If
you do not get out of their way, and you still happen to be alive
when picked up, then on your recovery you are fined for having been
in their way. This teaches you to be wary of them.

One afternoon Harris took a "bummel" by himself. In the evening,
as we sat listening to the band at the Belvedere, Harris said, a
propos of nothing in particular, "These Germans have no sense of

"What makes you think that?" I asked.

"Why, this afternoon," he answered, "I jumped on one of those
electric tramcars. I wanted to see the town, so I stood outside on
the little platform--what do you call it?"

"The Stehplatz," I suggested.

"That's it," said Harris. "Well, you know the way they shake you
about, and how you have to look out for the corners, and mind
yourself when they stop and when they start?"

I nodded.

"There were about half a dozen of us standing there," he continued,
"and, of course, I am not experienced. The thing started suddenly,
and that jerked me backwards. I fell against a stout gentleman,
just behind me. He could not have been standing very firmly
himself, and he, in his turn, fell back against a boy who was
carrying a trumpet in a green baize case. They never smiled,
neither the man nor the boy with the trumpet; they just stood there
and looked sulky. I was going to say I was sorry, but before I
could get the words out the tram eased up, for some reason or
other, and that, of course, shot me forward again, and I butted
into a white-haired old chap, who looked to me like a professor.
Well, HE never smiled, never moved a muscle."

"Maybe, he was thinking of something else," I suggested.

"That could not have been the case with them all," replied Harris,
"and in the course of that journey, I must have fallen against
every one of them at least three times. You see," explained
Harris, "they knew when the corners were coming, and in which
direction to brace themselves. I, as a stranger, was naturally at
a disadvantage. The way I rolled and staggered about that
platform, clutching wildly now at this man and now at that, must
have been really comic. I don't say it was high-class humour, but
it would have amused most people. Those Germans seemed to see no
fun in it whatever--just seemed anxious, that was all. There was
one man, a little man, who stood with his back against the brake; I
fell against him five times, I counted them. You would have
expected the fifth time would have dragged a laugh out of him, but
it didn't; he merely looked tired. They are a dull lot."

George also had an adventure at Dresden. There was a shop near the
Altmarkt, in the window of which were exhibited some cushions for
sale. The proper business of the shop was handling of glass and
china; the cushions appeared to be in the nature of an experiment.
They were very beautiful cushions, hand-embroidered on satin. We
often passed the shop, and every time George paused and examined
those cushions. He said he thought his aunt would like one.

George has been very attentive to this aunt of his during the
journey. He has written her quite a long letter every day, and
from every town we stop at he sends her off a present. To my mind,
he is overdoing the business, and more than once I have
expostulated with him. His aunt will be meeting other aunts, and
talking to them; the whole class will become disorganised and
unruly. As a nephew, I object to the impossible standard that
George is setting up. But he will not listen.

Therefore it was that on the Saturday he left us after lunch,
saying he would go round to that shop and get one of those cushions
for his aunt. He said he would not be long, and suggested our
waiting for him.

We waited for what seemed to me rather a long time. When he
rejoined us he was empty handed, and looked worried. We asked him
where his cushion was. He said he hadn't got a cushion, said he
had changed his mind, said he didn't think his aunt would care for
a cushion. Evidently something was amiss. We tried to get at the
bottom of it, but he was not communicative. Indeed, his answers
after our twentieth question or thereabouts became quite short.

In the evening, however, when he and I happened to be alone, he
broached the subject himself. He said:

"They are somewhat peculiar in some things, these Germans."

I said: "What has happened?"

"Well," he answered, "there was that cushion I wanted."

"For your aunt," I remarked.

"Why not?" he returned. He was huffy in a moment; I never knew a
man so touchy about an aunt. "Why shouldn't I send a cushion to my

"Don't get excited," I replied. "I am not objecting; I respect you
for it."

He recovered his temper, and went on:

"There were four in the window, if you remember, all very much
alike, and each one labelled in plain figures twenty marks. I
don't pretend to speak German fluently, but I can generally make
myself understood with a little effort, and gather the sense of
what is said to me, provided they don't gabble. I went into the
shop. A young girl came up to me; she was a pretty, quiet little
soul, one might almost say, demure; not at all the sort of girl
from whom you would have expected such a thing. I was never more
surprised in all my life."

"Surprised about what?" I said.

George always assumes you know the end of the story while he is
telling you the beginning; it is an annoying method.

"At what happened," replied George; "at what I am telling you. She
smiled and asked me what I wanted. I understood that all right;
there could have been no mistake about that. I put down a twenty
mark piece on the counter and said:

"Please give me a cushion."

"She stared at me as if I had asked for a feather bed. I thought,
maybe, she had not heard, so I repeated it louder. If I had
chucked her under the chin she could not have looked more surprised
or indignant.

"She said she thought I must be making a mistake.

"I did not want to begin a long conversation and find myself
stranded. I said there was no mistake. I pointed to my twenty
mark piece, and repeated for the third time that I wanted a
cushion, 'a twenty mark cushion.'

"Another girl came up, an elder girl; and the first girl repeated
to her what I had just said: she seemed quite excited about it.
The second girl did not believe her--did not think I looked the
sort of man who would want a cushion. To make sure, she put the
question to me herself.

"'Did you say you wanted a cushion?' she asked.

"'I have said it three times,' I answered. 'I will say it again--I
want a cushion.'

"She said: 'Then you can't have one.'

"I was getting angry by this time. If I hadn't really wanted the
thing I should have walked out of the shop; but there the cushions
were in the window, evidently for sale. I didn't see WHY I
couldn't have one.

"I said: 'I will have one!' It is a simple sentence. I said it
with determination.

"A third girl came up at this point, the three representing, I
fancy, the whole force of the shop. She was a bright-eyed, saucy-
looking little wench, this last one. On any other occasion I might
have been pleased to see her; now, her coming only irritated me. I
didn't see the need of three girls for this business.

"The first two girls started explaining the thing to the third
girl, and before they were half-way through the third girl began to
giggle--she was the sort of girl who would giggle at anything.
That done, they fell to chattering like Jenny Wrens, all three
together; and between every half-dozen words they looked across at
me; and the more they looked at me the more the third girl giggled;
and before they had finished they were all three giggling, the
little idiots; you might have thought I was a clown, giving a
private performance.

"When she was steady enough to move, the third girl came up to me;
she was still giggling. She said:

"'If you get it, will you go?'

"I did not quite understand her at first, and she repeated it.

"'This cushion. When you've got it, will you go--away--at once?'

"I was only too anxious to go. I told her so. But, I added I was
not going without it. I had made up my mind to have that cushion
now if I stopped in the shop all night for it.

"She rejoined the other two girls. I thought they were going to
get me the cushion and have done with the business. Instead of
that, the strangest thing possible happened. The two other girls
got behind the first girl, all three still giggling, Heaven knows
what about, and pushed her towards me. They pushed her close up to
me, and then, before I knew what was happening, she put her hands
on my shoulders, stood up on tiptoe, and kissed me. After which,
burying her face in her apron, she ran off, followed by the second
girl. The third girl opened the door for me, and so evidently
expected me to go, that in my confusion I went, leaving my twenty
marks behind me. I don't say I minded the kiss, though I did not
particularly want it, while I did want the cushion. I don't like
to go back to the shop. I cannot understand the thing at all."

I said: "What did you ask for?"

He said: "A cushion"

I said: "That is what you wanted, I know. What I mean is, what
was the actual German word you said."

He replied: "A kuss."

I said: "You have nothing to complain of. It is somewhat
confusing. A 'kuss' sounds as if it ought to be a cushion, but it
is not; it is a kiss, while a 'kissen' is a cushion. You muddled
up the two words--people have done it before. I don't know much
about this sort of thing myself; but you asked for a twenty mark
kiss, and from your description of the girl some people might
consider the price reasonable. Anyhow, I should not tell Harris.
If I remember rightly, he also has an aunt."

George agreed with me it would be better not.

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