A Tramp Abroad — Volume 02

  Where and how did we get the idea that the Germans are a stolid,phlegmatic race? In truth, they are widely removed from that. They arewarm-hearted, emotional, impulsive, enthusiastic, their tears come atthe mildest touch, and it is not hard to move them to laughter. They arethe very children of impulse. We are cold and self-contained, comparedto the Germans. They hug and kiss and cry and shout and dance and sing;and where we use one loving, petting expression, they pour out a score.Their language is full of endearing diminutives; nothing that they loveescapes the application of a petting diminutive--neither the house, northe dog, nor the horse, nor the grandmother, nor any other creature,animate or inanimate.

  In the theaters at Hanover, Hamburg, and Mannheim, they had a wisecustom. The moment the curtain went up, the light in the body of thehouse went down. The audience sat in the cool gloom of a deep twilight,which greatly enhanced the glowing splendors of the stage. It saved gas,too, and people were not sweated to death.

  When I saw "King Lear" played, nobody was allowed to see a sceneshifted; if there was nothing to be done but slide a forest out of theway and expose a temple beyond, one did not see that forest split itselfin the middle and go shrieking away, with the accompanying disenchantingspectacle of the hands and heels of the impelling impulse--no, thecurtain was always dropped for an instant--one heard not the leastmovement behind it--but when it went up, the next instant, the forestwas gone. Even when the stage was being entirely reset, one heard nonoise. During the whole time that "King Lear" was playing the curtainwas never down two minutes at any one time. The orchestra played untilthe curtain was ready to go up for the first time, then they departedfor the evening. Where the stage waits never reach two minutes there isno occasion for music. I had never seen this two-minute business betweenacts but once before, and that was when the "Shaughraun" was played atWallack's.

  I was at a concert in Munich one night, the people were streaming in,the clock-hand pointed to seven, the music struck up, and instantlyall movement in the body of the house ceased--nobody was standing, orwalking up the aisles, or fumbling with a seat, the stream of incomershad suddenly dried up at its source. I listened undisturbed to a pieceof music that was fifteen minutes long--always expecting some tardyticket-holders to come crowding past my knees, and being continuouslyand pleasantly disappointed--but when the last note was struck, herecame the stream again. You see, they had made those late comers wait inthe comfortable waiting-parlor from the time the music had begun untilit was ended.

  It was the first time I had ever seen this sort of criminals denied theprivilege of destroying the comfort of a house full of their betters.Some of these were pretty fine birds, but no matter, they had to tarryoutside in the long parlor under the inspection of a double rank ofliveried footmen and waiting-maids who supported the two walls withtheir backs and held the wraps and traps of their masters and mistresseson their arms.

  We had no footmen to hold our things, and it was not permissible to takethem into the concert-room; but there were some men and women to takecharge of them for us. They gave us checks for them and charged a fixedprice, payable in advance--five cents.

  In Germany they always hear one thing at an opera which has never yetbeen heard in America, perhaps--I mean the closing strain of a fine soloor duet. We always smash into it with an earthquake of applause. Theresult is that we rob ourselves of the sweetest part of the treat; weget the whiskey, but we don't get the sugar in the bottom of the glass.

  Our way of scattering applause along through an act seems to me to bebetter than the Mannheim way of saving it all up till the act is ended.I do not see how an actor can forget himself and portray hot passionbefore a cold still audience. I should think he would feel foolish. Itis a pain to me to this day, to remember how that old German Lear ragedand wept and howled around the stage, with never a response from thathushed house, never a single outburst till the act was ended. Tome there was something unspeakably uncomfortable in the solemn deadsilences that always followed this old person's tremendous outpouringsof his feelings. I could not help putting myself in his place--I thoughtI knew how sick and flat he felt during those silences, because Iremembered a case which came under my observation once, and which--but Iwill tell the incident:

  One evening on board a Mississippi steamboat, a boy of ten years layasleep in a berth--a long, slim-legged boy, he was, encased in quitea short shirt; it was the first time he had ever made a trip on asteamboat, and so he was troubled, and scared, and had gone to bedwith his head filled with impending snaggings, and explosions, andconflagrations, and sudden death. About ten o'clock some twenty ladieswere sitting around about the ladies' saloon, quietly reading, sewing,embroidering, and so on, and among them sat a sweet, benignant old damewith round spectacles on her nose and her busy knitting-needles in herhands. Now all of a sudden, into the midst of this peaceful scene burstthat slim-shanked boy in the brief shirt, wild-eyed, erect-haired, andshouting, "Fire, fire! JUMP AND RUN, THE BOAT'S AFIRE AND THERE AIN'T AMINUTE TO LOSE!" All those ladies looked sweetly up and smiled, nobodystirred, the old lady pulled her spectacles down, looked over them, andsaid, gently:

  "But you mustn't catch cold, child. Run and put on your breastpin, andthen come and tell us all about it."

  It was a cruel chill to give to a poor little devil's gushing vehemence.He was expecting to be a sort of hero--the creator of a wild panic--andhere everybody sat and smiled a mocking smile, and an old woman made funof his bugbear. I turned and crept away--for I was that boy--and nevereven cared to discover whether I had dreamed the fire or actually seenit.

  I am told that in a German concert or opera, they hardly ever encorea song; that though they may be dying to hear it again, their goodbreeding usually preserves them against requiring the repetition.

  Kings may encore; that is quite another matter; it delights everybody tosee that the King is pleased; and as to the actor encored, his pride andgratification are simply boundless. Still, there are circumstances inwhich even a royal encore--

  But it is better to illustrate. The King of Bavaria is a poet, and has apoet's eccentricities--with the advantage over all other poets of beingable to gratify them, no matter what form they may take. He is fondof opera, but not fond of sitting in the presence of an audience;therefore, it has sometimes occurred, in Munich, that when an opera hasbeen concluded and the players were getting off their paint and finery,a command has come to them to get their paint and finery on again.Presently the King would arrive, solitary and alone, and the playerswould begin at the beginning and do the entire opera over again withonly that one individual in the vast solemn theater for audience. Oncehe took an odd freak into his head. High up and out of sight, overthe prodigious stage of the court theater is a maze of interlacingwater-pipes, so pierced that in case of fire, innumerable littlethread-like streams of water can be caused to descend; and in caseof need, this discharge can be augmented to a pouring flood. Americanmanagers might want to make a note of that. The King was sole audience.The opera proceeded, it was a piece with a storm in it; the mimicthunder began to mutter, the mimic wind began to wail and sough, andthe mimic rain to patter. The King's interest rose higher and higher; itdeveloped into enthusiasm. He cried out:

  "It is very, very good, indeed! But I will have real rain! Turn on thewater!"

  The manager pleaded for a reversal of the command; said it would ruinthe costly scenery and the splendid costumes, but the King cried:

  "No matter, no matter, I will have real rain! Turn on the water!"

  So the real rain was turned on and began to descend in gossamer lancesto the mimic flower-beds and gravel walks of the stage. The richlydressed actresses and actors tripped about singing bravely andpretending not to mind it. The King was delighted--his enthusiasm grewhigher. He cried out:

  "Bravo, bravo! More thunder! more lightning! turn on more rain!"

  The thunder boomed, the lightning glared, the storm-winds raged, thedeluge poured down. The mimic royalty on the stage, with their soakedsatins clinging t
o their bodies, slopped about ankle-deep in water,warbling their sweetest and best, the fiddlers under the eaves of thestage sawed away for dear life, with the cold overflow spouting down thebacks of their necks, and the dry and happy King sat in his lofty boxand wore his gloves to ribbons applauding.

  "More yet!" cried the King; "more yet--let loose all the thunder, turnon all the water! I will hang the man that raises an umbrella!"

  When this most tremendous and effective storm that had ever beenproduced in any theater was at last over, the King's approbation wasmeasureless. He cried:

  "Magnificent, magnificent! ENCORE! Do it again!"

  But the manager succeeded in persuading him to recall the encore, andsaid the company would feel sufficiently rewarded and complimentedin the mere fact that the encore was desired by his Majesty, withoutfatiguing him with a repetition to gratify their own vanity.

  During the remainder of the act the lucky performers were those whoseparts required changes of dress; the others were a soaked, bedraggled,and uncomfortable lot, but in the last degree picturesque. The stagescenery was ruined, trap-doors were so swollen that they wouldn't workfor a week afterward, the fine costumes were spoiled, and no end ofminor damages were done by that remarkable storm.

  It was a royal idea--that storm--and royally carried out. But observethe moderation of the King; he did not insist upon his encore. If he hadbeen a gladsome, unreflecting American opera-audience, he probably wouldhave had his storm repeated and repeated until he drowned all thosepeople.

  CHAPTER XI

  [I Paint a "Turner"]

  The summer days passed pleasantly in Heidelberg. We had a skilledtrainer, and under his instructions we were getting our legs in theright condition for the contemplated pedestrian tours; we were wellsatisfied with the progress which we had made in the German language,[1. See Appendix D for information concerning this fearful tongue.] andmore than satisfied with what we had accomplished in art. We had had thebest instructors in drawing and painting in Germany--Haemmerling, Vogel,Mueller, Dietz, and Schumann. Haemmerling taught us landscape-painting.Vogel taught us figure-drawing, Mueller taught us to do still-life,and Dietz and Schumann gave us a finishing course in twospecialties--battle-pieces and shipwrecks. Whatever I am in Art I owe tothese men. I have something of the manner of each and all of them;but they all said that I had also a manner of my own, and that itwas conspicuous. They said there was a marked individuality about mystyle--insomuch that if I ever painted the commonest type of a dog, Ishould be sure to throw a something into the aspect of that dog whichwould keep him from being mistaken for the creation of any other artist.Secretly I wanted to believe all these kind sayings, but I could not; Iwas afraid that my masters' partiality for me, and pride in me, biasedtheir judgment. So I resolved to make a test. Privately, and unknown toany one, I painted my great picture, "Heidelberg Castle Illuminated"--myfirst really important work in oils--and had it hung up in the midstof a wilderness of oil-pictures in the Art Exhibition, with no nameattached to it. To my great gratification it was instantly recognizedas mine. All the town flocked to see it, and people even came fromneighboring localities to visit it. It made more stir than any otherwork in the Exhibition. But the most gratifying thing of all was, thatchance strangers, passing through, who had not heard of my picture, werenot only drawn to it, as by a lodestone, the moment they entered thegallery, but always took it for a "Turner."

  Apparently nobody had ever done that. There were ruined castles on theoverhanging cliffs and crags all the way; these were said to have theirlegends, like those on the Rhine, and what was better still, they hadnever been in print. There was nothing in the books about that lovelyregion; it had been neglected by the tourist, it was virgin soil for theliterary pioneer.

  Meantime the knapsacks, the rough walking-suits and the stoutwalking-shoes which we had ordered, were finished and brought to us.A Mr. X and a young Mr. Z had agreed to go with us. We went around oneevening and bade good-by to our friends, and afterward had a littlefarewell banquet at the hotel. We got to bed early, for we wanted tomake an early start, so as to take advantage of the cool of the morning.

  We were out of bed at break of day, feeling fresh and vigorous, and tooka hearty breakfast, then plunged down through the leafy arcades of theCastle grounds, toward the town. What a glorious summer morning it was,and how the flowers did pour out their fragrance, and how the birds didsing! It was just the time for a tramp through the woods and mountains.

  We were all dressed alike: broad slouch hats, to keep the sun off; grayknapsacks; blue army shirts; blue overalls; leathern gaiters buttonedtight from knee down to ankle; high-quarter coarse shoes snugly laced.Each man had an opera-glass, a canteen, and a guide-book case slung overhis shoulder, and carried an alpenstock in one hand and a sun-umbrellain the other. Around our hats were wound many folds of soft whitemuslin, with the ends hanging and flapping down our backs--an ideabrought from the Orient and used by tourists all over Europe. Harriscarried the little watch-like machine called a "pedometer," whoseoffice is to keep count of a man's steps and tell how far he has walked.Everybody stopped to admire our costumes and give us a hearty "Pleasantmarch to you!"

  When we got downtown I found that we could go by rail to within fivemiles of Heilbronn. The train was just starting, so we jumped aboard andwent tearing away in splendid spirits. It was agreed all around that wehad done wisely, because it would be just as enjoyable to walk DOWN theNeckar as up it, and it could not be needful to walk both ways. Therewere some nice German people in our compartment. I got to talking somepretty private matters presently, and Harris became nervous; so henudged me and said:

  "Speak in German--these Germans may understand English."

  I did so, it was well I did; for it turned out that there was not aGerman in that party who did not understand English perfectly. It iscurious how widespread our language is in Germany. After a while some ofthose folks got out and a German gentleman and his two young daughtersgot in. I spoke in German of one of the latter several times, butwithout result. Finally she said:

  "ICH VERSTEHE NUR DEUTCH UND ENGLISHE,"--or words to that effect. Thatis, "I don't understand any language but German and English."

  And sure enough, not only she but her father and sister spoke English.So after that we had all the talk we wanted; and we wanted a good deal,for they were agreeable people. They were greatly interested in ourcustoms; especially the alpenstocks, for they had not seen any before.They said that the Neckar road was perfectly level, so we must be goingto Switzerland or some other rugged country; and asked us if we did notfind the walking pretty fatiguing in such warm weather. But we said no.

  We reached Wimpfen--I think it was Wimpfen--in about three hours, andgot out, not the least tired; found a good hotel and ordered beer anddinner--then took a stroll through the venerable old village. It wasvery picturesque and tumble-down, and dirty and interesting. It hadqueer houses five hundred years old in it, and a military tower 115 feethigh, which had stood there more than ten centuries. I made a littlesketch of it. I kept a copy, but gave the original to the Burgomaster.

  I think the original was better than the copy, because it had morewindows in it and the grass stood up better and had a brisker look.There was none around the tower, though; I composed the grass myself,from studies I made in a field by Heidelberg in Haemmerling's time. Theman on top, looking at the view, is apparently too large, but I foundhe could not be made smaller, conveniently. I wanted him there, and Iwanted him visible, so I thought out a way to manage it; I composed thepicture from two points of view; the spectator is to observe the manfrom bout where that flag is, and he must observe the tower itself fromthe ground. This harmonizes the seeming discrepancy. [Figure 2]

  Near an old cathedral, under a shed, were three crosses of stone--moldyand damaged things, bearing life-size stone figures. The two thieveswere dressed in the fanciful court costumes of the middle of thesixteenth century, while the Saviour was nude, with the exception of acloth around the loins.


  We had dinner under the green trees in a garden belonging to the hoteland overlooking the Neckar; then, after a smoke, we went to bed. We hada refreshing nap, then got up about three in the afternoon and puton our panoply. As we tramped gaily out at the gate of the town, weovertook a peasant's cart, partly laden with odds and ends of cabbagesand similar vegetable rubbish, and drawn by a small cow and a smallerdonkey yoked together. It was a pretty slow concern, but it got us intoHeilbronn before dark--five miles, or possibly it was seven.

  We stopped at the very same inn which the famous old robber-knightand rough fighter Goetz von Berlichingen, abode in after he got out ofcaptivity in the Square Tower of Heilbronn between three hundred andfifty and four hundred years ago. Harris and I occupied the same roomwhich he had occupied and the same paper had not quite peeled off thewalls yet. The furniture was quaint old carved stuff, full four hundredyears old, and some of the smells were over a thousand. There was a hookin the wall, which the landlord said the terrific old Goetz used to hanghis iron hand on when he took it off to go to bed. This room was verylarge--it might be called immense--and it was on the first floor; whichmeans it was in the second story, for in Europe the houses are sohigh that they do not count the first story, else they would get tiredclimbing before they got to the top. The wallpaper was a fiery red, withhuge gold figures in it, well smirched by time, and it covered all thedoors. These doors fitted so snugly and continued the figures of thepaper so unbrokenly, that when they were closed one had to go feelingand searching along the wall to find them. There was a stove in thecorner--one of those tall, square, stately white porcelain things thatlooks like a monument and keeps you thinking of death when you ought tobe enjoying your travels. The windows looked out on a little alley, andover that into a stable and some poultry and pig yards in the rear ofsome tenement-houses. There were the customary two beds in the room,one in one end, the other in the other, about an old-fashionedbrass-mounted, single-barreled pistol-shot apart. They were fullyas narrow as the usual German bed, too, and had the German bed'sineradicable habit of spilling the blankets on the floor every time youforgot yourself and went to sleep.