the angel and the author-第8部分

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the　sideboard　is　slowly　coming　towards　you。

〃Why　it　must　be　this　stove；〃　you　say；　〃curious　how　difficult　it　is　to　
locate　sound。〃

You　snatch　up　the　children　and　hurry　out　of　the　room。　　After　a　while；　
when　things　have　settled　down；　you　venture　to　look　in　again。　　Maybe　
it　was　only　a　mild　explosion。　　A　ten…pound　note　and　a　couple　of　
plumbers　in　the　house　for　a　week　will　put　things　right　again。　　They　
tell　me　they　are　economical；　these　German　stoves；　but　you　have　got　to　
understand　them。　　I　think　I　have　learnt　the　trick　of　them　at　last：　　
and　I　don't　suppose；　all　told；　it　has　cost　me　more　than　fifty　pounds。　　
And　now　I　am　trying　to　teach　the　rest　of　the　family。　　What　I　complain　
about　the　family　is　that　they　do　not　seem　anxious　to　learn。

〃You　do　it；〃　they　say；　pressing　the　coal　scoop　into　my　hand：　　〃it　
makes　us　nervous。〃

It　is　a　pretty；　patriarchal　idea：　　I　stand　between　the　trusting；　
admiring　family　and　these　explosive　stoves　that　are　the　terror　of　
their　lives。　　They　gather　round　me　in　a　group　and　watch　me；　the　
capable；　all…knowing　Head　who　fears　no　foreign　stove。　　But　there　are　
days　when　I　get　tired　of　going　round　making　up　fires。

Nor　is　it　sufficient　to　understand　only　one　particular　stove。　　The　
practical　foreigner　prides　himself　upon　having　various　stoves；　
adapted　to　various　work。　　Hitherto　I　have　been　speaking　only　of　the　
stove　supposed　to　be　best　suited　to　reception　rooms　and　bedrooms。　　
The　hall　is　provided　with　another　sort　of　stove　altogether：　　an　iron　
stove　this；　that　turns　up　its　nose　at　coke　and　potato…peelings。　　If　
you　give　it　anything　else　but　the　best　coal　it　explodes。　　It　is　like　
living　surrounded　by　peppery　old　colonels；　trying　to　pass　a　peaceful　
winter　among　these　passionate　stoves。　　There　is　a　stove　in　the　
kitchen　to　be　used　only　for　roasting：　　this　one　will　not　look　at　
anything　else　but　wood。　　Give　it　a　bit　of　coal；　meaning　to　be　kind；　
and　before　you　are　out　of　the　room　it　has　exploded。

Then　there　is　a　trick　stove　specially　popular　in　Belgium。　　It　has　a　
little　door　at　the　top　and　another　little　door　at　the　bottom；　and　
looks　like　a　pepper…caster。　　Whether　it　is　happy　or　not　depends　upon　
those　two　little　doors。　　There　are　times　when　it　feels　it　wants　the　
bottom　door　shut　and　the　top　door　open；　or　vice　versa；　or　both　open　
at　the　same　time；　or　both　shutit　is　a　fussy　little　stove。

Ordinary　intelligence　does　not　help　you　much　with　this　stove。　　You　
want　to　be　bred　in　the　country。　　It　is　a　question　of　instinct：　　you　
have　to　have　Belgian　blood　in　your　veins　to　get　on　comfortably　with　
it。　　On　the　whole；　it　is　a　mild　little　stove；　this　Belgian　pet。　　It　
does　not　often　explode：　　it　only　gets　angry；　and　throws　its　cover　
into　the　air；　and　flings　hot　coals　about　the　room。　　It　lives；　
generally　speaking；　inside　an　iron　cupboard　with　two　doors。　　When　you　
want　it；　you　open　these　doors；　and　pull　it　out　into　the　room。　　It　
works　on　a　swivel。　　And　when　you　don't　want　it　you　try　to　push　it　
back　again；　and　then　the　whole　thing　tumbles　over；　and　the　girl　
throws　her　hands　up　to　Heaven　and　says；　〃Mon　Dieu！〃　and　screams　for　
the　cook　and　the　femme　journee；　and　they　all　three　say　〃Mon　Dieu！〃　
and　fall　upon　it　with　buckets　of　water。　　By　the　time　everything　has　
been　extinguished　you　have　made　up　your　mind　to　substitute　for　it　
just　the　ordinary　explosive　stove　to　which　you　are　accustomed。

＇I　am　considered　Cold　and　Mad。＇

In　your　own　house　you　can；　of　course；　open　the　windows；　and　thus　
defeat　the　foreign　stove。　　The　rest　of　the　street　thinks　you　mad；　but　
then　the　Englishman　is　considered　by　all　foreigners　to　be　always　mad。　　
It　is　his　privilege　to　be　mad。　　The　street　thinks　no　worse　of　you　
than　it　did　before；　and　you　can　breathe　in　comfort。　　But　in　the　
railway　carriage　they　don't　allow　you　to　be　mad。　　In　Europe；　unless　
you　are　prepared　to　draw　at　sight　upon　the　other　passengers；　throw　
the　conductor　out　of　the　window；　and　take　the　train　in　by　yourself；　
it　is　useless　arguing　the　question　of　fresh　air。　　The　rule　abroad　is　
that　if　any　one　man　objects　to　the　window　being　open；　the　window　
remains　closed。　　He　does　not　quarrel　with　you：　　he　rings　the　bell；　
and　points　out　to　the　conductor　that　the　temperature　of　the　carriage　
has　sunk　to　little　more　than　ninety　degrees；　Fahrenheit。　　He　thinks　a　
window　must　be　open。

The　conductor　is　generally　an　old　soldier：　　he　understands　being　
shot；　he　understands　being　thrown　out　of　window；　but　not　the　laws　of　
sanitation。　　If；　as　I　have　explained；　you　shoot　him；　or　throw　him　out　
on　the　permanent　way；　that　convinces　him。　　He　leaves　you　to　discuss　
the　matter　with　the　second　conductor；　who；　by　your　action；　has　now；　
of　course；　become　the　first　conductor。　　As　there　are　generally　half　a　
dozen　of　these　conductors　scattered　about　the　train；　the　process　of　
educating　them　becomes　monotonous。　　You　generally　end　by　submitting　
to　the　law。

Unless　you　happen　to　be　an　American　woman。　　Never　did　my　heart　go　out　
more　gladly　to　America　as　a　nation　than　one　spring　day　travelling　
from　Berne　to　Vevey。　　We　had　been　sitting　for　an　hour　in　an　
atmosphere　that　would　have　rendered　a　Dante　disinclined　to　notice　
things。　　Dante；　after　ten　minutes　in　that　atmosphere；　would　have　lost　
all　interest　in　the　show。　　He　would　not　have　asked　questions。　　He　
would　have　whispered　to　Virgil：

〃Get　me　out　of　this；　old　man；　there's　a　good　fellow！〃

＇Sometimes　I　wish　I　were　an　American　Woman。＇

The　carriage　was　crowded；　chiefly　with　Germans。　　Every　window　was　
closed；　every　ventilator　shut。　　The　hot　air　quivered　round　our　feet　　
Seventeen　men　and　four　women　were　smoking；　two　children　were　sucking　
peppermints；　and　an　old　married　couple　were　eating　their　lunch；　
consisting　chiefly　of　garlic。　　At　a　junction；　the　door　was　thrown　
open。　　The　foreigner　opens　the　door　a　little　way；　glides　in；　and　
closes　it　behind　him。　　This　was　not　a　foreigner；　but　an　American　
lady；　en　voyage；　accompanied　by　five　other　American　ladies。　　They　
marched　in　carrying　packages。　　They　could　not　find　six　seats　
together；　so　they　scattered　up　and　down　the　carriage。　　The　first　
thing　that　each　woman　did；　the　moment　she　could　get　her　hands　free；　
was　to　dash　for　the　nearest　window　and　haul　it　down。

〃Astonishes　me；〃　said　the　first　woman；　〃that　somebody　is　not　dead　in　
this　carriage。〃

Their　idea；　I　think；　was　that　through　asphyxiation　we　had　become　
comatose；　and；　but　for　their　entrance；　would　have　died　unconscious。

〃It　is　a　current　of　air　that　is　wanted；〃　said　another　of　the　ladies。

So　they　opened　the　door　at　the　front　of　the　carriage　and　four　of　them　
stood　outside　on　the　platform；　chatting　pleasantly　and　admiring　the　
scenery；　while　two　of　them　opened　the　door　at　the　other　end；　and　took　
photographs　of　the　Lake　of　Geneva。　　The　carriage　rose　and　cursed　them　
in　six　languages。　　Bells　were　rung：　　conductors　came　flying　in。　　It　
was　all　of　no　use。　　Those　American　ladies　were　cheerful　but　firm。　　
They　argued　with　volubility：　　they　argued　standing　in　the　open　
doorway。　　The　conductors；　familiar；　no　doubt；　with　the　American　lady　
and　her　ways；　shrugged　their　shoulders　and　retired。　　The　other　
passengers　undid　their　bags　and　bundles；　and　wrapped　themselves　up　in　
shawls　and　Jaeger　nightshirts。

I　met　the　ladies　afterwards　in　Lausanne。　　They　told　me　they　had　been　
condemned　to　a　fine　of　forty　francs　apiece。　　They　also　explained　to　
me　that　they　had　not　the　slightest　intention　of　paying　it。



CHAPTER　VII



＇Too　much　Postcard。＇

The　postcard　craze　is　dying　out　in　Germanythe　land　of　its　birthI　
am　told。　　In　Germany　they　do　things　thoroughly；　or　not　at　all。　　The　
German　when　he　took　to　sending　postcards　abandoned　almost　every　other　
pursuit　in　life。　　The　German　tourist　never　knew　where　he　had　been　
until　on　reaching　home　again　he　asked　some　friend　or　relation　to　
allow　him　to　look　over　the　postcards　he　had　sent。　　Then　it　was　he　
began　to　enjoy　his　trip。

〃What　a　charming　old　town！〃　the　German　tourist　would　exclaim。　　〃I　
wish　I　could　have　found　time　while　I　was　there　to　have　gone　outside　
the　hotel　and　have　had　a　look　round。　　Still；　it　is　pleasant　to　think　
one　has　been　there。〃

〃I　suppose　you　did　not　have　much　time？〃　his　friend　would　suggest。

〃We　did　not　get　there　till　the　evening；〃　the　tourist　would　explain。　　
〃We　were　busy　till　dark　buying　postcards；　and　then　in　the　morning　
there　was　the　writing　and　addressing　to　be　done；　and　when　that　was　
over；　and　we　had　had　our　breakfast；　it　was　time　to　leave　again。〃

He　would　take　up　another　card　showing　the　panorama　from　a　mountain　
top。

〃Sublime！　colossal！〃　he　would　cry　enraptured。　　〃If　I　had　known　it　was　
anything　like　that；　I'd　have　stopped　another　day　and　had　a　look　at　
it。〃

It　was　always　worth　seeing；　the　arrival　of　a　party　of　German　tourists　
in　a　Schwartzwald　village。　　Leaping　from　the　coach　they　would　surge　
round　the　solitary　gendarme。

〃Where　is　the　postcard　shop？〃　　〃Tell　uswe　have　only　two　hours
where　do　we　get　postcards？〃

The　gendarme；　scenting　Trinkgeld；　would　head　them　at　the　double…
quick：　　stout　old　gentlemen　unaccustomed　to　the　double…quick；　stouter　
Frauen　gathering　up　their　skirts　with　utter　disregard　to　all　
propriety；　slim　Fraulein　clinging　to　their　beloved　would　run　after　
him。　　Nervous　pedestrians　would　fly　for　safety　into　doorways；　
careless　loiterers　would　be　swept　into　the　gutter。

In　the　narrow　doorway　of　the　postcard　shop　trouble　would　begin。　　The　
cries　of　suffocated　women　and　trampled　children；　the　curses　of　strong　
men；　would　rend　the　air。　　The　German　is　a　peaceful；　law…abiding　
citizen；　but　in　the　hunt　for　postcards　he　was　a　beast。　　A　woman　would　
pounce　on　a　tray　of　cards；　commence　selecting；　suddenly　the　tray　
would　be　snatched　from　her。　　She　would　burst　into　tears；　and　hit　the　
person　nearest　to　her　with　her　umbrella。　　The　cunning　and　the　strong　
would　secure　the　best　cards。　　The　weak　and　courteous　be　left　with　
pictures　of　post　offices　and　railway　stations。　　Torn　and　dishevelled；　
the　crowd　would　rush　back　to　the　hotel；　sweep　crockery　from　the　
table；　andsucking　stumpy　pencilswrite　feverishly。　　A　hurried　meal　
would　follow。　　Then　the　horses　would　be　put　to　again；　the　German