When he is
not on actual duty the German private is always going somewhere
in a great hurry with something belonging to his superior
officer - usually a riding horse or a specially heavy valise. On
duty and off he wears that woodenness of expression - or, rather,
that wooden lack of expression - which is found nowhere in such
flower of perfection as on the faces of German soldiers and German
toys.
The Germans prove they have a sense of humor by requiring their
soldiers to march on parade with the goose step; and the French
prove they have none at all by incasing the defenseless legs of
their soldiers in those foolish red-flannel pants that are
manufactured in such profusion up at the Pantheon.
In the event of another war between the two nations I anticipate
a frightful mortality among pants - especially if the French forces
should be retreating. The German soldier is not a particularly
good marksman as marksmen go, but he would have to be the worst
shot in the world to miss a pair of French pants that were going
away from him at the time.
Still, when all is said and done, there is something essentially
Frenchy about those red pants. There is something in their length
that instinctively suggests Toulon, something in their breadth
that makes you think of Toulouse. I realize that this joke, as
it stands, is weak and imperfect. If there were only another
French seaport called Toubagge I could round it out and improve
it structurally.
If the English private soldier is the trimmest, the Austrian officer
is the most beautiful to look on. An Austrian officer is gaudier
than the door-opener of a London cafe or the porter of a Paris
hotel. He achieves effects in gaudiness which even time Italian
officer cannot equal.
The Italian officer is addicted to cock feathers and horsetails
on his helmet, to bits of yellow and blue let into his clothes,
to tufts of red and green hung on him in unexpected and unaccountable
spots. Either the design of bottled Italian chianti is modeled
after the Italian officer or the Italian officer is modeled after
the bottle of chianti - which, though, I am not prepared to say
without further study of the subject.
But the Austrian officer is the walking sunset effect of creation.
For color schemes I know of nothing in Nature to equal him except
the Grand Canon of the Colorado. Circus parades are unknown in
Austria - they are not missed either; after an Austrian officer a
street parade would seem a colorless and commonplace thing. In
his uniform he runs to striking contrasts - canary yellow, with
light blue facings; silvers and grays; bright greens with scarlet
slashings - and so on.
His collar is the very highest of all high collars and the heaviest
with embroidery; his cloak is the longest and the widest; his boots
the most varnished; his sword-belt the broadest and the shiniest;
and the medals on his bosom are the most numerous and the most
glittering.
