The time to see a German enjoying himself is when he is following
his own bent and not obeying the imperial edict of his gracious
sovereign. I had a most excellent opportunity of observing him
while engaged in his own private pursuits of pleasure when by
chance one evening, in the course of a solitary prowl, I bumped
into a sort of Berlinesque version of Coney Island, with the island
part missing. It was not out in the suburbs where one would
naturally expect to find such a resort. It was in the very middle
of the city, just round the corner from the cafe district, not
more than half a mile, as the Blutwurst flies, from Unter den
Linden. Even at this distance and after a considerable lapse of
time I can still appreciate that place, though I cannot pronounce
it; for it had a name consisting of one of those long German
compound words that run all the way round a fellow's face and lap
over at the back, like a clergyman's collar, and it had also a
subname that no living person could hope to utter unless he had a
thorough German education and throat trouble. You meet such nouns
frequently in Germany. They are not meant to be spoken; you gargle
them. To speak the full name of this park would require two
able-bodied persons - one to start it off and carry it along until
his larynx gave out, and the other to take it up at that point and
finish it.
But for all the nine-jointed impressiveness of its title this park
was a live, brisk little park full of sideshow tents sheltering
mildly amusing, faked-up attractions, with painted banners flapping
in the air and barkers spieling before the entrances and all the
ballyhoos going at full blast - altogether a creditable imitation
of a street fair as witnessed in any American town that has a good
live Elks' Lodge in it.
Plainly the place was popular. Germans of all conditions and all
ages and all sizes - but mainly the broader lasts - were winding
about in thick streams in the narrow, crooked alleys formed by the
various tents. They packed themselves in front of each booth where
a free exhibition was going on, and when the free part was over
and the regular performance began they struggled good-naturedly
to pay the admission fee and enter in at the door.
And, for a price, there were freaks to be seen who properly belonged
on our side of the water, it seemed to me. I had always supposed
them to be exclusively domestic articles until I encountered them
here. There was a regular Bosco - a genuine Herr He Alive Them
Eats - sitting in his canvas den entirely surrounded by a choice
and tasty selection of eating snakes.
