The puffed-up bed, resting on the
middle of him, gives him the appearance of a man suffering from some
monstrous swelling, or else of some exceptionally well-developed
frog that has been turned up the wrong way and does not know how to
get on to its legs again.
Another vexation that he has to contend with is, that every time he
moves a limb or breathes extra hard, the bed (which is only of down)
tumbles off on to the floor.
You cannot lean out of a German bed to pick up anything off the
floor, owing to its box-like formation; so he has to scramble out
after it, and of course every time he does this he barks both his
shins twice against the sides of the bed.
When he has performed this feat for about the tenth time, he
concludes that it was madness for him, a mere raw amateur at the
business, to think that he could manage a complicated, tricky bed of
this sort, that must take even an experienced man all he knows to
sleep in it; and gets out and camps on the floor.
At least, that is what I did. B. is accustomed to German beds, and
doubled himself up and went off to sleep without the slightest
difficulty.
We slept for two hours, and then got up and went back to the
railway-station, where we dined. The railway refreshment-room in
German towns appears to be as much patronised by the inhabitants of
the town as by the travellers passing through. It is regarded as an
ordinary restaurant, and used as such by the citizens. We found the
dining-room at Cologne station crowded with Cologneists.
All classes of citizens were there, but especially soldiers. There
were all sorts of soldiers - soldiers of rank, and soldiers of rank
and file; attached soldiers (very much attached, apparently) and
soldiers unattached; stout soldiers, thin soldiers; old soldiers,
young soldiers. Four very young soldiers sat opposite us, drinking
beer. I never saw such young soldiers out by themselves before.
They each looked about twelve years old, but may have been thirteen;
and they each looked, also, ready and willing to storm a battery, if
the order were given to them to do it. There they sat, raising and
lowering their huge mugs of beer, discussing military matters, and
rising every now and again to gravely salute some officer as he
passed, and to receive as gravely his grave salute in return.
There seemed to be a deal of saluting to be gone through. Officers
kept entering and passing through the room in an almost continual
stream, and every time one came in sight all the military drinkers
and eaters rose and saluted, and remained at the salute until the
officer had passed.
One young soldier, who was trying to eat a plate of soup near us, I
felt quite sorry for. Every time he got the spoon near his mouth an
officer invariably hove in view, and down would have to go the
spoon, soup and all, and up he would have to rise. It never seemed
to occur to the silly fellow to get under the table and finish his
dinner there.
We had half-an-hour to spare between dinner and the starting of our
train, and B. suggested that we should go into the cathedral. That
is B.'s one weakness, churches. I have the greatest difficulty in
getting him past a church-door. We are walking along a street, arm
in arm, talking as rationally and even as virtuously as need be,
when all at once I find that B. has become silent and abstracted.
I know what it is; he has caught sight of a church. I pretend not
to notice any change in him, and endeavour to hurry him on. He lags
more and more behind, however, and at last stops altogether.
"Come, come," I say to him, encouragingly, "pull yourself together,
and be a man. Don't think about it. Put it behind you, and
determine that you WON'T be conquered. Come, we shall be round the
corner in another minute, where you won't be able to see it. Take
my hand, and let's run!"
He makes a few feeble steps forward with me, and then stops again.
"It's no good, old man," he says, with a sickly smile, so full of
pathos that it is impossible to find it in one's heart to feel
anything but pity for him. "I can't help it. I have given way to
this sort of thing too long. It is too late to reform now. You go
on and get a drink somewhere; I'll join you again in a few minutes.
Don't worry about me; it's no good."
And back he goes with tottering steps, while I sadly pass on into
the nearest cafe, and, over a glass of absinthe or cognac, thank
Providence that I learnt to control my craving for churches in early
youth, and so am not now like this poor B.
In a little while he comes in, and sits down beside me. There is a
wild, unhealthy excitement in his eye, and, under a defiant air of
unnatural gaiety, he attempts to hide his consciousness of guilt.
"It was a lovely altar-cloth," he whispers to me, with an enthusiasm
that only makes one sorrow for him the more, so utterly impossible
does it cause all hope of cure to seem. "And they've got a coffin
in the north crypt that is simply a poem.
