But the goat's movements were too erratic for him. His turn
came, and he trod on the rope, and went down in the middle of the
road, opposite his own door, with a thud that shook us all up
against each other as we stood looking out of the carriage-window,
and sat there and cursed the goat. Then out ran a dog, barking
furiously, and he went for the goat, and got the end of the rope in
his teeth and held on to it like grim death. Away went the goat, at
his end of the rope, and, with him, the dog at the other end.
Between them, they kept the rope about six inches above the ground,
and with it they remorselessly mowed down every living thing they
came across in that once peaceful village. In the course of less
than half a minute we counted fourteen persons sitting down in the
middle of the road. Eight of them were cursing the goat, four were
cursing the dog, and two of them were cursing the old man for
keeping the goat, one of these two, and the more violent one, being
the man's own wife.
The train left at this juncture. We entreated the railway officials
to let us stop and see the show out. The play was becoming quite
interesting. It was so full of movement. But they said that we
were half-an-hour late as it was, and that they dared not.
We leaned out of the window, and watched for as long as we could;
and after the village was lost to view in the distance, we could
still, by listening carefully, hear the thuds, as one after another
of the inhabitants sat down and began to swear.
At about eleven o'clock we had some beer - you can generally obtain
such light refreshment as bottled beer and coffee and rolls from the
guard on a through long-distance train in Germany - took off our
boots, and saying "Good-night" to each other, made a great show of
going to sleep. But we never succeeded in getting there. They
wanted to see one's ticket too often for one to get fairly off.
Every few minutes, so it seemed to me, though in reality the
intervals may perhaps have been longer, a ghostly face would appear
at the carriage-window, and ask to see our tickets.
Whenever a German railway-guard feels lonesome, and does not know
what else to do with himself, he takes a walk round the train, and
gets the passengers to show him their tickets, after which he
returns to his box cheered and refreshed. Some people rave about
sunsets and mountains and old masters; but to the German railway-
guard the world can show nothing more satisfying, more inspiring,
than the sight of a railway-ticket.
Nearly all the German railway officials have this same craving for
tickets. If only they get somebody to show them a railway-ticket,
they are happy. It seemed a harmless weakness of theirs, and B. and
I decided that it would be only kind to humour them in it during our
stay.
Accordingly, whenever we saw a German railway official standing
about, looking sad and weary, we went up to him and showed him our
tickets. The sight was like a ray of sunshine to him; and all his
care was immediately forgotten. If we had not a ticket with us at
the time, we went and bought one. A mere single third to the next
station would gladden him sufficiently in most cases; but if the
poor fellow appeared very woe-begone, and as if he wanted more than
ordinary cheering up, we got him a second-class return.
For the purpose of our journey to Ober-Ammergau and back, we each
carried with us a folio containing some ten or twelve first-class
tickets between different towns, covering in all a distance of some
thousand miles; and one afternoon, at Munich, seeing a railway
official, a cloak-room keeper, who they told us had lately lost his
aunt, and who looked exceptionally dejected, I proposed to B. that
we should take this man into a quiet corner, and both of us show him
all our tickets at once - the whole twenty or twenty-four of them -
and let him take them in his hand and look at them for as long as he
liked. I wanted to comfort him.
B., however, advised against the suggestion. He said that even if
it did not turn the man's head (and it was more than probable that
it would), so much jealousy would be created against him among the
other railway people throughout Germany, that his life would be made
a misery to him.
So we bought and showed him a first-class return to the next station
but one; and it was quite pathetic to watch the poor fellow's face
brighten up at the sight, and to see the faint smile creep back to
the lips from which it had so long been absent.
But at times, one wishes that the German railway official would
control his passion for tickets - or, at least, keep it within due
bounds.
Even the most kindly-hearted man grows tired of showing his ticket
all day and night long, and the middle of a wearisome journey is not
the proper time for a man to come to the carriage-window and clamour
to see your "billet."
You are weary and sleepy. You do not know where your ticket is.
You are not quite sure that you have got a ticket; or if you ever
had one, somebody has taken it away from you. You have put it by
very carefully, thinking that it would not be wanted for hours, and
have forgotten where.
