THE REST OF SUNDAY, THE 25TH
We Seek Breakfast. - I Air My German. - The Art of Gesture. - The
Intelligence of the Premiere Danseuse. - Performance of English
Pantomime in the Pyrenees. - Sad Result Therefrom. - The "German
Conversation" Book. - Its Narrow-minded View of Human Wants and
Aspirations. - Sunday in Munich. - Hans and Gretchen. - High Life v.
Low Life. - "A Beer-Cellar."
At Munich we left our luggage at the station, and went in search of
breakfast. Of course, at eight o'clock in the morning none of the
big cafes were open; but at length, beside some gardens, we found an
old-fashioned looking restaurant, from which came a pleasant odour
of coffee and hot onions; and walking through and seating ourselves
at one of the little tables, placed out under the trees, we took the
bill of fare in our hands, and summoned the waiter to our side.
I ordered the breakfast. I thought it would be a good opportunity
for me to try my German. I ordered coffee and rolls as a
groundwork. I got over that part of my task very easily. With the
practice I had had during the last two days, I could have ordered
coffee and rolls for forty. Then I foraged round for luxuries, and
ordered a green salad. I had some difficulty at first in convincing
the man that it was not a boiled cabbage that I wanted, but
succeeded eventually in getting that silly notion out of his head.
I still had a little German left, even after that. So I ordered an
omelette also.
"Tell him a savoury one," said B., "or he will be bringing us
something full of hot jam and chocolate-creams. You know their
style."
"Oh, yes," I answered. "Of course. Yes. Let me see. What is the
German for savoury?"
"Savoury?" mused B. "Oh! ah! hum! Bothered if I know! Confound
the thing - I can't think of it!"
I could not think of it either. As a matter of fact, I never knew
it. We tried the man with French. We said:
"Une omelette aux fines herbes."
As he did not appear to understand that, we gave it him in bad
English. We twisted and turned the unfortunate word "savoury" into
sounds so quaint, so sad, so unearthly, that you would have thought
they might have touched the heart of a savage. This stoical Teuton,
however, remained unmoved. Then we tried pantomime.
Pantomime is to language what marmalade, according to the label on
the pot, is to butter, "an excellent (occasional) substitute." But
its powers as an interpreter of thought are limited. At least, in
real life they are so. As regards a ballet, it is difficult to say
what is not explainable by pantomime. I have seen the bad man in a
ballet convey to the premiere danseuse by a subtle movement of the
left leg, together with some slight assistance from the drum, the
heartrending intelligence that the lady she had been brought up to
believe was her mother was in reality only her aunt by marriage.
But then it must be borne in mind that the premiere danseuse is a
lady whose quickness of perception is altogether unique. The
premiere danseuse knows precisely what a gentleman means when he
twirls round forty-seven times on one leg, and then stands on his
head. The average foreigner would, in all probability, completely
misunderstand the man.
A friend of mine once, during a tour in the Pyrenees, tried to
express gratitude by means of pantomime. He arrived late one
evening at a little mountain inn, where the people made him very
welcome, and set before him their best; and he, being hungry,
appreciated their kindness, and ate a most excellent supper.
Indeed, so excellent a meal did he make, and so kind and attentive
were his hosts to him, that, after supper, he felt he wanted to
thank them, and to convey to them some idea of how pleased and
satisfied he was.
He could not explain himself in language. He only knew enough
Spanish to just ask for what he wanted - and even to do that he had
to be careful not to want much. He had not got as far as sentiment
and emotion at that time. Accordingly he started to express himself
in action. He stood up and pointed to the empty table where the
supper had been, then opened his mouth and pointed down his throat.
Then he patted that region of his anatomy where, so scientific
people tell us, supper goes to, and smiled.
He has a rather curious smile, has my friend. He himself is under
the impression that there is something very winning in it, though,
also, as he admits, a touch of sadness. They use it in his family
for keeping the children in order.
The people of the inn seemed rather astonished at his behaviour.
They regarded him, with troubled looks, and then gathered together
among themselves and consulted in whispers.
"I evidently have not made myself sufficiently clear to these simple
peasants," said my friend to himself. "I must put more vigour into
this show."
Accordingly he rubbed and patted that part of himself to which I
have previously alluded - and which, being a modest and properly
brought-up young man, nothing on earth shall induce me to mention
more explicitly - with greater energy than ever, and added another
inch or two of smile; and he also made various graceful movements
indicative, as he thought, of friendly feeling and contentment.
At length a ray of intelligence burst upon the faces of his hosts,
and they rushed to a cupboard and brought out a small black bottle.
"Ah! that's done it," thought my friend.
