I'm English myself;" and he walked away, evidently
much puzzled.
B. said to me as we sat down:
"I'll tell you what's the matter with you, J. - you know too many
languages for this continent. Your linguistic powers will be the
ruin of us if you don't hold them in a bit. You don't know any
Sanscrit or Chaldean, do you?"
I replied that I did not.
"Any Hebrew or Chinese?"
"Not a word."
"Sure?"
"Not so much as a full stop in any of them."
"That's a blessing," said B., much relieved. "You would be trying
to palm off one or other of them on some simple-minded peasant for
German, if you did!"
It is a wearisome journey, through the long, hot hours of the
morning, to Cologne. The carriage is stifling. Railway travellers,
I have always noticed, regard fresh air as poison. They like to
live on the refuse of each other's breath, and close up every window
and ventilator tight. The sun pours down through glass and blind
and scorches our limbs. Our heads and our bodies ache. The dust
and soot drift in and settle on our clothes, and grime our hands and
face. We all doze and wake up with a start, and fall to sleep again
upon each other. I wake, and find my neighbour with his head upon
my shoulder. It seems a shame to cast him off; he looks so
trustful. But he is heavy. I push him on to the man the other
side. He is just as happy there. We roll about; and when the train
jerks, we butt each other with our heads. Things fall from the rack
upon us. We look up surprised, and go to sleep again. My bag
tumbles down upon the head of the unjust man in the corner. (Is it
retribution?) He starts up, begs my pardon, and sinks back into
oblivion. I am too sleepy to pick up the bag. It lies there on the
floor. The unjust man uses it for a footstool.
We look out, through half-closed eyes, upon the parched, level,
treeless land; upon the little patchwork farms of corn and beetroot,
oats and fruit, growing undivided, side by side, each looking like a
little garden dropped down into the plain; upon the little dull
stone houses.
A steeple appears far away upon the horizon. (The first thing that
we ask of men is their faith: "What do you believe?" The first
thing that they show us is their church: "THIS we believe.") Then
a tall chimney ranges itself alongside. (First faith, then works.)
Then a confused jumble of roofs, out of which, at last, stand forth
individual houses, factories, streets, and we draw up in a sleeping
town.
People open the carriage door, and look in upon us. They do not
appear to think much of us, and close the door again quickly, with a
bang, and we sleep once more.
