Every morning B. has sat down with the book before him, and,
grasping his head between his hands, has tried to understand it
without going mad.
"Here we are," he has said. "This is the train that will do for us.
Leaves Munich at 1.45; gets to Heidelberg at 4 - just in time for a
cup of tea."
"Gets to Heidelberg at 4?" I exclaim. "Does the whole distance in
two and a quarter hours? Why, we were all night coming down!"
"Well, there you are," he says, pointing to the time-table.
"Munich, depart 1.45; Heidelberg, arrive 4."
"Yes," I say, looking over his shoulder; "but don't you see the 4 is
in thick type? That means 4 in the morning."
"Oh, ah, yes," he replies. "I never noticed that. Yes, of course.
No! it can't be that either. Why, that would make the journey
fourteen hours. It can't take fourteen hours. No, of course not.
That's not meant for thick type, that 4. That's thin type got a
little thick, that's all."
"Well, it can't be 4 this afternoon," I argue. "It must be 4 to-
morrow afternoon! That's just what a German express train would
like to do - take a whole day over a six hours' job!"
He puzzles for a while, and then breaks out with:
"Oh! I see it now. How stupid of me! That train that gets to
Heidelberg at 4 comes from Berlin."
He seemed quite delighted with this discovery.
"What's the good of it to us, then?" I ask.
That depresses him.
"No, it is not much good, I'm afraid," he agrees. "It seems to go
straight from Berlin to Heidelberg without stopping at Munich at
all. Well then, where does the 1.45 go to? It must go somewhere."
Five minutes more elapse, and then he exclaims:
"Drat this 1.45! It doesn't seem to go anywhere. Munich depart
1.45, and that's all. It must go somewhere!"
Apparently, however, it does not. It seems to be a train that
starts out from Munich at 1.45, and goes off on the loose.
Possibly, it is a young, romantic train, fond of mystery. It won't
say where it's going to. It probably does not even know itself. It
goes off in search of adventure.
"I shall start off," it says to itself, "at 1.45 punctually, and
just go on anyhow, without thinking about it, and see where I get
to."
Or maybe it is a conceited, headstrong young train. It will not be
guided or advised. The traffic superintendent wants it to go to St.
Petersburg or to Paris. The old grey-headed station-master argues
with it, and tries to persuade it to go to Constantinople, or even
to Jerusalem if it likes that better - urges it to, at all events,
make up its mind where it IS going - warns it of the danger to young
trains of having no fixed aim or object in life. Other people,
asked to use their influence with it, have talked to it like a
father, and have begged it, for their sakes, to go to Kamskatka, or
Timbuctoo, or Jericho, according as they have thought best for it;
and then, finding that it takes no notice of them, have got wild
with it, and have told it to go to still more distant places.
But to all counsel and entreaty it has turned a deaf ear.
"You leave me alone," it has replied; "I know where I'm going to.
Don't you worry yourself about me. You mind your own business, all
of you. I don't want a lot of old fools telling me what to do. I
know what I'm about."
What can be expected from such a train? The chances are that it
comes to a bad end. I expect it is recognised afterwards, a broken-
down, unloved, friendless, old train, wandering aimless and despised
in some far-off country, musing with bitter regret upon the day
when, full of foolish pride and ambition, it started from Munich,
with its boiler nicely oiled, at 1.45.
B. abandons this 1.45 as hopeless and incorrigible, and continues
his search.
"Hulloa! what's this?" he exclaims. "How will this do us? Leaves
Munich at 4, gets to Heidelberg 4.15. That's quick work. Something
wrong there. That won't do. You can't get from Munich to
Heidelberg in a quarter of an hour. Oh! I see it. That 4 o'clock
goes to Brussels, and then on to Heidelberg afterwards. Gets in
there at 4.15 to-morrow, I suppose. I wonder why it goes round by
Brussels, though? Then it seems to stop at Prague for ever so long.
Oh, damn this timetable!"
Then he finds another train that starts at 2.15, and seems to be an
ideal train. He gets quite enthusiastic over this train.
"This is the train for us, old man," he says. "This is a splendid
train, really. It doesn't stop anywhere."
"Does it GET anywhere?" I ask.
"Of course it gets somewhere," he replies indignantly. "It's an
express! Munich," he murmurs, tracing its course through the
timetable, "depart 2.15. First and second class only. Nuremberg?
No; it doesn't stop at Nuremberg. Wurtzburg? No. Frankfort for
Strasburg? No. Cologne, Antwerp, Calais? Well, where does it
stop? Confound it! it must stop somewhere. Berlin, Paris,
Brussels, Copenhagen? No. Upon my soul, this is another train that
does not go anywhere! It starts from Munich at 2.15, and that's
all. It doesn't do anything else."
It seems to be a habit of Munich trains to start off in this
purposeless way.
