Kitabı oku: «My Life», sayfa 9
"Well, I'll go up with you and see what the madame says," he finally declared, and up we marched, the good man looking at me furtively under his brows every now and then, evidently wondering whether or not he was making an awful mistake. My mother answered our ring.
"Who is there?" she asked in German, accustomed to the nocturnal calls of the telegraph messengers. I forgot my grammar, my looks, everything in fact except that on the other side of that door was one human being most likely to give me a night's lodging and to forgive.
"It's me!" I replied in English. The door opened, the portier was given his fee, and I entered a home which, next to the old brown house in our Middle West, has done more to make home seem worth while than any other that I have known.
CHAPTER IX
UNTER DEN LINDEN
The Berlin of the late eighties was a very different city from the Berlin of to-day. There is probably no other Continental city which has undergone so many changes in the same period of time. When I wandered into the place nearly twenty years ago there were no electric cars – horses were still the exclusive motive power in the business streets; there was no rational direction of traffic – there isn't to-day in some parts; there were no automobiles that I can remember having seen; there were no great department stores such as now vie with those of New York; there was no such street lighting as there is to-day; and there were by no means so many Germans leaning on window sills and on the streets. Like Moscow, the place resembled a great overgrown village more than it did the capital of a great country. The people were provincial, the military upstarts often acted as if they thought the city had been built and was kept up for their exclusive entertainment, and strangers, particularly Americans, who ventured to dress as they do at home – white dresses in summer for ladies, for instance – were stared at as if they were a new species of human beings. In one particular, however, the city has not changed, and probably never will, i. e., in the amount of noise the Berliners are equal to when they are turned loose in the streets, afoot, in trains or in Drosckken. If it be true that the word German, philologically dissected, means a shouter in battle, then the word Berliner means two shouters talking about a battle. The incessant ya-yaing and nein-neining in the streets, the perspiring and nervous self-consciousness that comes to a large-boned populace suddenly advanced to Welt-Stadt significance, the reckless driving of the cabbies, the screams of the cabbies' victims, these all contribute to the present provinciality of the metropolis, in spite of the modern trolleys, automobiles, half-Londonized policemen, and taxameter cabs. Indeed, these very appurtenances of cosmopolitan, the crunching trolley, for instance, and the puffing "auto," accentuate very strikingly the undue emphasis which the town puts in noises, and are indicative of its lust for more. Twenty years ago the shouting and buzzing were not so bad, but the city is now making up for any silences that may have been observed at that time.
Part of the street roar and clamor is due to the unusual amount of small traffic in the streets, to the thousands and thousands of cabs, "commercial" tricycles and pushbarrows, all of which claim the right to play their part in the city's roar and bustle. But a much more conspicuous cause, if not the main one, is the fact that Berlin has grown up to Welt-Stadt prominence, overnight, as it were, and the good Berliners have not yet untangled their feet sufficiently to keep an orderly pace under the new order of things. Two-thirds of them are still living under the old horse-car régime, and when they come to congested corners, where the trolley's clang and the automobile's "toff-toff" prevail, they very willingly lend a hand in increasing the general confusion.
At least this is the way the town impressed me a year or two ago, as compared with the easy-going city I first entered as a coal-passer, with honorable discharge papers in my pocket, and very little else. But far be it from me to dwell on this subject, for if there is any city in the world to which I ought to be grateful, it is Berlin. If it pleases the Berliners to shout their World City distinction from the housetops, as if fearful that it might otherwise escape notice, well and good; the noise sounds funny, that is all – particularly after London and New York.
I began my career in the town in a very "Dutch" ready-made suit of clothes, high-heeled shoes that could be pulled on at one tug like the "Romeo" slipper, a ready-made fly-necktie, and a hat the style of which may be seen at its best in this country in the neighborhood of Ellis Island; it was local color hatified indeed. While I lay asleep on the sofa in my mother's library, making up for the loss of sleep at sea, my mother went out and kindly made these purchases. Washed, dressed and fed, I may have looked "Dutch," but I was clean at least, and there was no dusky fireman about to order me to hurry "further mit de coals."
The family physician, a gentleman who has since come on to great things and is one of Berlin's most famous medical men, for some reason best known to himself examined me carefully to see how I had stood the journey. All that he could find out of the way was a considerably quickened heart action, which did not give him great concern, however. At that time the good man was just beginning to pick up English, and at our first meeting made me listen to his rendering of "Early to bed, early to rise," etc. A few weeks later, when making a professional visit on an American young lady, a new neighbor of ours, he was emboldened to give some advice in English – to compose an original sentence. He wanted the young lady to take more exercise, and this is how he told her to get it.
"Traw a teep inspiration, take t'ree pig shteeps across te floor, and ten expire." She pulled through her ailment splendidly.
In those days, the late eighties and early nineties, the American colony, as it was called, lived mainly in the western part of the city, in the neighborhood of the Zoological Gardens. The doctor, or professor, as he is now called, was for years the colony's physician, and many were the regrets when he gave up visiting us. We were still privileged to call at his office, but hospital work and Imperial patients made it impossible for him to call on us, although he kindly made neighborly visits in my mother's home as long as he remained in our street. He is now getting old and gray, but I found him as friendly and hospitable on my last visit to Berlin, in spite of his fine villa, lackeys and carriages, as when he examined me for broken bones and twisted muscles after the coal-passing experience. I told him that I was on my way to Russia to study the heavily-advertised revolution. His face became grave, as of old when studying a case. "Be careful, my son," he cautioned me; "be very careful in Poland." The fatherly warning and the friendly interest brought back to my mind memories of the Berlin that I had known and in a way loved, the town that took me in and truly gave me another chance.
Nearly all American colonies abroad are but little more than camps. The campers tarry a while, for one reason or another – culture is what most of them claim to be seeking – and then fold their tents and pass on, those who remain behind having to get acquainted afresh with the new set of "culturists" who are sure to arrive in due time. In Venice there is an Anglo-Saxon camp which lays claim to ancient privileges and rights. In 1894-95 I spent four unforgettable months in the place, and got well acquainted with many of the campers.
"And how long have you been here?" was one of my questions on meeting an Englishman or fellow countryman, already beginning to plume myself on my long residence.
"Eighteen years, thank you!" was the answer I got on numerous occasions. My four months' sojourn dwindled to a very slight significance when set over against the old residents' record, but in spite of their long stay in the city they were, after all, campers. When the Christmas holiday time came, for instance, they all spoke of going "home" to England. Venice was not their home. It was simply a desirable abiding place for the time being.
So it is wherever I have lived on the Continent. Barring a very few exceptions, the American colonists are transient residents that you have barely got acquainted with before they are off to some new tenting ground. Whether such "colossal" life is advantageous for the rearing of children, or not, is a question which each camping family decides for itself. In the case of young men, students for example, it has its advantages and disadvantages. In my own case I think it worked well for a time. It was not compulsory; I could have returned to America at any time. And it afforded me an opportunity to see how clean I could keep my record sheet in a community unacquainted with my previous devilishness. There was no local reason whatever why I should not hold my head just as high as anybody – a privilege which, I believe, goes a long way in explaining the pride I took in trying to deserve such a right.
It is a far cry from the stoke-room of an ocean liner to a refined home and unexcelled educational opportunities. No one who had seen me passing coal on the Elbe would ever have expected to meet me in the lecture rooms of the Berlin University, a few months later, a full-fledged student in the "philosophical faculty." And no one was more surprised at such a metamorphosis than the student himself.
It came about in this way: For a fortnight or so after reaching Berlin there was little that I felt equal to beyond sitting in my mother's library, resting and reading. The little "Dutch" outfit made me presentable at least, and I was welcome to spend as much time as I liked browsing among the books. It seemed strange for a while, to sit there in comfort and ease, after the long tramp trip and the voyage on the Elbe, but I soon found myself fitting into the new arrangement without much difficulty. The coal-passing experience had exhausted my physical resources more than I had at first imagined, and for days lying on a lounge was about as much as I felt up to. It was during this period, I recall, that I read Livingstone's "Travels in Africa," George Eliot's "Daniel Deronda," some of John Stuart Mills' "Political Economy" and chapters in German history. I seemed to take as naturally to this selection in my reading as I had formerly taken to tramp trips – testimony, it seems to me, that two sets of forces were always at work within me. While poring over these books the Road, Die Ferne, and my former companionships seemed as foreign to my nature as they could possibly be; indeed, I frequently caught myself looking about the library, with its pleasant appointments, and wondering whether my wanderings were not, after all, simply a nightmare.
Friendly care and good food soon restored me to my usual good health, and then came walks, visits in and about the city, experiments in the language on long-suffering cabbies and tramway conductors, and a pleasant round of excursions in the environs. But nothing as yet had been said or decided about my status in the new home, my mother apparently wanting me to recuperate first, and then suggest something myself. My twenty-first birthday was near at hand. I was no longer a boy with no responsibilities. My own sense of the fitness of things told me that it was high time for me to be up and doing, if I was going to be of any use to myself and the family. Yet, for the life of me, I could think of nothing more remunerative and honorable as a calling, than a woodchopper's life in the Black Forest. One of the coal trimmers on the Elbe, a "bankrupp" whose acquaintance I had made in the Hoboken cellar, had told me about this work in South Germany, and I had made up my mind to go there in case Berlin proved inhospitable. At best it was a makeshift job, but, for the time being, it was the best outlook that I had – at least so I thought. My mother, however, had no good opinion of this plan, and recommended that I consider the whole matter more fully.
I finally decided that another fair test of sea life should be made, not in the bunkers or stoke-room, but on deck, or wherever my services might be in demand. For some strange reason I had Egypt as an objective, perhaps on account of reading Livingstone's book. There was nothing particular that I can remember now to make Egypt any more attractive than Italy. But the name seemed to fascinate me, and I told my mother that if she would help me get to Liverpool, I believed that my rightful calling would come to light there. A number of days were taken up in discussing this new project, but I persisted in thinking that Liverpool and Egypt had something wonderful in store for me. The good housing and nourishment had very probably awakened my Wanderlust again, but I know that the projected trip was not meant as a mere wandering in the dark; I honestly believed that something worth while would come of it. Looking back over the affair to-day, however, reminds me that probably the old desire to disappear to unknown parts and come back successful later was at work within me.
It was evidently decided that I should at least try my hand in Liverpool, and sufficient money for the trip and more was given to me. I left Berlin, thinking that I ought to come back at least an admiral of The Fleet, my mother feeling quite hopeful about me, yet regretting that I was not then willing to sound Berlin a little more, and see whether I could not fit in there.
As no particular harm came to me from the Liverpool experiment, perhaps it is not to be regretted to-day, but it seemed to accomplish very little at the time. I lodged in the Sailor's Home and tried to act and talk like a master of a ship, as long as my money lasted, but this was as far as I got toward becoming an admiral or in the direction of Egypt. The only "berth" offered me was in a Norwegian schooner as "cook's mate," or something like that, whatever "that" may mean. Liverpool itself, however, or rather those sections of it near the Sailors' Home and Lime Street, was faithfully explored and studied. One experience that I had may or may not have been worth while, according to the different views of it that are permissible; but I thought, at the time, that it was valuable.
A runaway girl from Manchester, a pretty little thing who had lost her head over the theater, music halls and the ballet, crossed my path. She told me her story, a stencil-plate affair such as England is full of, and I told her mine, also about Egypt and my determination to be an admiral, if possible. She suggested that we combine our stories and funds, and grow rich and famous together. She was sure that she was fated to be an actress, a great one, and I was equally sure that something illustrious awaited me. "Alice" – this was the fair one's name – arranged the combination of funds very neatly; fortunately the bulk of mine were in safe keeping in the Sailor's Home. The whole amount, or rather the amount that I let her have, went for the cultivation of her voice and "stoil" in Lime Street concert halls; but she explained this selfishness away with a promise to finance me when she should be successful and I was passing the final examinations for the admiral's position. It is not unlikely that I might yet be struggling to get money for "Alice's" musical education if her charms had continued to please, but she fainted, or pretended to, in my arms, in public fashion one evening near the Home, and the spell was broken then and there. The fainting took place in an alleyway through which people passed to the rear of the Home and then on to another street. It came so unexpectedly that in spite of the girl's slight form she nearly toppled me over in clutching at me. Some newsboys saw me holding her up and fanning her face with my hat. A squad of policemen, going on night duty, passed by and snickered.
"I'd doi for that goil, I would," one of the boys screamed, and the others made similar teasing remarks. "Alice" gradually recovered and grabbed my neck.
"Save me!" she cried. "Save me! I'm losin' all me high notes."
I "saved" her in double-quick fashion into a cab and sent her home to look for the high notes. I never saw her again, but five years later, when a friend and I were tramping in England, I asked about her in the concert halls in Lime Street, and finally found an old acquaintance who remembered her.
"Oh, that girl!" the acquaintance exclaimed. "She's got seven days. She's dotty. Thinks she's a primer donner. Good thing you an' her never went to housekeeping – ain't it?"
What with my experience with the capricious "Jeminy" of earlier days and with the screeching "Alice," housekeeping has not entered heavily into my life. I must thank "Alice," however, for showing me the folly of trying to be an admiral on a mere coal-passer's experience. Her light-fingered ingenuity and the resulting depletion of my funds also assisted in curing me of the Egyptian fever. The upshot of the trip to England was a hasty return to Germany to try something else – and to celebrate my coming of age. I meant that that event should mark a distinct change in my life, and in many ways it did.
CHAPTER X
BERLIN UNIVERSITY
In the early nineties it was easier for foreigners to get into the Berlin University than it is now. To-day, I am told, certificates and diplomas from other institutions must be shown before the student can matriculate. In 1890, my matriculating year, all that was necessary to become enrolled as a student in good standing, was to have a twenty-mark piece in your pocket to pay the matriculation fee, and perhaps fifty marks more to pay for your first semester's lectures. Nothing was asked about your former studies or academic training. The university was open to all male foreigners over seventeen years of age. Germans had to show a Gymnasium certificate, but foreigners were accepted on their face value.
I can hardly suppress a smile now when I think of my entrance into this famous university. To be sure, I had the necessary amount of money and had long since passed the required age limit, but I am afraid that a stock-taking of my other qualifications would have left me woefully in the lurch had the other qualifications not been taken for granted. There were two years at an American college to my credit, it is true, and I had perhaps done more general reading than even the average German student. But what else was there to entitle me to matriculation? Nothing, I fear, unless it was my mother's earnest wish that this take place.
On my return from England I was determined to let her suggest what was best for me to do, having made such a fiasco of the English venture, a suggestion and enterprise of my own. The university and its professors loomed up large in my mother's eyes. If she could only see me once started on such a career, she said, she thought that her cup of happiness would be full, indeed. She was set on having at least one academic child in the family, and my presence in Berlin and willingness to behave, renewed her hopes that this ambition was to be realized. Fortunate it was for her ambition and my sensibilities that the matriculation ceremonies were so simple. My German at the time had been selected principally from the coal-passers' vocabulary, but I was quick in overhauling it, and when ready to matriculate, knew as much of the language probably as does the average American student on first entering the university. On receiving my matriculation certificate from the rector – a very formidable document it was, written in Latin, which I had long since forgotten – shaking hands with him and receiving the faculty's welcome into the institution, I asked that my faulty German be pardoned.
"Certainly, Herr Studiosus, certainly," the rector assured me. "You are here to learn; we all are. So excuses are not necessary."
This was all the formality that was attached to the entrance ceremony. In five minutes, thanks to the rector, I had changed from a quondam coal passer to a would-be Doctor of Philosophy in the great Friedrich Wilhelm Universitat, a royal institution. The importance of the royal protectorate over the university and the students never impressed me greatly, until a friend of mine had a wordy difference with one of the officials at the Royal Library. My friend was lame, having to use crutches. One day, when entering the room where borrowed books are returned, he proceeded to the desk with his hat on, being unable to remove it until freed of his armful of books. The officious clerk called his attention to the excusable breach of etiquette in none too polite language, adding: "You must remember that I am an Imperial official." "And do you remember," demanded my doughty Greek friend, "that I am an Imperial student."
I never had occasion to call attention to my "Imperialism" while in the university, but it was a kind of little joke that I was already to play if opportunity offered.
To take a Ph. D. at Berlin in my day at least one major study was required, and also two minors. Six semesters was the time necessary for preparation before one could promoviren, and an acceptable "Thesis" was absolutely necessary before examination was permissible. As a rule, a man with a well-written thesis and a fair mastery of his major subject succeeded in getting a degree. There were no examinations until the candidates for degrees were ready to promoviren, to try for their Doctor's degree. At the end of three years, six semesters, such candidates were called before their professors and made to tell what they knew both in their major and minor studies. The examination was oral and alleged to be pretty minute, but I have been told by a Japanese, with a Ph. D. degree from Johns Hopkins University and preliminary study in German institutions, that, in his case, he would have preferred to take his chances in a bout with the Berlin examiners.
The significance of the title was by no means clear to me on matriculating in Berlin. In an indefinite sort of way I knew that it stood for certain learned acquirements, but what these amounted to puzzled me much at the time, and they do yet. Occasionally some visiting clergyman would preach for our local pastor in the American church, and I noticed that when a Ph. D. was a part of his title it was thought extremely good form to pay extra attention to his discourse.
I think this extra attention was partly due to the significance which our pastor gave to such decorations. He put much stress on learned institutions, their doctrines and teachings, and his discourses – many of them at least – might have been delivered in the university, so far as they patched up the spiritual wear and tear of his hearers. He was much given to quoting the professors of his university days, and, at his evening home-lectures, he could make himself very interesting telling us about the Germany of his youth and early manhood. One professor whose name he was continually mentioning was Tollock, or Toccoch, or something similar. I believe this gentleman had been noted as a theologian, but what I admired more than anything else was to hear our pastor roll out the name. His pronunciation of it seemed to me to incorporate the whole German language in one mouthful. With words, English or German, ending with a "d," the pastor had difficulty. In his prayers, for example, "Lord God" became "Lorn Gone," and I am afraid that some of us called the good man "Lorn Gone." He staid with us twenty years or more, I think, and he and his wife did much to get the money to build the present American Church. He very kindly took an interest in my selection of lectures at the university. For the life of me I cannot recall now why he or I chose Political Economy for my major. It may have been because my father had been much interested in this subject and had possessed a fine library on economic questions. It may also be accounted for by my cursory look into John Stuart Mill's book previous to leaving for Liverpool. Still, again, it may have been one of those haphazard selections which are resorted to in cases like mine; the subject was safe at least, and perhaps the good Doctor thought that studying might inculcate good principles in me about personal economy. Whatever the cause may have been, I was enrolled in der philosophischen Facultät, as an earnest delver into Theoretische und praktische national-ekonomic. I took two privatim twenty-mark lectures in my major, each semester that I was in the university. Professors Wagner and Schmoller were my instructors in these courses. With Professor Wagner I never became well acquainted, but an interview that I once had with Professor Schmoller has always remained memorable. I had spent twenty marks semester after semester on his lectures and it did not seem to me that I was getting on very fast in my subject. Being a near neighbor of ours, I resolved one day to call on him in his villa and find out whether the trouble was on his side or mine. I had other uses for the semester twenty marks, unless he absolutely needed them. He asked me point blank what my preparation for university work had been previous to matriculating at Berlin, and how it had come about that Political Economy had been selected as my major. I told him the truth, even resorting to anecdotes about riding freight cars, to make myself clear. He laughed.
"And what have you in mind as a topic for a thesis?" he asked me. I had been four semesters in the university, and it was time for me to begin to think seriously about a thesis if I intended to promoviren. My thoughts were very scattered on this point, but I finally managed to tell the professor that vagrancy and geography seemed to have considerable in common, and that I contemplated a thesis which would consolidate my learning on these subjects. Again the professor laughed. He finally delivered himself of this dictum: "Vagrancy and geography don't combine the way you infer at any German university. Geography and Political Economy, however, make excellent mates, and are well worth studying together. Perhaps you might find it easier to get your degree at one of the South German universities."
The insinuating suggestion at the last piqued me somewhat, but I continued to listen to Professor Schmoller for another long semester.
My minors – I hardly recall now what they were. One major and two or three minors were required, I believe, and one of the minors had to be the History of Philosophy. One semester in this subject was usually considered sufficient. So I must have listened to lectures on this subject, and I recall other courses in German Literature. But I am afraid that my professors at the time would be hard put to it, in looking over to-day the selected courses in my Anmelde-Buch, to make out what I was driving at. But in spite of all this confusion and floundering about, I was busy, after all, on my own private ends. I may not have got much from the lectures, but I came in contact with such men as Virchow, the pathologist; Kiepert, the geographer; Curtius, the Greek historian; Pfleiderer, the theologian; Helmholtz, the chemist, and I got glimpses of Mommsen. He was not reading in the university during my stay in Berlin, but he lived not far from my mother's home, and I used to see him in the street cars. He was a very much shriveled-up looking individual, and when sitting down looked very diminutive. He wore immense glasses, which gave his eyes an owlish appearance; I saw him to the best advantage one afternoon when we were riding alone in a street car through the Thiergarten. He had a corner in the front, and I had taken one in the rear. I hardly noticed him at first, and had opened a book to read, when suddenly the old gentleman began to mumble to himself and gesture. "Ya, ya, so ist es," I could hear him say. "So muss es sein," and he flourished his right hand about as if he were speaking to a collection of Roman senators. What it was that was "so," and why it had to be "so," I could not find out. Perhaps he was arguing a deep polemical point with an imaginary adversary, and perhaps he was merely having a little tiff with the police. He was the proud father of twelve children, more or less, and no Berlin landlord, so the story runs, would rent him a flat. He consequently lived in Charlottenburg, where, I have heard, that he told the police what he thought of them and their regulations.
The most interesting interview that I had with any of my professors was with Virchow. At the time of the interview I was corresponding for a New York newspaper intermittently, and, one day, word came from the editor that a "chat" with Virchow on the political situation would be "available." (This word available formerly troubled me a great deal in my encounters with editors, but I have at last come to terms with it. When an editor uses it, it pays to look into a good dictionary and see how many different applications it has. Its editorial significance is most elastic.) Virchow kindly granted me an interview and told me some interesting things about his fight for Liberal ideas. But he was most entertaining when talking "science." Our political chat finished, he asked me whether I was interested in Anthropology, advising me that the local Anthropological Society was to have a meeting that same evening, and that I would be welcome. I told him that I was interested in Anthropology in so far as it threw light on Criminology. The old gentleman must have mistaken my meaning, or I did not know myself what I was trying to say, for my reply startled him into what seemed to me unwonted nervous activity. During the political chat he had been very quiet and calm, talking even about Bismarck in a rather subdued voice. But when I ventured to connect Anthropology and Criminology, barely mentioning Lombroso's name, it was as if some one had thrown a stone through the window. Virchow jumped up from his chair, and cried: "There you are on false ground. Let me give you a pamphlet of mine that will put you right," and he rushed into his adjoining study for a paper that had something to do with cells, etc. I might understand it to-day, but it read like Sanscrit at the time. "There," said the little man, handing me the brochure. "That will give you my ideas on that subject." In other men this proceeding might have indicated conceit. With Virchow it was merely a friendly desire to set me right on a matter which he had thought a million times more about than I possibly could have. He seemed literally to feel aggrieved that anyone should be in the dark about a matter on which he had tried to shed light.
