Meanwhile they put a big, melancholy, angular horse into a tiny sledge. I got in beside a driver in a military overcoat and high boots; he gave the traditional crack of the traditional whip-and suddenly the learned sergeant ran out into the porch wearing only his breeches, and shouted : 'Halt! Halt! Da ist der vermaledeite Pass,' and he held it unfolded in his hands.
I was overtaken by hysterical laughter.
'What's this you're doing to me? Where did you find it?'
'Look,' he said, 'your Russian sergeant folded them one inside the other: who could tell it was there? I never thought of unfolding them.'
And yet he had read three times over: Es ergehet dcshalb an alle lwhcrz Miichtc urzd an allc und jcdc, wclchen Standcs und welcher Wurde sie auch sein mogen . . . .
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'I reached Ki:inigsberg2 tired out by the journey, by anxiety, by many things. After a good sleep in an abyss of feathers, I went out next day to look at the town. It was a warm \Vinter's day: the hotel-keeper suggested that we should take a sledge.
There were bells on the horses and ostrich feathers on their heads . . . and we were gay; a load was lifted from our hearts: the unpleasant sensation of fear, the gnawing feeling of suspicion, had flown away. Caricatures of Nicholas were exhibited in the window of a bookshop, and I rushed in at once to buy a whole stock of them. In the evening I went to a small, dirty, inferior theatre, but came back from it excited, not by the actors but by the audience, which consisted mostly of workmen and young people; in the intervals everyone talked freely and loudly, and all put on their hats (an extremely important thing, as important as the right to wear a beard, etc. ) . This ease and freedom, this element of greater serenity and liveliness impresses the Russian when he arrives abroad. The Petersburg government is still so coarse and unpolished, so absolutely nothing but despotism, that it positively likes to inspire fear; it wants everything to tremble before it-in short. it desires not only power but the theatrical display of it. To the Petersburg Tsars the ideal of public order is the ante-room and the barracks.'
. . . When we set off for Berlin I got into the carriage, and a gentleman muffled up in wraps took the seat beside me; it \vas evening and I could not examine him as we drove. Learning that I was a Russian he began to question me about the strictness of the police and about passports; and of course I told him all I knew. Then \Ye passed on to Prussia ; he spoke highly of the disinterestedness of the Prussian officials, the excellence of the administration, praised the King, and concluded with a violent attack on the Poles of Posen on the ground that they were not good Germans. This surprised me; I objected, and told him bluntly that I did not share his views at all, and then said no more.
Meanwhile it had got light; I noticed only then that my conversative neighbour spoke through his nose, not because he had a cold in it, but because he had not one, or at least had not the most conspicuous part. He probably noticed that this discO\·ery did not afford me any particular satisfaction, and so thought it necessary to tell me, by way of apology, the story of how he had lost his nose and how it had been restored. The first 2 From Letters from France and Italy, Letter I. (A.S.)
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part was somewhat confused, but the second was very circumstantiaclass="underline" Diffenbach himself had carved him a new nose out of his hand ; his hand had been bound to his face for six weeks; Maiestiit had come to the hospital to look at it, and was graciously pleased to wonder and approve.
Le roi de Prusse, en le voyant,
A dit: c'est vraiment etonnant.
Apparently Diffenbach had been busy at the time with something else and had carved him a very ugly nose; but I soon discovered that his hand-made nose was the least of his defects.
Travelling from Konigsberg to Berlin was the most difficult part of our journey. The belief has somehow gained ground among us that the Prussian posting service is well organised: that is all nonsense. Travelling by post-chaise is good only in France, Switzerland, and England. In England the post-chaises are so well built, the horses so elegant, and the drivers so skilful that one may travel for pleasure. The carriage moves at full speed over the very longest stages, whether the road runs uphill or downhill. Now, thanks to the railway, this question is becoming one of historical interest, but in those days we learned by experience what German posting-chaises and their screws could be.
They were worse than anything in the world except the German coachmen.
The way from Konigsberg to Berlin is very long; we took seven places in the diligence and set off. At the first station the guard told us to take our luggage and get into another diligence, sensibly warning us that he would not be responsible for the safety of our things. I observed that I had inquired at Konigsberg and was told that we should keep the same seats: the guard pleaded the snow, and said that we must get into a diligence provided with runners; there was nothing to be said against that. V\'e began to transfer ourselves with our belongings and our children in the middle of the night in the wet snow. At the next station there was the same business again, and the guard did not even trouble himself to explain the change of carriages.
We did half the journey in this way; then he informed us quite simply that we 'should be given only five seats.'
'Five? Here are my tickets.'
'There are no more sPats.'
I began to argue; a window in the posting-station was thrown open with a bang and a grey-heuded man with moustaches asked rudely what the wrangling was about. The guard said that I demanded seven seats, and that he had only five; I added that I
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had tickets and a receipt for the fares for seven seats. Paying no attention to me, the head said to the guard in a strangled, insolent, Russo-German military voice:
'Well, if this gentleman does not want the five seats, throw his things out, let him wait till there are seven seats free.'
Whereupon the worthy station-master, whom the guard addressed as Herr Major, and whose name was Schwerin, shut the window with a slam. After considering the matter, being Russians, we decided to go on. Benvenuto Cellini in like circumstances would, being an Italian, have fired his pistol and killed the station-master.
My neighbour who had been repaired by Diffenbach was in the restaurant at the time; when he had clambered on to his seat and we had set off, I told him the story. He was in a very genial mood, having had a drop too much; he showed the greatest sympathy with us and asked me to give him a note on the subject when we got to Berlin.
'Are you an official in the posting service?' I asked.