My military friend,with a pleasant laugh,confessed he did not see what was to be done.The policeman,more imaginative,saw a way out.
It was that my military friend should set to work and pick up those fifty scraps of paper.He is an English General on the Retired List,and of imposing appearance:his manner on occasion is haughty.He did not see himself on his hands and knees in the chief street of Dresden,in the middle of the afternoon,picking up paper.
The German policeman himself admitted that the situation was awkward.
If the English General could not accept it there happened to be an alternative.It was that the English General should accompany the policeman through the streets,followed by the usual crowd,to the nearest prison,some three miles off.It being now four o'clock in the afternoon,they would probably find the judge departed.But the most comfortable thing possible in prison cells should be allotted to him,and the policeman had little doubt that the General,having paid his fine of forty marks,would find himself a free man again in time for lunch the following day.The general suggested hiring a boy to pick up the paper.The policeman referred to the wording of the law,and found that this would not be permitted.
"I thought the matter out,"my friend told me,"imagining all the possible alternatives,including that of knocking the fellow down and making a bolt,and came to the conclusion that his first suggestion would,on the whole,result in the least discomfort.But I had no idea that picking up small scraps of thin paper off greasy stones was the business that I found it!It took me nearly ten minutes,and afforded amusement,I calculate,to over a thousand people.But it is a good law,mind you:all I wish is that I had known it beforehand."On one occasion I accompanied an American lady to a German Opera House.The taking-off of hats in the German Schausspielhaus is obligatory,and again I would it were so in England.But the American lady is accustomed to disregard rules made by mere man.She explained to the doorkeeper that she was going to wear her hat.He,on his side,explained to her that she was not:they were both a bit short with one another.I took the opportunity to turn aside and buy a programme:the fewer people there are mixed up in an argument,Ialways think,the better.
My companion explained quite frankly to the doorkeeper that it did not matter what he said,she was not going to take any notice of him.
He did not look a talkative man at any time,and,maybe,this announcement further discouraged him.In any case,he made no attempt to answer.All he did was to stand in the centre of the doorway with a far-away look in his eyes.The doorway was some four feet wide:he was about three feet six across,and weighed about twenty stone.As I explained,I was busy buying a programme,and when I returned my friend had her hat in her hand,and was digging pins into it:I think she was trying to make believe it was the heart of the doorkeeper.She did not want to listen to the opera,she wanted to talk all the time about that doorkeeper,but the people round us would not even let her do that.
She has spent three winters in Germany since then.Now when she feels like passing through a door that is standing wide open just in front of her,and which leads to just the place she wants to get to,and an official shakes his head at her,and explains that she must not,but must go up two flights of stairs and along a corridor and down another flight of stairs,and so get to her place that way,she apologises for her error and trots off looking ashamed of herself.
Continental Governments have trained their citizens to perfection.
Obedience is the Continent's first law.The story that is told of a Spanish king who was nearly drowned because the particular official whose duty it was to dive in after Spanish kings when they tumbled out of boats happened to be dead,and his successor had not yet been appointed,I can quite believe.On the Continental railways if you ride second class with a first-class ticket you render yourself liable to imprisonment.What the penalty is for riding first with a second-class ticket I cannot say--probably death,though a friend of mine came very near on one occasion to finding out.
All would have gone well with him if he had not been so darned honest.He is one of those men who pride themselves on being honest.
I believe he takes a positive pleasure in being honest.He had purchased a second-class ticket for a station up a mountain,but meeting,by chance on the platform,a lady acquaintance,had gone with her into a first-class apartment.On arriving at the journey's end he explained to the collector what he had done,and,with his purse in his hand,demanded to know the difference.They took him into a room and locked the door.They wrote out his confession and read it over to him,and made him sign it,and then they sent for a policeman.
The policeman cross-examined him for about a quarter of an hour.
They did not believe the story about the lady.Where was the lady?
He did not know.They searched the neighbourhood for her,but could not find her.He suggested--what turned out to be the truth--that,tired of loitering about the station,she had gone up the mountain.
An Anarchist outrage had occurred in the neighbouring town some months before.The policeman suggested searching for bombs.
Fortunately,a Cook's agent,returning with a party of tourists,arrived upon the scene,and took it upon himself to explain in delicate language that my friend was a bit of an ass and could not tell first class from second.It was the red cushions that had deceived my friend:he thought it was first class,as a matter of fact it was second class.
