Jerome Klapka Jerome

DIARY OF A PILGRIMAGE
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THE REST OF SUNDAY, THE 25TH

We Seek Breakfast.--I Air My German.--The Art of Gesture.--The Intelligence of the Premiere Danseuse.--Performance of English Pantomime in the Pyrenees.--Sad Result Therefrom.--The "German Conversation" Book.--Its Narrow-minded View of Human Wants and Aspirations.--Sunday in Munich.--Hans and Gretchen.--High Life v. Low Life.--"A Beer-Cellar."

At Munich we left our luggage at the station, and went in search of breakfast. Of course, at eight o'clock in the morning none of the big cafes were open; but at length, beside some gardens, we found an old-fashioned looking restaurant, from which came a pleasant odour of coffee and hot onions; and walking through and seating ourselves at one of the little tables, placed out under the trees, we took the bill of fare in our hands, and summoned the waiter to our side.

I ordered the breakfast. I thought it would be a good opportunity for me to try my German. I ordered coffee and rolls as a groundwork. I got over that part of my task very easily. With the practice I had had during the last two days, I could have ordered coffee and rolls for forty. Then I foraged round for luxuries, and ordered a green salad. I had some difficulty at first in convincing the man that it was not a boiled cabbage that I wanted, but succeeded eventually in getting that silly notion out of his head.

I still had a little German left, even after that. So I ordered an omelette also.

"Tell him a savoury one," said B., "or he will be bringing us something full of hot jam and chocolate-creams. You know their style."

"Oh, yes," I answered. "Of course. Yes. Let me see. What is the German for savoury?"

"Savoury?" mused B. "Oh! ah! hum! Bothered if I know! Confound the thing--I can't think of it!"

I could not think of it either. As a matter of fact, I never knew it. We tried the man with French. We said:

"Une omelette aux fines herbes."

As he did not appear to understand that, we gave it him in bad English. We twisted and turned the unfortunate word "savoury" into sounds so quaint, so sad, so unearthly, that you would have thought they might have touched the heart of a savage. This stoical Teuton, however, remained unmoved. Then we tried pantomime.

Pantomime is to language what marmalade, according to the label on the pot, is to butter, "an excellent (occasional) substitute." But its powers as an interpreter of thought are limited. At least, in real life they are so. As regards a ballet, it is difficult to say what is not explainable by pantomime. I have seen the bad man in a ballet convey to the premiere danseuse by a subtle movement of the left leg, together with some slight assistance from the drum, the heartrending intelligence that the lady she had been brought up to believe was her mother was in reality only her aunt by marriage. But then it must be borne in mind that the premiere danseuse is a lady whose quickness of perception is (...)

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