Nor is it sufficient to understand only one particular stove.The practical foreigner prides himself upon having various stoves, adapted to various work.Hitherto I have been speaking only of the stove supposed to be best suited to reception rooms and bedrooms.
The hall is provided with another sort of stove altogether: an iron stove this, that turns up its nose at coke and potato-peelings.If you give it anything else but the best coal it explodes.It is like living surrounded by peppery old colonels, trying to pass a peaceful winter among these passionate stoves.There is a stove in the kitchen to be used only for roasting: this one will not look at anything else but wood.Give it a bit of coal, meaning to be kind, and before you are out of the room it has exploded.
Then there is a trick stove specially popular in Belgium.It has a little door at the top and another little door at the bottom, and looks like a pepper-caster.Whether it is happy or not depends upon those two little doors.There are times when it feels it wants the bottom door shut and the top door open, or vice versa, or both open at the same time, or both shut--it is a fussy little stove.
Ordinary intelligence does not help you much with this stove.You want to be bred in the country.It is a question of instinct: you have to have Belgian blood in your veins to get on comfortably with it.On the whole, it is a mild little stove, this Belgian pet.It does not often explode: it only gets angry, and throws its cover into the air, and flings hot coals about the room.It lives, generally speaking, inside an iron cupboard with two doors.When you want it, you open these doors, and pull it out into the room.It works on a swivel.And when you don't want it you try to push it back again, and then the whole thing tumbles over, and the girl throws her hands up to Heaven and says, "Mon Dieu!" and screams for the cook and the femme journee, and they all three say "Mon Dieu!"and fall upon it with buckets of water.By the time everything has been extinguished you have made up your mind to substitute for it just the ordinary explosive stove to which you are accustomed.
[I am considered Cold and Mad.]
In your own house you can, of course, open the windows, and thus defeat the foreign stove.The rest of the street thinks you mad, but then the Englishman is considered by all foreigners to be always mad.
It is his privilege to be mad.The street thinks no worse of you than it did before, and you can breathe in comfort.But in the railway carriage they don't allow you to be mad.In Europe, unless you are prepared to draw at sight upon the other passengers, throw the conductor out of the window, and take the train in by yourself, it is useless arguing the question of fresh air.The rule abroad is that if any one man objects to the window being open, the window remains closed.He does not quarrel with you: he rings the bell, and points out to the conductor that the temperature of the carriage has sunk to little more than ninety degrees, Fahrenheit.He thinks a window must be open.
The conductor is generally an old soldier: he understands being shot, he understands being thrown out of window, but not the laws of sanitation.If, as I have explained, you shoot him, or throw him out on the permanent way, that convinces him.He leaves you to discuss the matter with the second conductor, who, by your action, has now, of course, become the first conductor.As there are generally half a dozen of these conductors scattered about the train, the process of educating them becomes monotonous.You generally end by submitting to the law.
Unless you happen to be an American woman.Never did my heart go out more gladly to America as a nation than one spring day travelling from Berne to Vevey.We had been sitting for an hour in an atmosphere that would have rendered a Dante disinclined to notice things.Dante, after ten minutes in that atmosphere, would have lost all interest in the show.He would not have asked questions.He would have whispered to Virgil:
"Get me out of this, old man, there's a good fellow!"[Sometimes I wish I were an American Woman.]
The carriage was crowded, chiefly with Germans.Every window was closed, every ventilator shut.The hot air quivered round our feet Seventeen men and four women were smoking, two children were sucking peppermints, and an old married couple were eating their lunch, consisting chiefly of garlic.At a junction, the door was thrown open.The foreigner opens the door a little way, glides in, and closes it behind him.This was not a foreigner, but an American lady, en voyage, accompanied by five other American ladies.They marched in carrying packages.They could not find six seats together, so they scattered up and down the carriage.The first thing that each woman did, the moment she could get her hands free, was to dash for the nearest window and haul it down.
"Astonishes me," said the first woman, "that somebody is not dead in this carriage."Their idea, I think, was that through asphyxiation we had become comatose, and, but for their entrance, would have died unconscious.
"It is a current of air that is wanted," said another of the ladies.
So they opened the door at the front of the carriage and four of them stood outside on the platform, chatting pleasantly and admiring the scenery, while two of them opened the door at the other end, and took photographs of the Lake of Geneva.The carriage rose and cursed them in six languages.Bells were rung: conductors came flying in.It was all of no use.Those American ladies were cheerful but firm.
They argued with volubility: they argued standing in the open doorway.The conductors, familiar, no doubt, with the American lady and her ways, shrugged their shoulders and retired.The other passengers undid their bags and bundles, and wrapped themselves up in shawls and Jaeger nightshirts.
I met the ladies afterwards in Lausanne.They told me they had been condemned to a fine of forty francs apiece.They also explained to me that they had not the slightest intention of paying it.
