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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 shutit 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。
CHAPTER VII
＇Too much Postcard。＇
The postcard craze is dying out in Germanythe land of its birthI
am told。 In Germany they do things thoroughly； or not at all。 The
German when he took to sending postcards abandoned almost every other
pursuit in life。 The German tourist never knew where he had been
until on reaching home again he asked some friend or relation to
allow him to look over the postcards he had sent。 Then it was he
began to enjoy his trip。
〃What a charming old town！〃 the German tourist would exclaim。 〃I
wish I could have found time while I was there to have gone outside
the hotel and have had a look round。 Still； it is pleasant to think
one has been there。〃
〃I suppose you did not have much time？〃 his friend would suggest。
〃We did not get there till the evening；〃 the tourist would explain。
〃We were busy till dark buying postcards； and then in the morning
there was the writing and addressing to be done； and when that was
over； and we had had our breakfast； it was time to leave again。〃
He would take up another card showing the panorama from a mountain
top。
〃Sublime！ colossal！〃 he would cry enraptured。 〃If I had known it was
anything like that； I'd have stopped another day and had a look at
it。〃
It was always worth seeing； the arrival of a party of German tourists
in a Schwartzwald village。 Leaping from the coach they would surge
round the solitary gendarme。
〃Where is the postcard shop？〃 〃Tell uswe have only two hours
where do we get postcards？〃
The gendarme； scenting Trinkgeld； would head them at the double…
quick： stout old gentlemen unaccustomed to the double…quick； stouter
Frauen gathering up their skirts with utter disregard to all
propriety； slim Fraulein clinging to their beloved would run after
him。 Nervous pedestrians would fly for safety into doorways；
careless loiterers would be swept into the gutter。
In the narrow doorway of the postcard shop trouble would begin。 The
cries of suffocated women and trampled children； the curses of strong
men； would rend the air。 The German is a peaceful； law…abiding
citizen； but in the hunt for postcards he was a beast。 A woman would
pounce on a tray of cards； commence selecting； suddenly the tray
would be snatched from her。 She would burst into tears； and hit the
person nearest to her with her umbrella。 The cunning and the strong
would secure the best cards。 The weak and courteous be left with
pictures of post offices and railway stations。 Torn and dishevelled；
the crowd would rush back to the hotel； sweep crockery from the
table； andsucking stumpy pencilswrite feverishly。 A hurried meal
would follow。 Then the horses would be put to again； the German
tourists would climb back to their places and be driven away； asking
of the coachman what the name of the place they had just left might
happen to be。
＇The Postcard as a Family Curse。＇
One presumes that even to the patient German the thing grew tiresome。
In the Fliegende Blatter two young clerks were represented discussing
the question of summer holidays。
〃Where are you going？〃 asks A of B。
〃Nowhere；〃 answers B。
〃Can't you afford it？〃 asks the sympathetic A。
〃Only been able to save up enough for the postcards；〃 answers B；
gloomily； 〃no money left for the trip。〃
Men and women carried bulky volumes containing the names and
addresses of the people to whom they had promised to send cards。
Everywhere； through winding forest glade； by silver sea； on mountain
pathway； one met with prematurely aged looking tourists muttering as
they walked：
〃Did I send Aunt Gretchen a postcard from that last village that we
stopped at； or did I address two to Cousin Lisa？〃
Then； again； maybe； the pictur