With Mark’s daughter Susie, I was walking in the Berlin Thiergarten one afternoon when we encountered a very rough specimen of the genus tramp.
“Look at him,” said Susie. “You know, Pa, too, was an awful man before Mamma took him in hand and married him.” And with added seriousness, she continued: “He used to swear and swear, and then swear again, and the only thing that he didn’t do that was bad was to let cards and liquor alone—some kinds of liquor.”
It is too bad that I forget Mark’s comment on the above when I told him.
MARK ON THE BERLIN COPS
You know, of course, that Mark Twain at one time had a flat in Berlin and kept it going for a whole month. “I am tired of hotels,” he said, “and hereafter I am going to take my comfort in my apartment as Dr. Johnson took his in his inn.” After that he entertained the habitués of the embassy for a week or longer with stories of the beauties of home life, until we voted “Koernerstrasse Nr. 7 the jewel.”
But one fine evening I found a note from him at the Hotel de Rome, asking me to call at the Royal at 8:00. I met him in the lobby with several sympathizing friends, and he said:
“It’s all up with Koernerstrasse; too much police.”
“Did you have burglars, or the bailiffs, in?” was asked.
“Neither; just social calls from policemen—ten per day. The cops weren’t exactly unkind, but they annoyed me.”
“What did they do to you?”