I found life interesting in spite of not understanding the language. In the early morning I used to go downstairs and have coffee and Apfelgelee. We had Mittagessen at one, and after that the household indulged in a Mittagschläfchen. At four in the afternoon we again drank coffee and ate Apfelgelee, and we had supper at half-past seven, at which there would generally be some delicacy like Bratkartoffel or Leberwurst or Häringsalat. Many English boys had been there before; and Frau Timme told me that we English, as a rule, disliked German dishes. The first German phrase I remember understanding was when Frau Timme announced to one of the aunts a surprising fact about me that I ate everything (“Er isst alles”). In the evening the aunts and other people used to visit us, and sometimes we would go to a concert. The Timmes were great friends with the family of Herr Musik-Direktor Nick, who was a musician, and all his family played; they had entrancing musical evenings of trios and duets for violin, pianoforte, and viola. Herr Musik-Direktor Nick’s nephew, Wunnibald, gave me lessons on the pianoforte. I had German lessons with Dr. Timme.
In the afternoon, I used to go for long walks with Dr. Timme and his brother-in-law, and we walked to the Galgenberg, to the Steinberg, and the Moritzberg, rather bleak hills of fir-trees, stopping as a rule at a small Wirtshaus, where we used to drink beer or coffee. In the house there was a small drawing-room downstairs, where the guest of honour always sat on the sofa. A smart drawing-room or the Gute Stube, which was only opened on rare and state occasions. Frau Timme told me one day that she knew this room was a useless extravagance, but it gave her, she said, such great pleasure that she could not sacrifice it. Upstairs, Dr. Timme had a sitting-room, where I took my lessons with him, and I had a sitting-room where I did my work. After about a month I could understand what was being said, and in about two months’ time I could make myself understood and carry on a conversation. I used sometimes to go to the theatre at Hanover, coming back by train afterwards. The first time I saw Schiller’s Wallenstein’s Tod I did not understand a word of it. One night I went to hear Tannhäuser. Wagner was only a name to me, and meant something vaguely noisy. I had no idea he wrote about interesting or romantic subjects. I had no idea of what Tannhäuser was about. I went expecting a tedious evening of dry and ultra-classical, unintelligible music. As soon as the orchestra began the overture, I was overwhelmed. I did not know that music was capable of so tremendous an effect. The Venusberg music and the “Pilgrims’ Chorus” opened a new world, and I was so excited afterwards that I could not sleep a wink. I was stunned by these magnetic effects of sound. Curiously enough, I left it at that, and made no further effort to go and hear any more Wagner. I was almost afraid of repeating the experience for fear of being disappointed, and the next time I went to the opera it was to hear Verdi’s Otello.
I happened to mention casually that it was my birthday on 27th April, and when I came down that morning I found in the drawing-room a beautiful cake or Apfeltorte with eighteen candles burning on it and a present from every member of the family. I could talk German quite fluently by this time. Frau Timme suggested that I should make the acquaintance of some of the boys at the schools. There were two large schools at Hildesheim, a Gymnasium, and a Real Gymnasium. The Real Gymnasium concentrated on the modern. The Gymnasium was more classical in its programme. For the purpose of getting to know the boys I was introduced to a grown-up boy called Braun, who was, I think, a native of Hildesheim. Most of the boys at both schools came from different parts of Germany and lived en pension in different families. The boys from both schools used to meet in the evening before supper at a restaurant called Hasse, where a special room was kept for them. Braun was an earnest and extremely well-educated youth, a student of geology. Before I was taken to Hasse, he said I must be instructed in the rules of the Bierkomment,[6] that is to say, the rules for drinking beer in company, which were, as I found out afterwards, the basis of the social system. These rules were intricate, and when Braun explained them to me, which he did with the utmost thoroughness, the explanation taking nearly two hours, I did not know what it was all about. I did not know it had anything to do with drinking beer. I afterwards learned, by the evidence of my senses and by experience, the numerous and various points of this complicated ritual, but the first evening I was introduced to Hasse I was bewildered by finding a crowd of grown-up boys seated at a table; each one introduced himself to me by standing to attention and saying his name (“Mein Name ist So-and-so”). After which they sat down and seemed to be engaged in a game of cross-purposes.
The main principles which underlay this form of social intercourse were these. You first of all ordered a half-litre of beer, stating whether you wanted light or dark beer (dunkles or helles). It was given to you in a glass mug with a metal top. This mug had to remain closed whatever happened, otherwise the others put this mug on yours, and you had to pay for every mug which was piled on your own. Having received your beer, you must not drink it quietly by yourself, when you were thirsty; but every single draught had to be taken with a purpose, and directed towards someone else, and accompanied by a formula. The formula was an opening, and called for the correct answer, which was either final and ended the matter, or which was of a kind to provoke a counter-move, in the form of a further formula, which, in its turn, necessitated a final answer. You were, in fact, engaged in toasting each other according to system. When you had a fresh mug, with foam on the top of it, that was called die Blume, and you had to choose someone who was in the same situation; someone who had a Blume. You then said his name, not his real name but his beer name, which was generally a monosyllable like Pfiff (my beer name was Hash, pronounced Hush), and you said to him: “Prosit Blume.” His answer to this was: “Prosit,” and you both drank. To pretend to drink and not drink was an infringement of the rules. If he had no beer at the time he would say so (“Ich habe keinen Stoff”), but would be careful to return you your Blume as soon as he received it, saying: “Ich komme die Blume nach” (“I drink back to you your Blume”). Then, perhaps, having disposed of the Blume, you singled out someone else, or someone perhaps singled you out, and said: “Ich komme Ihnen Etwas” (“I drink something to you”). When you got to know someone well, he suggested that you should drink Bruderschaft with him. This you did by entwining your arm under his arm, draining a whole glass, and then saying: “Prosit Bruder.” After that you called each other “Du.” Very well. After having said “Ich komme Ihnen” or “Ich komme Dir etwas,” he, in the space of three beer minutes, which were equivalent to four ordinary minutes, was obliged to answer. He might either say: “Ich komme Dir nach” or “Ich komme nach” (“I drink back”). That settled that proceeding. Or he might prolong the interchange of toasts by saying: “Uebers Kreuz,” in which case you had to wait a little and say: “Unters Kreuz,” and every time the one said this, the other in drinking had to say: “Prosit.” Then the person who had said “Uebers Kreuz” had the last word, and had to say: “Ich komme definitiv nach” (“I drink back to you finally”), and that ended the matter. If you had very little beer left in your mug you chose someone else who was in the same predicament, and said: “Prosit Rest.” It was uncivil if you had a rest to choose someone who had plenty of beer left. If you wanted to honour someone or to pay him a compliment, you said “Speziell” after your toast, which meant the other person was not obliged to drink back. You could also say: “Ich komme Dir einen halben” (“I drink you a half glass”), or even “einen Ganzen” (“a whole glass”). The other person could then double you by saying: “Prosit doppelt.” In which case he drank back a whole glass to you and you then drank back a whole glass to him.
Any infringement of these rules, or any levity in the manner the ritual was performed, was punished by your being told to “Einsteigen”[7] (or by the words, “In die Kanne”), which meant you had to go on drinking till the offended party said “Geschenkt.” If you disobeyed this rule or did anything else equally grave, you were declared by whoever was in authority to be in B.V., which meant in a state of Beer ostracism. Nobody might then drink to you or talk to you. To emerge from this state of exile, you had to stand up, and someone else stood up and declared that “Der in einfacher B.V. sich befindender” (“The in-simple-beer-banishment-finding-himself so-and-so”) will now drink himself back into Bierehrlichkeit (beer-honourability) once again. He does it. At the words, “Er thut es,” you set a glass to your lips and drank it all. The other man then said: “So-and-so ist wieder bierehrlich” (“So-and-so is once more beer honourable”). Any dispute on a point of ritual was settled by what was called a Bierjunge. An umpire was appointed, and three glasses of beer were brought. The umpire saw that the quantity in each of the glasses was exactly equal, pouring a little beer perhaps from one or the other into his own glass. A word was then chosen, for choice a long and difficult word. The umpire then said: “Stosst an,” and on these words the rivals clinked glasses; he then said: “Setzt an,” and they set the glasses to their lips. He then said: “Loss,” and the rivals drained the glasses as fast as they could, and the man who finished first said: “Bierjunge,” or whatever word had been chosen. The umpire then declared the winner. All these proceedings, as can be imagined, would be a little difficult to understand if one didn’t know that they involved drinking beer. Such had been my plight when the ritual was explained to me by Mr. Braun. I found the first evening extremely bewildering, but I soon became an expert in the ritual, and took much pleasure in raising difficult points.
These gatherings used to happen every evening. If you wished to celebrate a special occasion you ordered what was called a Tunnemann, which was a huge glass as big as a small barrel which was circulated round the table, everyone drinking in turn as out of a loving-cup. A record was kept of these ceremonies in a book. The boys who attended these gatherings were mostly eighteen or nineteen years old, and belonged to the first two classes of the school, the Prima and the Secunda. They belonged to a Turnverein, a gymnastic association, and were divided into two classes—the juniors who were called Füchse and the seniors who were not. The Füchse had to obey the others.
Another thing which I found more difficult than the Bierkomment was a card game which Dr. Timme tried to teach me. It was the game of Skat, and was played by three people, one against two, with a possible fourth person cutting in, but only by three at a time. When Dr. Timme first explained it to me I understood German imperfectly, and I could not make head or tail of the game. This disgusted Dr. Timme, who said: “Herr Baring hat kein Interesse dafür.” But at the end of five years, after repeated visits to Germany, and with the help of an English book on the subject, I ended by mastering the principles of the game. I think it is the best game of cards ever invented, and by far the most difficult. I will not attempt to explain it, but it is a mixture of “Solo-whist,” “Préférence,” and “Misery,” with a dash of “Picquet” in it. Everybody plays for his own hand and you have no partner; so you are responsible to yourself alone. I did not learn the game until several years later.
In the meantime, Hubert Cornish had left Dresden and was established at Professor Ihne’s at the Villa Felseck, Heidelberg. Professor Ihne, who knew my cousins, invited me to go there. I set out, and after travelling all day I arrived at one in the morning and found not only Hubert but an American called Mr. Hazlitt Alva Cuppy, who was studying German, and who had come to the station in case I should want help with my luggage. The next morning I woke up and went to the window, and beheld one of the most beautiful sights it is possible to see: Heidelberg Castle and the hills of the Neckar in spring. It was the beginning of May. It was fine and hot; the trees had just put on their most brilliant green; the lilac and laburnum were out. The fields, yellow with buttercups and scarlet with poppies, were like impressionist pictures of the newest school. After the slow spring and the bleak fir-tree-clad country of the north it was like coming suddenly into another world. At breakfast I was introduced to Professor Ihne, a large, comfortable Professor with white hair and spectacles. I had met him once before at the Norman Tower. The two other inmates of the house besides Hubert were Mr. Hazlitt Alva Cuppy and Mr. Otto Kuhn, an Austrian; both of them were attending the lectures of the University. The Villa Felseck was half-way up a hill covered with vines, and Professor Ihne made his own wine. In the garden there was a pergola under which we worked outdoors at a table. Then a most blissful epoch began. In the morning we went to lectures in the University and strolled about the town, and in the afternoons we went for walks in the woods or for expeditions on the river.
Heidelberg was full of students, and our ambition was to get to know some of them, but we did not know how to set about doing this. We were too shy to take any steps, and every day we settled we would take a step, but the day passed, and nothing had been done. We confided our hesitations to a lady—a kind, motherly lady who kept a Wirtshaus, and she said that the matter was simple. What she did I do not know, but that very day we received a visit from the representatives of a Burschenschaft called the Franconia, who asked us to visit their clubhouse with a view to our being received as guests. We went there the next morning, and the conditions under which we could be either Konkneipante or Kneipgäste of the Germania were read out to us.
A Konkneipant was a kind of unofficial member, a Kneipgas was simply a guest with certain obligations. The former, the Konkneipant, seemed to be liable to many alarming possibilities and conditions, and he had to be prepared to fight duels, even if he did not do so, so we chose the latter status, and were enrolled as Kneipgäste.