Storks, Pine Trees and an Egyptian Beauty

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 508, 10 November 1928, Page 26

Storks, Pine Trees and an Egyptian Beauty

My Reasons for Visiting Germany—By A. Gladys Kernot (EXCLUSIVE to THE SUE.) P—■'--jp-- j • S we glide more or less gracefully into the MjEsaTU serener but less heroic TrAjUtJinr ages of life we often, I m Mrl think. And ourselves doing things for motives that are irrelevant or even childish. In starting out for Germany I had, at the back of my mind, some vague desires that were far removed from the ordinary polite wishes of a tourist. I was not really very much intrigued with the idea of seeing the capital of the German Republic, as such, nor with the vanished pomp and circumstance of Potsdam, nor with the prospect of seeing the ex-Crown Prince who, I knew, often had a late breakfast at the hotel to which I was going. But, foolishly, I wanted to see storks; flying over the level fields or standing on one leg—l didn’t care so long as they were storks. And I wanted to go through the pine forests from whose sweet-smelling timbers were fashioned so many of the bright toys that had enlivened my. childhood; and I wanted to see the exquisite head of Nafertiti, that strange queen who troubled the tide of Egyptian affairs some time previous to the reign of Tutankh-Amen and which is now in the principal of the Berlin museums. Not a sane reason among the lot, I admit —and a somewhat expensive way of seeing storks. Old Animosities The route through Belgium is not, perhaps, the best possible introduction to Germany; but then I don’t know of any route that is, or of one that does not revive distressing memories or stir up animosities that are better buried with yesterday's tears. The night train took us from Brussels, and the gentle dusk blotted out the pale-coloured fields which have once more passed from war to agriculture. A certain rumble of official noises at the frontier was all that marked one’s entry into Germany; and in the morning, raising the blind a little, one saw the pine forests one had longed for, the yellow-pink light of sunrise drifting through the narrow aisles of the trees and stainiug their round, straight trunks with that mysterious colour that dawn alone knows the use of. Berlin is just what one thought about it; immensely big, immensely bright, immensely clean—and immensely expensive. Most likely it is in some ways also immensely beautibul, but the solidity and the monotony of its architecture savour too much of the grand manner of the Prussians, which. Heaven knows, was no ethereal touch. And almost, one felt, the great wide streets found their avenues of trees a little overwhelmed by the dense bulk of the buildings behind them. Enter den Linden was a trifle disappointing; but the famous Tiergarten, with its incomparable trees, its winding walks, and its blue glimpses of the Spree, was a garden not lightly to be forgotten. Nor must one. whatever happens, pretend not to have noticed the Berlin public ! statues. These are mostly militaristic. as would be expected, in the I Prussian way. The two sides of the

long street that runs along one end of the Tiergarten are entirely filled with marble monuments to greatness —a sort of German Appian Way, with a difference. Among these rather combative statues one noticed Queen Victoria, looking slimmer than we seem to remember her and, one fancied, a trifle wistful in the presence of so many unkind and quarrelsome relations. A Dominating Figure The exhibitions —both State and private—of art and antiquity, the galleries and museums of Berlin are almost uncountable; but Nafertiti, very much appreciated and very carefully guarded, is in the principal museum. Without any difficulty one found her, walking straight to her, by a sort of instinct. Her strange and somewhat disconcerting personality completely dominates the enormous hall in which, on a tall pedestal, she stands. Intellect fairly blazes from her little, vivid face . . . that is why she makes one feel so uncomfortable. Oh, poor Na-

fertiti, with your forceful yet delicate beauty, your slender neck, your little head in its queer trappings—why did they bring you here to Berlin? “Yes,” “No,” “Good-bye” "The only German words I knew six weeks ago were the equivalents for “yes,” "no” and “good-bye,” and though these three words are adequate for many human emergencies they are a poor equipment for making known one’s requirements in a foreign country. However, as most Berliners speak some English, and as nothing but English was spoken at our hotel, the barrier of language was no insuperable one. One could never imagine Berlin becoming cosmopolitan in the same sense that Paris, for instance, is; and Berlin English struck one as having been acquired not so much by con- | tact as by sheer patience and ini dustry. Indeed, with the annual invasion of thousands upon thousands i of Americans the knowledge of German alone would be of little use when the hotels, the shops and the places of amusement are crowded with these visitors. A curious thing that struck one, too, was the number of English artists at the variety theatres. Naturally enough the talent provided at these places of entertainment is largely international, but at the Wintergarten the majority of the performers appeared to be British, and it was noticeable, too, that their turns got the warmest reception. This, I am bound to say, was rather a demonstration of friendliness than an appreciation of superior artistic merit! The Wintergarten, well known as the scene of the filming of the picture "Variety,” has lately been almost rebuilt. There are some terrible statistics setting ' forth the millions of bricks and the many tons of cement that have gone

to its reconstruction; and indeed it is a most extraordinary place and looks as if it had been created by giants for a kind of giant race. In shape it is unusual, being oblong, and I should imagine a perfect view of the stage could be had from every one of the several thousand seats. The stage is the largest I or probably anybody else has ever seen, most superlatively brilliant as to lighting. The dome of the theatre—inside, I mean—is, as those who saw “Variety” will remember, star-lit—a very clever arrangement of electric lights winking from an azure background. Though it may all sound rather ornate and overdone, everything was in perfect taste, with the possible exception of the huge silver Zeppelin which, during the intervals, descended from the starry spaces and sprayed the audience with perfumed oxygen. This was a little too reminiscent of air raids entirely to suit the English taste. Tolerant Audiences

I think German audiences must be the most exemplary in the world as regards good behaviour in the theatre. It cannot only be their love of music that has drilled them into such commendable orderlines, for late-comers at any kind of entertainment seem to be unknown, and so is talking during the acts. At moving pictures talking during the screening is actually forbidden. Berlin is especially well endowed in the matter of amusements, from a “night life” that is as varied and comprehensive as any to be found in any other Continental city, to the gentler amenities of the cafe and the “biergarten.” Yet the Berliner of the average class is simple and seemingly easily amused. He works very hard, and he lives, perforce, in a manner whose frugality cannot be congenial. He still, of course, has his beer and his music; the former is three times the price it used to be, but Wagner and the rest of them generally go, gratis, with the beer. Post-war complications have made life difficult for him as for the rest of us; but for him there are those reparations' He looks on the whole, a rather innocent, unaggressive person as he saunters among the statutes —somewhat njeaningless to him now —on a warm Sunday morning, or wanders through the wooded walks of the Tiergarten. Regarding him as an abstraction, one remembers that he blindly worshipped a power-mad Kaiser, and then suddenly turned round and kicked the Hohenzollern hat, eagle and all, into the dustbin. Regarding him as the somewhat unimportant human unit he actually is, one finds it difficult to believe him capable of either the extreme fervour of blind allegiance or of the final fiery gesture of renunciation. He is usually accompanied on his Sunday walks by his mild, good-natured-looking wife who, poor dear, is rather a frumpish person with a leaning towards long, wide skirts and a partiality for hats of the perching variety. The German frau of this type is a steadilydiminishing landmark, however, In fact, one does not now see, in the big cities, as many antique survivals of a vanished period as one does in London, whose old-fashioned old ladies appear to be deathless. The feminine renaissance in Germany, as elsewhere, is interesting. The young thing apparently does what she likes, goes where she wants, and wears as little as she chooses. Those Charming Dachshunds Throughout the welter of war, rebellion of various kinds, and revolution, however, one thing has remained unchanged and steadfast to the average German and his average wife! Behind them there almost always trails a small dog, generally a Dachshund, looking, with his long, low body and his pointed nose, like a sleek, tight, satin sausage. I am sure St. Francis of Assisi would have loved these meek, saintly dogs. They are so close to the ground, so wrapped about with humility. Their little paws—their dear little bent paws look as if they were already folded in prayer. . . . Oh. they are quite the most charming things in Berlin.