We have a national reputation to keep up. We are the nation
of soap, of fresh air, of condescending discontent; and when we are on
the Continent every one else, including the native, is "a foreigner;"
we carry our nationality about with us like a camp-stool; we squat on
it; we are jealous of it; it is a case of "_Regardez, mais ne touchez
pas!_"
[Illustration: COMMERCIAL INSTINCT.
_Original Genius_ (_soliloquising_). "Lor, it 'id bin a crool Shame to
miss an Opportunity like this 'ere. The gov'nor oughter lemme 'ave Ten
Bob on that job!"]
This patriotic obtrusiveness culminates in the Battle of the Windows.
It is an oppressive evening. The _Table d'Hote_-room is seething like
a caldron; a few chosen conspirators and myself open the campaign
early; we "tip" ADOLF "the wink." That diplomatist orders the great
window to be half-opened. If things go smoothly, he will gradually
open out other sources of ventilation. The Noah's Ark procession files
in--all shapes and all languages, like the repast itself; DONNERWITZ,
TARTARIN, SHIRTSOFF, SCAMPELINI; there is nothing in common
between them--save the paper collar; they would hail international
declarations of war to-morrow; but the sight of us, and that speck
of air leagues them. "_Mein Gott, Die Englaender!_" coughs DONNERWITZ;
"_Ce sont de fanatiques enrhumes!_" hisses TARTARIN; SHIRTSOFF sneezes
the sneeze of All the Russias; "_Corpo di Bacco!_" cries SCAMPALINI;
still nothing is done; the "_Potage a la reine_,"--so called from the
predominance of rain-water--ebbs away in the commingled smacks and
gulps of the infuriated Powers; "_Saumon du Rhin, sauce Tartare_"
is being apportioned to the knives of all nations; it is perhaps
the sight of his knife, from which soup only is sacred, that nerves
the fuming DONNERWITZ to lead the attack.
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