My British Stupidity.

I want something that I can toast my back against, while standing with coat tails tucked up and my hands in my pockets, explaining things to people.  I don’t want a comfortless, staring, white thing, in a corner of the room, behind the sofa—a thing that looks and smells like a family tomb.  It may be hygienic, and it may be hot, but it does not seem to do me any good.  It has its advantages: it contains a cupboard into which you can put things to dry.  You can also forget them, and leave them there.  Then people complain of a smell of burning, and hope the house is not on fire, and you ease their mind by explaining to them that it is probably only your boots.  Complicated internal arrangements are worked by a key.  If you put on too much fuel, and do not work this key properly, the thing explodes.  And if you do not put on any coal at all and the fire goes out suddenly, then likewise it explodes.  That is the only way it knows of calling attention to itself.  On the Continent you know when the fire wants seeing to merely by listening:

“Sounded like the dining-room, that last explosion,” somebody remarks.

“I think not,” observes another, “I distinctly felt the shock behind me—my bedroom, I expect.”

Bits of ceiling begin to fall, and you notice that the mirror over the sideboard is slowly coming towards you.

“Why it must be this stove,” you say; “curious how difficult it is to locate sound.”

You snatch up the children and hurry out of the room.  After a while, when things have settled down, you venture to look in again.  Maybe it was only a mild explosion.  A ten-pound note and a couple of plumbers in the house for a week will put things right again.  They tell me they are economical, these German stoves, but you have got to understand them.  I think I have learnt the trick of them at last: and I don’t suppose, all told, it has cost me more than fifty pounds.  And now I am trying to teach the rest of the family.  What I complain about the family is that they do not seem anxious to learn.

“You do it,” they say, pressing the coal scoop into my hand: “it makes us nervous.”

It is a pretty, patriarchal idea: I stand between the trusting, admiring family and these explosive stoves that are the terror of their lives.  They gather round me in a group and watch me, the capable, all-knowing Head who fears no foreign stove.  But there are days when I get tired of going round making up fires.

Nor is it sufficient to understand only one particular stove.  The practical foreigner prides himself upon having various stoves, adapted to various work.  Hitherto I have been speaking only of the stove supposed to be best suited to reception rooms and bedrooms.  The hall is provided with another sort of stove altogether: an iron stove this, that turns up its nose at coke and potato-peelings.  If you give it anything else but the best coal it explodes.  It is like living surrounded by peppery old colonels, trying to pass a peaceful winter among these passionate stoves.  There is a stove in the kitchen to be used only for roasting: this one will not look at anything else but wood.  Give it a bit of coal, meaning to be kind, and before you are out of the room it has exploded.

Then there is a trick stove specially popular in Belgium.  It has a 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 versâ, or both open at the same time, or both shut—it 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 journée, 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.