“Now, in England, in your ‘boarding ’ouse’, one does not find the First
Class, as in Germany.”
“No, indeed,” I replied, still hypnotised by the Baron, who looked like
a little yellow silkworm.
“The Baron comes every year,” went on the Herr Oberlehrer, “for his
nerves. He has never spoken to any of the guests—_yet_.” A smile
crossed his face. I seemed to see his visions of some splendid upheaval
of that silence—a dazzling exchange of courtesies in a dim future, a
splendid sacrifice of a newspaper to this Exalted One, a “danke schön”
to be handed down to future generations.
At that moment the postman, looking like a German army officer, came in
with the mail. He threw my letters into my milk pudding, and then
turned to a waitress and whispered. She retired hastily. The manager of
the pension came in with a little tray. A picture post card was
deposited on it, and reverently bowing his head, the manager of the
pension carried it to the Baron.
Myself, I felt disappointed that there was not a salute of twenty-five
guns.
At the end of the meal we were served with coffee. I noticed the Baron
took three lumps of sugar, putting two in his cup and wrapping up the
third in a corner of his pocket-handkerchief. He was always the first
to enter the dining-room and the last to leave; and in a vacant chair
beside him he placed a little black leather bag.
In the afternoon, leaning from my window, I saw him pass down the
street, walking tremulously and carrying the bag. Each time he passed a
lamp-post he shrank a little, as though expecting it to strike him, or
maybe the sense of plebeian contamination....
I wondered where he was going, and why he carried the bag. Never had I
seen him at the Casino or the Bath Establishment. He looked forlorn,
his feet slipped in his sandals. I found myself pitying the Baron.
That evening a party of us were gathered in the salon discussing the
day’s “kur” with feverish animation. The Frau Oberregierungsrat sat by
me knitting a shawl for her youngest of nine daughters, who was in that
very interesting, frail condition.... “But it is bound to be quite
satisfactory,” she said to me. “The dear married a banker—the desire of
her life.”
There must have been eight or ten of us gathered together, we who were
married exchanging confidences as to the underclothing and peculiar
characteristics of our husbands, the unmarried discussing the
over-clothing and peculiar fascinations of Possible Ones.
“I knit them myself,” I heard the Frau Lehrer cry, “of thick grey wool.
He wears one a month, with two soft collars.”
“And then,” whispered Fräulein Lisa, “he said to me, ‘Indeed you please
me. I shall, perhaps, write to your mother.’”
Small wonder that we were a little violently excited, a little
expostulatory.
Suddenly the door opened and admitted the Baron.
Followed a complete and deathlike silence.
He came in slowly, hesitated, took up a toothpick from a dish on the
top of the piano, and went out again.
When the door was closed we raised a triumphant cry! It was the first
time he had ever been known to enter the salon. Who could tell what the
Future held?
Days lengthened into weeks. Still we were together, and still the
solitary little figure, head bowed as though under the weight of the
spectacles, haunted me. He entered with the black bag, he retired with
the black bag—and that was all.
At last the manager of the pension told us the Baron was leaving the
next day.
“Oh,” I thought, “surely he cannot drift into obscurity—be lost without
one word! Surely he will honour the Frau Oberregierungsrat or the Frau
Feldleutnantswitwe _once_ before he goes.”
In the evening of that day it rained heavily. I went to the post
office, and as I stood on the steps, umbrellaless, hesitating before
plunging into the slushy road, a little, hesitating voice seemed to
come from under my elbow.
I looked down. It was the First of the Barons with the black bag and an
umbrella. Was I mad? Was I sane? He was asking me to share the latter.
But I was exceedingly nice, a trifle diffident, appropriately
reverential. Together we walked through the mud and slush.
Now, there is something peculiarly intimate in sharing an umbrella.
It is apt to put one on the same footing as brushing a man’s coat for
him—a little daring, naïve.
I longed to know why he sat alone, why he carried the bag, what he did
all day. But he himself volunteered some information.
“I fear,” he said, “that my luggage will be damp. I invariably carry it
with me in this bag—one requires so little—for servants are
untrustworthy.”
“A wise idea,” I answered. And then: “Why have you denied us the
pleasure—”
“I sit alone that I may eat more,” said the Baron, peering into the
dusk; “my stomach requires a great deal of food. I order double
portions, and eat them in peace.”
Which sounded finely Baronial.
“And what do you do all day?”
“I imbibe nourishment in my room,” he replied, in a voice that closed
the conversation and almost repented of the umbrella.
When we arrived at the pension there was very nearly an open riot.
I ran half way up the stairs, and thanked the Baron audibly from the
landing.
He distinctly replied: “Not at all!”
It was very friendly of the Herr Oberlehrer to have sent me a bouquet
that evening, and the Frau Oberregierungsrat asked me for my pattern of
a baby’s bonnet!
Next day the Baron was gone.
Sic transit gloria German mundi.