“Ah, that is so strange about you English. You do not seem to enjoy
discussing the functions of the body. As well speak of a railway train
and refuse to mention the engine. How can we hope to understand
anybody, knowing nothing of their stomachs? In my husband’s most severe
illness—the poultices—”
She dipped a piece of sugar in her coffee and watched it dissolve.
“Yet a young friend of mine who travelled to England for the funeral of
his brother told me that women wore bodices in public restaurants no
waiter could help looking into as he handed the soup.”
“But only German waiters,” I said. “English ones look over the top of
your head.”
“There,” she cried, “now you see your dependence on Germany. Not even
an efficient waiter can you have by yourselves.”
“But I prefer them to look over your head.”
“And that proves that you must be ashamed of your bodice.”
I looked out over the garden full of wall-flowers and standard
rose-trees growing stiffly like German bouquets, feeling I did not care
one way or the other. I rather wanted to ask her if the young friend
had gone to England in the capacity of waiter to attend the funeral
baked meats, but decided it was not worth it. The weather was too hot
to be malicious, and who could be uncharitable, victimised by the
flapping sensations which Frau Fischer was enduring until six-thirty?
As a gift from heaven for my forbearance, down the path towards us came
the Herr Rat, angelically clad in a white silk suit. He and Frau
Fischer were old friends. She drew the folds of her dressing-gown
together, and made room for him on the little green bench.
“How cool you are looking,” she said; “and if I may make the
remark—what a beautiful suit!”
“Surely I wore it last summer when you were here? I brought the silk
from China—smuggled it through the Russian customs by swathing it round
my body. And such a quantity: two dress lengths for my sister-in-law,
three suits for myself, a cloak for the housekeeper of my flat in
Munich. How I perspired! Every inch of it had to be washed afterwards.”
“Surely you have had more adventures than any man in Germany. When I
think of the time that you spent in Turkey with a drunken guide who was
bitten by a mad dog and fell over a precipice into a field of attar of
roses, I lament that you have not written a book.”
“Time—time. I am getting a few notes together. And now that you are
here we shall renew our quiet little talks after supper. Yes? It is
necessary and pleasant for a man to find relaxation in the company of
women occasionally.”
“Indeed I realise that. Even here your life is too strenuous—you are so
sought after—so admired. It was just the same with my dear husband. He
was a tall, beautiful man, and sometimes in the evening he would come
down into the kitchen and say: ‘Wife, I would like to be stupid for two
minutes.’ Nothing rested him so much then as for me to stroke his
head.”
The Herr Rat’s bald pate glistening in the sunlight seemed symbolical
of the sad absence of a wife.
I began to wonder as to the nature of these quiet little after-supper
talks. How could one play Delilah to so shorn a Samson?
“Herr Hoffmann from Berlin arrived yesterday,” said the Herr Rat.
“That young man I refuse to converse with. He told me last year that he
had stayed in France in an hotel where they did not have serviettes;
what a place it must have been! In Austria even the cabmen have
serviettes. Also I have heard that he discussed ‘free love’ with Bertha
as she was sweeping his room. I am not accustomed to such company. I
had suspected him for a long time.”
“Young blood,” answered the Herr Rat genially. “I have had several
disputes with him—you have heard them—is it not so?” turning to me.
“A great many,” I said, smiling.
“Doubtless you too consider me behind the times. I make no secret of my
age; I am sixty-nine; but you must have surely observed how impossible
it was for him to speak at all when I raised my voice.”
I replied with the utmost conviction, and, catching Frau Fischer’s eye,
suddenly realised I had better go back to the house and write some
letters.
It was dark and cool in my room. A chestnut-tree pushed green boughs
against the window. I looked down at the horsehair sofa so openly
flouting the idea of curling up as immoral, pulled the red pillow on to
the floor and lay down. And barely had I got comfortable when the door
opened and Frau Fischer entered.
“The Herr Rat had a bathing appointment,” she said, shutting the door
after her. “May I come in? Pray do not move. You look like a little
Persian kitten. Now, tell me something really interesting about your
life. When I meet new people I squeeze them dry like a sponge. To begin
with—you are married.”