_Letter from_ FRAU MARTHA to HERR L----,
_Superintendent of the Household, Villa Huegel_.
BERLIN, SCHLOSS, _Christmas_.
HONOURED HERR L----,--This Schloss is a big pigsty, excuse the hard
words, and I can tell Gracious Lady only half our troubles. There is no
bathroom for Fraulein, no running water--our poorest cottagers in Essen
are better off. It takes about half an hour to get a cupful of lukewarm
water from the kitchen, and the maid looks daggers if you don't tip up
the tin every time.
If we could only get Fraulein's car into the courtyard (there is plenty
of room) and live in it, we would be all right, for Fraulein's meals I
could cook on the new-fangled kitchen range, which makes no smoke, and
she could have her bath regularly.
Gracious Lady will have told you about Fraulein eating at Uncle
Majesty's table. What do I say--eating? Fraulein comes back every time
half dead of hunger. Bertha says it's the quick serving, but I had a
talk with the stewardess last night, and she told me things. The
allowances even for Majesty's table, she said, are cut so fine, there is
never enough for all, family, officials and guests; and, to cover up the
shortness, the courses are served quickly as if shot from the new
machine-gun I have heard Herr Franz talk about. Some of the guests get
skipped, others are given just a mouthful, and part of the food is
carried out again for the hungry wolves of lackeys.
Mean, now, isn't it, Herr L----? But we, I mean Fraulein, has to put up
with it while here. As to grub allowed to Fritz, me and Lenchen, it's
sauerkraut and turnips and herrings and black bread; but we don't mind,
as we can buy outside. But I can't take Bertha into eating places, and
make up for what she goes short at the royal table; she has to live on
sandwiches and cake for the most part. Other arrangements as bad. I
would be ashamed to tell you of the servants' accommodations:
back-stairs, rotten-smelling oil lamps. We won't be comfortable until
we get back home once more.
For Fraulein's bed I got the linen from our car, but as we took just
enough for a night's run and back you must send some more. I wanted to
save you the trouble, and asked the housekeeper to have some washed.
Not here, she said; too few in help, no extra tubs, no place to dry.
When I offered to pay for the soap, that seemed to tickle her immensely,
but she had to refuse in the end.
Honoured Herr L----, tell the servants at the Villa they don't half know
how well they are off. I never did until coming across all this
high-sounding stop-a-hole-in-the-sieve business.
You cannot imagine, worthy Mr. Superintendent, too, what funny things
there are too--the War Lord's dachshunds, for instance, all jaws and
stomach. They look like those yellow-skinned truffle Leberwursts held
up by Frankfurters, and--what do you think?--have been taught to snap
and nibble the calves of people of quality only.
Mine they leave severely alone, thank God; but I told Fraulein not to
put on too many "lugs," lest they mistake her for a "von."
Of course I can't swear to it, but they do say that "Uncle Majesty" has
a way, by a mere look, of setting the dachshunds on people he dislikes;
they must be as smart as Herr Director-General's French poodles, I
reckon. Anyhow, they seem to know when "Uncle Majesty" is cross with
someone and go for him.
I heard you tell Herr Franz of meeting Count Posadownk in Bielefeld and
what a great man he was. And surely he is a man with a lot of
authority, but here no one is bigger than a ten-pin before "Uncle
Majesty."
George, the chief _Jaeger_ who stands behind his chair at table and
knows everything and everybody, has become quite friendly-like with me.
Well, George says Count Posadownk "gets the War Lord's goat" every time
he reads those long-winded reports of his. But the War Lord must
listen, says George; "part of Majesty's business to hear the ministers'
gab." And listen he does--the Lord knows how he manages--but ten
minutes is his limit; after hearing someone else talk approaching a
quarter of an hour, he is "ready to explode," says George.
By that time the Count is just warming up, and you would think nothing
short of an earthquake could stop him. But the dachshunds are as good
as the fire-spitting mountain we saw in Italy--or was it Switzerland?
A wink from "Papa"--"raising or wagging an ear," says George--shows the
dachshunds that Posadownk ought to make himself scarce, and in a
twinkling they get ready for attack round the short clothes and silk
stockings.
While the Count talks his head off, first one, then the other bowwow
sets up a dismal howl. Posadownk raises his voice, the dachshunds yelp
more loudly, and Majesty, pretending to call them off, makes the
hullabaloo worse still.
Just the same the Count is crazy to finish, and the dachshunds go on
inspecting his legs. Maybe he gets in a good kick or two, but the
hounds are experts in pulling at silk stockings without drawing blood.
Once or twice his Excellency went away with stockings in ribbons.
The same thing happened to others having business at the palace; the
wonder is that no one poisons the beasts. If they bit me--a dose of
something strong for them, you bet.
Remember, nothing about Bertha-and-nothing-to-eat to Her Ladyship.--The
Herr Superintendent's very humble servant,