It was a glorious morning, the sky was half clouded and in the gentle
west wind the young couple sat on the balcony, while Minette was
clearing the coffee table, and looked over toward the Zoological Garden
where the gay cupolas of the elephant houses shone softly in the dim
morning light.
"I really know nothing yet about your experiences," said Botho. "You
went right to sleep, and sleep is sacred to me. But now I want to hear
all about it. Tell me."
"Oh yes, tell you; what shall I tell you? I wrote you so many letters
that you must know Anna Graevenitz and Frau Salinger quite as well as I
do, or perhaps still better, for among other things I wrote more than I
knew myself."
"Perhaps. But you always said, 'More about this when we meet.' And that
time has now come, or do you want me to think you are keeping something
from me? I know actually nothing at all about your excursions and yet
you were in Wiesbaden. You said indeed that there were only colonels
and old generals in Wiesbaden, but there are Englishmen there too. And
speaking of Englishmen reminds me of your Scotchman, about whom you
were going to tell me. Let me see, what was his name?"
"Armstrong; Mr. Armstrong. He certainly was a delightful man, and I
cannot understand his wife, an Alvensleben, as I think I told you
before, who was always embarrassed whenever he spoke. And yet he was a
perfect gentleman, who always respected himself, even when he let
himself go and showed a certain nonchalance. At such moments, gentlemen
are always the most easily recognised. Don't you agree with me? He wore
a blue necktie and a yellow summer suit, and he looked as if he had
been sewed into it, and Anna Graevenitz always used to say: 'There comes
the penholder.' And he always carried a big, open umbrella, a habit he
had formed in India. For he was an officer in a Scotch regiment, that
had been stationed a long time in Madras or Bombay, or perhaps it may
have been Delhi. But any way it is all the same. And what had he not
been through! His conversation was charming, even if sometimes one
hardly knew how to take it."
"So he was too forward? Insolent?"
"I beg your pardon, Botho, how can you speak so? Such a man as he; a
cavalier _comme il faut_. I will give you an example of his style of
conversation. Opposite us sat an old lady, the wife of General von
Wedell, and Anna Graevenitz asked her (I believe it was the anniversary
of Koeniggratz), whether it was true that thirty-three Wedells fell in
the seven years' war? Old Frau von Wedell said that it was quite true,
and added that there had really been more. All who were present, were
astonished at so great a number, excepting Mr. Armstrong, and when I
playfully took him to task, he said that he could not get excited
over such small numbers. 'Small numbers!' I interrupted him, but he
laughed and added, for the sake of refuting me, that one hundred and
thirty-three of the Armstrongs had perished in the various wars and
feuds of their clan. And when Frau von Wedell at first refused to
believe this, but finally (as Mr. A. stuck to his story) asked eagerly,
whether the whole hundred and thirty-three had really 'fallen'? he
replied 'No, my dear lady, not exactly fallen. Most of them were hung
as horse thieves by the English, who were then our enemies.' And when
everybody was horrified over this unsuitable, one might almost say
embarrassing tale of hanging, he swore that 'we were wrong to be
offended by any such a thing, for times and opinions had changed and as
far as his own immediate family were concerned, they regarded their
heroic forbears with pride. The Scottish method of warfare for three
hundred years had consisted of cattle lifting and horse stealing.
Different lands, different customs,' and he could not see any great
difference between stealing land and stealing cattle."
"He is a Guelph in disguise," said Botho, "but there is a good deal to
say for his view."
"Surely. And I was always on his side, when he made such statements.
Oh, he would make you die of laughter. He used to say that one should
not take anything seriously, it did not pay, and fishing was the only
serious occupation. He would occasionally go fishing for a fortnight on
Loch Ness or Loch Lochy--only think what funny names they have in
Scotland--and he would sleep in the boat, and when the sun rose, there
he was again; and when the fortnight was ended, he would moult and his
whole sunburnt skin would come off and then he would have a skin like a
baby. And he did all this through vanity, for a smooth, even color is
really the best thing that one can have. And as he said this, he looked
at me in such a way, that I did not know how to answer for a moment.
Oh, you men! But yet from the beginning I really had a warm attachment
for him and took no offence at his way of talking, which sometimes
pursued one subject for some time, but far, far oftener shifted
constantly here and there. One of his favorite sayings was: 'I cannot
bear to have one dish stay on the table a whole hour; if only it is not
always the same, I am much better pleased when the courses are changed
rapidly.' And so he was always jumping from the hundreds into the
thousands."
"Then you must have met on common ground," laughed Botho.
"So we did. And we mean to write to each other, in the same style in
which we used to talk; we agreed on that as we were saying good-bye.
Our men, even your friends, are always so thoroughgoing. And you are
the most thoroughgoing of all, which sometimes annoys me and puts me
quite out of patience. And you must promise me that you will be more
like Mr. Armstrong and try to talk a little more simply and amusingly
and a little faster and not always on the same subject."
Botho promised to amend his ways, and as Katherine, who loved
superlatives, after describing a phenomenally rich American, an
absolutely albino Swede with rabbit's eyes, and a fascinating Spanish
beauty--had closed with an afternoon excursion to Limburg, Oranienstein
and Nassau, and had described to her husband in turn the crypt, the
cadets' training school and the water-cure establishment, she suddenly
pointed to the towers of the castle at Charlottenburg and said: "Do you
know, Botho, we must go there to-day or to Westend or to Hallensee. The
Berlin air is rather heavy and there is none of the breath of God in
it, as there is in the country where the poets so justly praise it. And
when one has just come back fresh from nature, as I have, one has
learned to love once more what I might call purity and innocence. Ah,
Botho, what a treasure an innocent heart is. I have fully determined to
keep my heart pure. And you must help me. Yes, you must promise me. No,
not that way; you must kiss me three times on my forehead like a bride.
I want no tenderness, I want a kiss of consecration ... And if we take
lunch, a warm dish, of course, we can get out there at about three."
And so they went on their excursion and although the air of
Charlottenburg was still less like the breath of God than the Berlin
air, yet Katherine was fully determined to stay in the castle park and
to give up Hallensee. Westend was so tiresome and Hallensee was half a
journey further, almost as far as Schlangenbad. But in the castle park
one could see the mausoleum, where the blue lights were always so
strangely moving, indeed she might say it was as if a bit of heaven had
fallen into one's soul. That produced a thoughtful mood and led to
pious reflections. And even if it were not for the mausoleum, still
there was the bridge where you could see the carp, the bridge with the
bell on it, and if a great big mossy carp came swimming by, it always
seemed to her as if it were a crocodile. And perhaps there might be a
woman there with round cakes and wafers, and one might buy some and so,
in a small way, do a good work. She said a "good work" on purpose and
avoided the word Christian, for Frau Salinger was always charitable.
And everything went according to the programme, and when the carps had
been fed they both walked further into the park until they reached the
Belvedere with its rococo figures and its historical associations.
Katherine knew nothing of these associations and Botho therefore took
occasion to tell her of the ghosts of the departed Emperor and Electors
whom General von Bischofswerder caused to appear at this very place in
order to arouse King Frederick William the Second from his lethargy, or
what amounted to the same thing, to get him out of the hands of his
lady love and bring him back to the path of virtue.
"And did it do any good?" asked Katherine.
"No."
"What a pity! Anything like that always moves me so painfully. And if I
consider that the unhappy prince (for he must have been unhappy) was
the father-in-law of Queen Luise then my heart bleeds. How she must
have suffered! I can never rightly imagine such things in our Prussia.
And you say Bischofswerder was the name of the general who caused the
ghosts to appear?"
"Yes. At court they called him the tree toad."
"Because he brought on changes of weather?"
"No, because he wore a green coat."
"Oh, that is too comical!... The tree toad!"