“There isn’t much more to tell. She had so many tales which I have forgotten now. I can’t say she wasn’t wilful, because at times she was. Go her own way, she would: but she’d never force her opinion on any man. And she would always learn. Once I made bold to correct her upon some point of law: she accepted the correction at once and expressed her gratitude. No argument at all. And I was no expert. She knew a lot about horses, but nothing of cars: so she liked to be told. She was very quick in the uptake – could seize a point in an instant. And she was most punctilious: the slightest service must be acknowledged at once. But, as I have shown, she had this merciless streak… A very remarkable woman, and that’s a fact. And, if I may add a footnote, Madame de B— was kindness itself to me. The last time I ever saw her, she set her hands on my shoulders and gave me her cheek to kiss. I shall always value that honour, for that is what it was.
“One more reminiscence. I was staying with her in Dresden in 1913, when a very big man came to tea. He was commanding one of the crack regiments – I can’t remember which. He came in uniform, for they never wore plain clothes. And his wife, with him. She was ‘the Colonel’s lady’ – no doubt about that. She was wearing a flannel blouse—”
“I don’t believe you,” said Daphne.
“My sweet, it’s God’s truth. That’s why
The Caravaners
rings – to me, at least – so terribly true. A beige-coloured flannel blouse and a tweed skirt, bagged at the knee. And white, cotton gloves, and boots: I think they were button boots, but I can’t be sure. They may have been elastic-sided, with buttons sewn on – or even painted on.”
“That’s right,” said Berry. “I’ve seen them.
Buttons painted on
. That was the fashion just then. I wish I’d bought a pair. Banana-coloured boots, with elongated toes; elastic-sided, with buttons painted on. I can see them now.”
“Her husband was point-device and perfectly groomed. His dark-blue uniform – frock-coat – was a beautiful fit. He was dark, which was rare, and handsome: tall and broad, but not fat. I think he’s the only German I ever liked. But he didn’t seem to be German, except for his wife. He spoke most excellent English and had a sense of humour – another rare thing.
“After tea, we strolled in the garden, he and I. ‘Are you in the Army?’ he said. ‘I haven’t that honour, sir.’ ‘But you will be, when the day comes?’ ‘My yeomanry will be mobilized, sir.’ ‘Of course. Well now, look here. You may take it from me that war is a very strange thing. And you and I may very easily meet – in some place other than this.’ ‘I’ll take your word for it, sir.’ ‘Well, we may. And if we do, you and I, we’ll remember this afternoon… and I won’t kill you, and you won’t kill me.’ I laughed. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘that’s a bargain.’ He smiled and put out his hand. I never saw him again.”
“As certain as that?” said Jill.
“As certain as that. He’d been in England, of course, and spoke so nicely of us. He didn’t flatter: I think his liking was real. I was, of course, a civilian. If I’d been a German civilian, he would have treated me like dirt. But I was an Englishman. So he treated me as an equal, though I was much younger than he. You couldn’t help liking the man – I wish I could remember his name.”
“And his wife like that?”
“Exactly. I haven’t overdrawn her at all. She was dressed for poor-district shopping before the first war. Not afternoon shopping – morning. Getting the cheese and matches and a pound or two of potatoes and Brussels sprouts. She only wanted a string-bag. And those were the best clothes she had: for tea with Madame de B— was a great occasion. If it hadn’t been, her husband wouldn’t have come.”
“I know,” said my sister, “I know that you’re telling the truth; but it’s terribly hard to picture. I mean, he was quite a big man.”
“I think it’s fair to rank him with the Officer Commanding one of the Regiments of Foot Guards.”
“And that man couldn’t see there was anything wrong with his wife?”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“It may have been a blind spot. If it wasn’t, he just didn’t care. They, all of them, looked like that.”
“And this took place in the year before the War?”
“Yes.”
“The Boches,” said Berry, “were a most astonishing crowd. Conducive, of course, to vomit. But let that pass. Your man was clearly an exception: but, taking them by and large, they could not learn. Of course, they were civilized – so far as utility went. Railways, power-stations, guns… So far as those things went, they very near led the world. But so far as the elementary decencies of civilization were concerned, they’d made no progress at all. They were damned near barbarian. They’d approach their face to within three inches of yours – and burst with laughter, with their mouth full. If you were bespattered – as you were – they laughed the more – and expected you to laugh, too.”
Jill was shaking with laughter, but Daphne was stopping her ears.
“Tell me when it’s over,” she said; “but don’t repeat what he said. I’m not like the Colonel’s wife, who was, no doubt, accustomed to beastly things.”
“All he said,” said I, “is perfectly true. And it ought to be put on record. I haven’t set foot in Germany for forty years, but I very much doubt if the leopard has changed his spots.”
“Marienbad,” said Berry.
“Yes,” said I. “In 1905 I visited Marienbad. A very agreeable place. People went there, as you know, to lose superfluous weight. And the King of England, among them: His Majesty King Edward the Seventh – there was a man. I was never presented, of course, but my visit coincided with his. So I had the great privilege of observing him at close quarters day after day. He had a suite at The Weimar, and I was in the appendage to that hotel. That year he was visited by Franz Joseph, then seventy-five years old, the Emperor of Austro-Hungary, in whose empire Marienbad was. And the King entertained him to luncheon. From my window upon the first floor, I saw the two drive up in an open carriage, and I heard an Austrian maid cry out, ‘Oh, there are two in the carriage, but only one King.’ That was a compliment, indeed. And King Edward wasn’t looking his best, for he was wearing the full-dress of an Austrian Field-Marshal – at least, I suppose it was that – which didn’t become him at all: but the Emperor was wearing that of a British Field-Marshal, which would, I think, become almost any man. I was taken to see the table, before they sat down: the decorations consisted of nothing but rose-petals – delicate heaps of rose-petals everywhere.
“Of His Majesty, I hardly know what to say. He was worshipped, because he was worshipful: loved, because he was lovable: however well you felt, the sight of him made you feel better than you had felt before. His charm was radiant and irresistible. His dignity was compelling. His manners were above reproach. All Englishmen – and many others – uncovered when he went by, as a matter of course: never once did I see him nod or touch his hat in reply:
he always took his hat off
– right away from his head: he did so to me, a mere stripling, time and again. One afternoon I was driving with Mrs —: in the course of the drive our horses were walking uphill; and there, at the top, was a car, standing still before it came down. So,
force majeure
, we passed it very slowly. Sitting at the back was the King. Mrs — bowed, and I took off my hat. The King was wearing a peaked motoring-cap, and his chin-strap was down: when he made to raise it, of course it wouldn’t come off: but he damned well had it off, pulling it over his face and disordering his hair: then he looked at us and, laughing, inclined his reverend head.”
Berry nodded.
“‘Manners makyth Man.’”
“One of my pleasantest memories is that of His Majesty, dressed for dinner, bare-headed, standing alone upon the balcony of one of the rooms of his suite, looking down on the scene below, before he went in to dine.
“And now for Marienbad. I can most truthfully say that, until I went to that spa, I never knew what it meant for a man to be fat. I thought I had seen fat people: but I was wrong. Compared with most of the visitors, King Edward the Seventh was well-covered – no more than that. People used to stop and stare after me in the street – because I was spare. And the fattest were always the Germans. Their bulk was unbelievable. Some couldn’t get through doorways.”
Jill laid a hand on my arm.
“Darling, do be careful.”
“
Et tu, Brute?
” said I. “My sweet, as I live, it’s the truth. It would be indecent to describe some of the Germans, male and female, that I saw: but I’ll tell you of one. He was making his way to the spring, to drink his dose. He had to walk very slowly and rest by the way. When he rested, he used to do so at some café which lay on his route – with chairs and tables outside, in the continental way: but he didn’t sit down: instead, he lifted his stomach and laid it upon a table which was about the right height. That took the weight off his legs. And when he’d rested enough, he lifted it carefully down.”
“Have you nearly finished?” said Daphne.
“Shame,” said Berry. “What would historians give for such a side-light on manners of the fourteenth century?”
“I’ve only one incident to add. I believe it took place every day, but I never knew about it, until I was going away. Now, the cure at Marienbad was very strict. I can’t remember the diet, but it was very thin. Of course, not a smell of beer – and you know what beer meant to a German… Which is, of course, the reason why all these Germans were there. Swilling down Munich beer, day in and day out. I think I’m right in saying that the length of the cure was three weeks.
“The train that most people took from Marienbad was an express which left pretty early – I think, about eight in the morning. Anyway, when I left, I took that train. So did a great many others, who had just finished their cure. When I arrived at the station, there was a row going on – a crowd of Germans, shouting and struggling a little way down the platform. When I’d secured my seat, I walked down to see what it meant. The storm-centre was the station restaurant: this wasn’t very large, and it couldn’t receive all the Germans who were fighting for beer. Their cure had finished at mid-night, when all the cafés were shut: so this was the first chance they had of making up for lost time. You never saw such a sight. Those who had reached the bar were reluctant to leave, until, of course, the train was about to depart: but their presence obstructed other less fortunate souls: those in the rear were frenzied, for the precious minutes were passing and trains won’t wait. The spectacle wasn’t human. And all those men had only that moment completed a very expensive cure to reduce the weight which their indulgence in beer had brought about.”
“Such animal behaviour,” said Berry, “is touched upon not only in The Book of Proverbs, but, if I remember rightly, in one of the Epistles General of St Peter – God bless his soul. On second thoughts, I realize that such an apostrophe is supererogatory: but it was well meant. I always loved St Peter. At least he put up a show – and cut off Malchus’ ear. Malchus dodged, of course: otherwise, he’d’ve had it. To return to the animal behaviour. This is also comparable with the disgusting practices frequently observed by gluttons in the course of a Roman banquet two thousand years ago.”
“I agree… And now may I add one memory, in which Germany is mentioned, which truly concerns the French? I confess that it’s right out of place; but I’d like to relate it now, for I’ve no desire to mention the Germans again. I nearly made this statement the other night. And then I thought that it would mean very little to people who didn’t know France. So I held my peace. But, on reflection, I find it a side-light on history: as such, it ought to go in.
“I didn’t know France very well, before the first war: but, between the two wars, when a Frenchman spoke of the Germans, he never said ‘les Allemands’, but always ‘les Boches’ – more often than not, ‘les sales (dirty) Boches’. That practice was always observed by high and low. Do you bear me out?”
“Unquestionably. I never heard a Frenchman say ‘les Allemands’, until —. But go on.”
“When we returned to France in 1945, in conversation with Frenchmen I naturally spoke of ‘les Boches’.
When I’d been corrected four times, I gave it up
. I would say, ‘
Enfin, les Boches sont partis
’. And the reply would come pat – ‘
Oui, Monsieur, les Allemands sont partis
.’ I was corrected by a high official, a physician, a servant and a countryman. When I re-entered Portugal, I told this to a distinguished Portuguese. He heard me out. Then he said, ‘Major Pleydell, if anybody but you had told me that, I should have refused to believe it. I know the French, and I should have found it incredible.’ I didn’t see him again for several months. When I did, he told me this tale.
“‘Since I saw you,’ he said, ‘I have been over seas. I flew back to Lisbon with one of our Ministers. On the way, for something to say, I told him your tale – how in France today the Boche is no longer “
le Boche
”. He flatly refused to believe it. “Sir,” I said, “Major Pleydell would never tell me a lie.” “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I know France, and I must decline to believe that there is a Frenchman alive who will speak of the Boches as ‘
les Allemands
’.” Well, I shrugged my shoulders. After all, he did not know you. We ran into contrary winds and we had to come down at Marseilles and wait for an hour or so. Whilst we were there, we were pleasantly entertained in an officers’ Mess. The Minister was talking to, let us say, the Mess President: anyway to an officer of some standing. He casually referred to “
les Boches
”.
The officer immediately corrected him
– “
Oui, Monsieur, les Allemands
.” The Minister turned and looked at me. Then he said, “I apologize to your friend.”’
“I value that confirmation of what, to those who knew France, must seem incredible.”
Berry glanced at his watch.
Then–
“Here’s something to take us to bed – on a less bitter note. I have often seen used in novels the word ‘adventurer’: and, when I have seen it, I have wondered whether the person who used it had ever met such a man. Frankly, from their descriptions, I very much doubt if they had. The adventurer,
pur et simple
, is a very rare bird. I have met thousands of people – all sorts and kinds: but only once did I meet an adventurer. But he deserved the name.