One evening, on a hill overlooking the vineyards, Mark feeling that no place on earth could be more spiritual or beautiful, Paul turned to him. ‘You are my true friend. If such customs still existed, I would make you my blood brother.’
Mark laughed. ‘Yes.’ He could think of nothing else to say, he was so happy.
‘Whatever happens between our countries, whether or not we find ourselves as official enemies, our friendship will transcend those divisions, we will remain friends as long as we live. Do you agree?’
‘Yes.’ Paul put his arm round Mark’s shoulders. They seemed completely alone together. Not a person or a house was to be seen in the great golden landscape.
It was a moment Mark often remembered in later life, a moment of entire happiness. However those hopes might have been disappointed, the recollection made tears start into his eyes, even when he was old and distinguished and had put such dreams far behind him.
22
When Irene returned home after the ball, Thomas merely said, ‘It’s time we visited Wedding. Shall we go next weekend?’ Yes, she replied. Alexander announced that he would come too, he grew up in such a place, he understood the people better than Thomas did. Thomas looked impassive.
At Leopoldplatz they stepped off the tram into a different Berlin. The straight streets were riotously untidy, punctuated by water pumps and shops with goods spilling onto the pavement and coal merchants and signs advertising use of the telephone.
‘Welcome to Wedding.’ Thomas was exhilarated but nervous.
‘These houses are so ambitious,’ said Irene.
‘Oh, they pretend to be fine houses for fine people, but these pretentious façades with their herms ordered by the metre conceal rotten buildings.’
‘This is where the great Berlin sport is practised,’ remarked Alexander. ‘Tuberculosis. It’s so popular, that if one person has it, the others want it too, and they are taken to clinics, where they can all play together.’
‘Do people live here so badly? Can we see how they live?’
‘You can never understand how people live unless you live with them,’ Alexander said. Thomas smiled faintly. ‘That is something I have experienced, unlike Thomas. He wants to live simply in the country, but where does he site his modest home? In the shadow of his noble uncle. In Berlin, he seeks to help the poor, but does he live among them? He claims he wants to design things that can be mass-produced, but his own apartment is filled with exquisite handmade furnishings. Soon, no doubt, he will be moving to Grunewald or even Wannsee–’
Thomas interrupted him, exasperated. ‘Irene, we can see the courtyards.’ He indicated a mammoth of a building. Behind the huge central arch stretched further arches in receding dark and light stripes.
‘This area is a little more refined, I suppose Thomas feels at home here,’ said Alexander. Irene shook her head at him warningly and he flushed.
‘The front building, you see, is for people with some money,’ said Thomas. ‘The Vorderhaus apartments have high ceilings, higher than any reasonable person needs, but high ceilings are adored in Berlin.’
Inside the building were courts filled with the workshops of saddlers, carpenters, cobblers. Irene wanted to know how much space people had, how people could bear to live in such confinement, particularly if they came from the countryside.
‘You have an idealised view of the countryside,’ remarked Alexander. ‘It is not beautiful if you live in a hut. In the country the people are little better than slaves. You two only see the view from the Landhaus.’
‘There’s a sense of community here,’ said Thomas. ‘If someone’s ill or alone, they’re looked after. It is a spirit we must carry to our new communities.’
‘You are so romantic, people want to move out from here as soon as they can.’
‘My point of view is supported by our research. In planning our new Siedlungen, we have learnt from the positive elements of these places.’
‘Very well,’ replied Alexander, always more cheerful when contradicted. ‘My position is extreme, but useful even if not empirically based.’
They advanced through the courts, where children were playing, old ladies looking on, people crossing to and fro. Irene felt uncomfortable, her coat and skirt must have cost several times what someone here earned in a year.
Thomas and Alexander were apparently unconscious of people’s interest. At first it was the odd nudge, a silence, a group of staring children, but nobody addressed them. ‘Do you want to see all the courts?’ Thomas asked and Irene hesitated and said yes. The Fünfter Hof fell silent when they entered.
‘You see the size of the court?’ asked Thomas bitterly. ‘Well, we have building regulations here in Berlin. The court must be at least five metres square, so that if there is a fire and someone has to jump, the firemen can hold out the right size of cloth. Isn’t that far-sighted?’
Impulsively Irene greeted a woman looking out from her ground-floor window.
The woman examined Irene. ‘Are you from the landlord? People like you only come here for a reason.’
‘My husband is engaged on a project to create better housing for working people. . . for people. . . outside the city centre. I wanted to see this area.’
‘If you want to understand this part of Berlin, let me tell you that for me this is a bad week,’ said the woman, slightly imitating Irene’s accent, as though unconsciously. ‘My man is out of work and my lodger has left, and the only money we have is what I earn as a laundress. And we rent out a room, by day and then by night.’ Thomas pulled at Irene’s sleeve. ‘Where do you live?’
‘In Wilmersdorf,’ said Thomas rapidly.
‘Ah, I used to live in Charlottenburg. I was a servant there, it was not bad. Then I met my man, and had to leave my position, and we came here.’ She was becoming more animated. ‘Is that your husband, the big blond one? Not the little Jew?’
They stiffened, Alexander trying to smile.
‘What is your husband, then? Is he a politician?’
‘I am an architect.’
‘What good’s “architect” to me, if I have to go to the soup kitchen? I expect you belong to the Catholics or the Liberals, always preaching, never helping.’
This irritated Thomas. ‘No, I am not a member of those parties. I am. . .’ But he did not finish.
‘We’re all Social Democrats here,’ she went on, ‘and we are working for the day which will bring about an equal society. At least, so my husband says. Shhh,’ she said to a little head bobbing up and down above the window frame.
‘I am a Social Democrat too,’ said Thomas.
Irene turned to him, astonished. ‘You?’
The woman was observing them. ‘Have you seen enough?’
‘Thank you,’ said Irene. ‘I would not want to disturb you.’
The woman nodded, pulled at the little head beside her and closed the window.
One of the boys in the attentive group behind them said, in faithful imitation of Irene’s voice, ‘I would not want to disturb you, I would not want to disturb you,’ to the loud amusement of his friends.
‘Why did you never tell me before you’re a Social Democrat?’ asked Irene as they walked away.
‘I prefer to be discreet. It was Alexander who interested me in politics, took me to meetings, persuaded me to join the party.’
‘Why should it be a secret?’
‘You don’t understand. My family would regard me as a traitor, some of them would not sit down at table with me. Some of our clients would never employ a Social Democrat.’
‘For all his secrecy,’ said Alexander, ‘your Thomas is a good party member, he attends meetings regularly. That is where he’s been when he comes home late. He is a good liar for the right cause.’
‘But me, why didn’t you tell me?’
Thomas put his arm round her. ‘I thought you might not be sympathetic. You come from such a fine old English family.’
‘You underestimate me.’
He stopped and looked at her. ‘Oh, but it is easy to underestimate you, Irene.’
‘You will disturb the traffic,’ said Alexander, ‘looking at each other like that. City regulation F1234 says that intimate looks, even between married persons, are at no time permitted on a public thoroughfare or park, and in private only up to 2200 hours.’
When they went home they ate a large tea, as usual on Sunday afternoons. Irene felt a little uncomfortable at first about the silver pots and the white porcelain and the piles of sandwiches and cakes, but she was very hungry, and the discomfort passed.
23
Sir William had escaped from the family dinner at the earliest opportunity. He and Edward had sat finishing the wine for a mere seven minutes. Edward did nothing but list the people he and Victoria had stayed with and brag about how his shooting had improved and how he’d ordered guns from Purdey’s and how his job at the best shipping company in London held brilliant prospects. In this wasteland of worldliness not a glimmer of originality or intellectual curiosity was detectable. Sir William wondered how Victoria, whom he considered a sensible young woman, could stand having to spend so much time with him, but he supposed that Edward, large and blond with regular features, must be attractive to women, as he obviously was to Elizabeth.
The main subject of conversation had been the mansion flat near Buckingham Palace that Edward and Victoria would be moving into. It was described in detail: the large drawing room, the dining room, the den, the three bedrooms, the cook’s room. ‘All one could want at the start of married life,’ Elizabeth had said.
‘Yes,’ said Victoria, ‘it’s the modern way of living, it will be so convenient.’
Edward had discovered that the flat below belonged to an ambassador’s widow, and that three MPs also lived in the building. When appealed to, Sir William expressed passionate interest in seeing it.
His study was a gloomy room, with glass-fronted bookcases around three walls, and heavy faded velvet curtains, and a large partners’ desk, though no partner ever sat opposite him. It was his refuge from the world and most particularly from his wife. When he thought about her – which he tried not to do too often – he realised how much she bored him. She was a kind woman, a good mother, he knew all that, and her charitable activities must be useful to somebody, but her social pretensions, her unceasing desire to move to a better part of London, her lack of any intellectual fibre. . . Clever independent women like his daughter Irene, they were the kind of women he liked. In the past he had comforted himself by remembering Elizabeth as a girl, so pretty and fresh, the child of the Rectory, entirely in love with him as it seemed. Well, those memories no longer meant much, now. He was surprised to find how upset he’d been by what she’d told him just before Irene’s wedding.
He had been thinking about this business a good deal over the past months. Well, if she could surprise him, he could surprise her, and that was what he intended to do. It would be a little domestic revenge, one that he’d never witness himself but could anticipate with amusement.
Sir William penned a short letter, took a sheet of closely written paper from a locked drawer, and placed the two sheets in a large envelope that he sealed and stamped and slid into his attaché case.
On his desk lay a number of unopened envelopes. He looked at them without interest. One was from Maggs, possibly advising him of a volume for sale. He opened it – no, it was a bill, rather a large bill. He must stop spending quite so much money on his library; really, he was spending more than he could afford, but it amused him to be extravagant in this covert way. And his library on the theme of the Dance of Death was becoming quite an important one, one that was worth preserving and that would perpetuate his memory, perhaps.
He turned to the notes on the Dance of Death that Mark had sent from Heidelberg. They were unexpectedly brief but told him what he needed. Taking the huge portfolio of his draft book, he made some alterations. The study of the Danse Macabre, of the spectacle of worldly people caught up in a dance with skeletons, gave him more satisfaction than he could express. Sometimes in court he would look at the other counsels, particularly a man he often encountered, all bluster and port wine and Conservative opinions and an annoyingly good brain, and think of their being swept away in the Dance. At dinners at the Inns of Court it amused him to consider how these self-satisfied people would soon be dancing away in a world where being a bencher would be meaningless. For himself he had no fears. Old cynic that I am, he said to himself, what partner will they find for me? I shall enjoy my last dance.
24
‘I’m in the studio,’ she cried. She had prepared the words. Not ‘my studio’ – too aggressive. Not ‘your studio’ – too self-deprecating. ‘The studio’ implied they both used it.
Thomas bustled in, anxious to see her. ‘I’m sorry I’m so late, we had so much work. It’s true – I have not been at the party headquarters.’ He looked at her with his usual delight, then his expression changed.
‘My dearest, what is this?’
‘This’ was a large pen and ink drawing, executed in a new exact style she had imitated from architectural books, finished in watercolour, and inscribed in bold Jugendstil script: ‘Eine Gartenstadt in der Nähe von Berlin.’ It was mounted, and propped up behind the desk.
‘It’s a drawing of what your Siedlung might become.’
‘But it is a marvel. It is so true – the whole spirit of our enterprise is expressed, a community bound together in friendship and yet free. The figures of the inhabitants are exactly what we are thinking of, people who have escaped the city, for whom the Friedrichstraße and the Alexanderplatz are distant nightmares.’ He looked at her intently. ‘Who did this?’
‘Who do you suppose?’
‘Just from listening to me, you created this beautiful drawing?’
‘Well, yes,’ she said, almost piqued. ‘I am a trained artist, you know.’
‘You are so talented. May I buy it?’
‘It’s a present.’
‘Yes, but when I say I must pay you, you do not understand me. I mean, this is a wonderful gift for me, I am moved – but we must use the drawing for our practice, we have been looking for a draughtsman. We will publish the drawing, we will commission more, we will pay you professionally. You will be not only my partner in the house, but my partner in business. Will that be acceptable?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘indeed it will.’
25
‘Darling, will you pour the tea? I’d forgotten this box was so untidy.’
‘Do let’s look at it.’
Dorothea stirs her tea. ‘I’m glad you’re so interested in all this, Pandora.’
‘I adored my granny, you know that.’
‘Yes. Of course, she’s completely out of fashion, all those paintings in the Tate they never show. It’s sad, really, when she had such a reputation.’
Pandora seems irritated. ‘I don’t think she’s forgotten, at all. Look at the obituaries. . .’
‘Yes, they were nice, weren’t they? Now, this album, this is all about my English grandparents visiting my German grandparents, in 1912. Father loved taking photographs and Mother would paste them into an album and add comments and do little drawings, like this one, the lion drinking tea with the eagle.’
‘Do let’s go through the book, won’t we, Mum? Oh and what’s that envelope?’ Dorothea has slid a large yellow envelope under a cushion.
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Some letters – I should burn them. This album, it gives such an impression of life just before the First War. Darling, why are you taking notes?’
‘The story’s so interesting, I want to get the details right.’
Dorothea looks at her daughter thoughtfully.
26
12th April, 1912
. . . Everything is booked. We come out on the 16th, the day after Sophia leaves school for ever, and are with you for two whole weeks. Probably quite long enough for you!
I’ve told William he must bring tails to Berlin – I suppose we shall be going to the opera and even perhaps to court? I will pack several evening dresses. By the way, I was surprised to hear that you and Thomas don’t usually change for dinner, that seems very modern. But I imagine the older Curtiuses maintain standards. Do guide me, my dearest.
I’m counting the days. . .
27
. . . I wish you wouldn’t come here, there’s no point. I can’t see you, and I don’t want to. Don’t you understand? All that is finished.
In any case, my family are coming over then, it would be very very bad if they saw you here. They’d be suspicious, though there’s nothing to be suspicious about.
Why do you ask if I’m having a child, is it to tease me? No, not yet, but I am happy. I work as an illustrator now for German papers, and I’m making presentation drawings for Thomas’s practice. Berlin is a remarkable place to be, we have many friends. This is the life I want.
Please do not write to me at the Mommsenstraße. Thomas is not jealous, but he likes to know who has written to me. In a spirit of affection, at breakfast we often exchange letters. If you must write, address it to that poste restante I gave you. But don’t expect me to answer, or even to collect your letters.
28
Dearest Irene,
I’m so looking forward to seeing you both. Life in Copenhagen is pleasant, but one does see the same people over and over again. The work can be repetitive, but Denmark is interesting, a political crossroads. We have to remember all the time not to say anything nice to the Danes about Germany and certainly not about Prussia, they hate each other. My landlady is a fine patriotic Dane, and I don’t dare tell her I have a sister in Berlin. Once when I did mention Berlin, she said she hoped I was not going there, the people were vile. Simple people are so easily influenced by common prejudices, so much irrational hatred festers in people’s hearts. And not just simple people’s.
The Iron Necklace Page 8
