The Iron Necklace

by Giles Waterfield

  The door burst open and in came Mark. He’d exuded cheerfulness ever since the announcement of the day before. The sisters had both noticed, they could not account for it.

  ‘Good Lord, it is cold in here. Where’s Mamma? Is she entertaining a gentleman?’

  ‘Mark!’ they cried in unison.

  He announced that it was time for a change from Evelyn Gardens. They’d been there too long, dwelling on grief and money and their mother and their father. They should enjoy themselves for a little while. He wanted them to see his chambers in Jermyn Street, he proposed going there at once. They protested, he insisted, they gave way, they collected their coats and hats, asked Wilson to look after Dodo, hurried into the street. Mark summoned a cab, his sisters protested again and climbed in. They drove through the grimy streets full of men in khaki, to the gentlemanly reticence of Jermyn Street, shops below, the discreetest of chambers above.

  ‘I’ve rented this flat while I’m in London. Mamma wanted me to live at home, but I’d have suffocated. I told her I could never promise to be punctual for meals and would drive the cook mad. That persuaded her.’ Into the building they went and up in the lift, Mark commenting on the odour of mahogany and leather and hair oil, and it disgorged them on the top floor. Mark told them his flat had belonged to an officer who’d been killed in the war, whose parents could not bring themselves to change it.

  He urged his sisters to look round. ‘It has some of his things and some of mine. He’s like a benign ghost, I feel he’s pleased I’m here.’ They wandered about, curious, they had never seen their brother in a place of his own. The rooms contained things that had to be Mark’s: old china, and Venetian glass, and American Indian pottery, and paintings. Irene asked diffidently whether he would like another of her works; when he had so many beautiful old things, he might not want a modern painting. But he accepted excitedly and she said she would paint a still life especially for him. Mark proposed a celebration and when they asked why, he declared they should celebrate being together for the first time for years. And he added, ‘And the acquisition of a new brother.’

  ‘You seem pleased, Mark, to know that Edward is our brother.’

  He smiled, non-committal. He did not say that if one had a secret, it was reassuring to know that other members of the family did too. And perhaps he was relieved that his overbearing cousin had become a vulnerable half brother. But meanwhile they must have a cocktail, he was going to give them a gin and lime.

  ‘I’ve had a gin and lime before,’ said Sophia ruminatively. ‘Now, where was that?’

  They protested about gin at teatime but drank it with enthusiasm. Mark proposed a toast – ‘To us.’ Then Sophia proposed a toast to Irene, the artist. Irene toasted Mark, the ambassador. Mark toasted Sophia, and paused. ‘To Sophia, the what? What are you going to be, now you are free, little sister?’

  ‘I am not free. But if you insist – Sophia, the mother’s companion.’

  ‘No, Sophia,’ cried her sister, and Mark added, ‘The writer? The doctor? The social reformer?’

  ‘Sophia, the victim of the war.’ And she emptied her glass.

  The silence that followed, a flickering, volatile silence ruffled by the sound of hooves and motorcars and the hissing of the gas fire, was interrupted by Irene.

  ‘If you’re a victim of the war, darling, we’re all victims of the war.’

  ‘Not me,’ said Mark, ‘but I refuse to be ashamed. You’ve been heroic, darling Sophia, but now it’s time to stop being heroic and enjoy yourself a little.’

  Irene and Mark exchanged glances, advanced on their little sister, pulled her hair, short as it was, cuddled her, kissed her cheeks, and she laughed again. Outside, the foggy afternoon turned to darkness, and the shop windows and the street lamps glowed in a pale recollection of before the war, and the black-coated and uniformed passers-by bustled along the unremitting pavements. But inside, when Mark drew the curtains, and the room was lit by a single lamp and the flames of the gas fire, they created for a short hour their own make-believe world, as they had in childhood when Irene, the best of elder sisters, had devised fairyland plays for Sophia. They hid their black clothes under scarves and lengths of silk mysteriously produced by Mark, they drank another cocktail, they discussed their childhoods and whether their father had been a disappointed man and what they thought now of their mother. They knew they would be separated again, but for a few moments, away from the frettings and proprieties of Evelyn Gardens and with the world shut out, they were united and happy and hopeful.

  ‘To us all!’ cried Mark, and they held hands and echoed him. ‘To us all!’

  PART THREE

  1

  They are having tea at the long table that runs along one end of the drawing room, away from the street. Outside, the soft evening light trembles in the rain. Dorothea sits at one end of the table, collected, serious, as though ready for action. In front of her stands the tea tray, rather as an artillery battalion might be lined up. There is no cake today, no biscuits even. Pandora sits close by, but not very close.

  There is another box of papers to look at, Dorothea announces.

  Pandora plays with her bracelets.

  Does she want to see it? Yes, maybe, Pandora says carefully. She must not sound eager, nor must she sound indifferent.

  Dorothea offers her more tea, pours out some for herself, looks round the room. They must hang up more of Irene’s pictures, which are standing frame to frame in the basement. This comment arouses no response. Probably, she says, she should destroy some of these private papers. A book about Irene should be a book about her work, not her life.

  They do not look at one another, pause before speaking.

  Dorothea says she is finding her essay about Irene as artist and mother difficult to write, because Irene had not been a very good mother. Can she say that in the article, she wonders?

  There is another long pause.

  ‘You see, darling,’ says Dorothea, ‘I loved my father, I really loved him. And Mother unconsciously was always pulling me away from him, that’s what I think. It was so confusing, Mother on the one hand, Father on the other, England, Germany. As time passed they would wrangle about England and Germany, it was supposed to be humorous but there wasn’t much humour in it.’ She drums her fingers on the box. ‘I loved Salitz, but would she let me go there when I was growing up? Almost never. She didn’t like going back there herself, she didn’t like remembering the Great War, that’s what she once told me. But would she ever give up a private view or the chance to meet a patron? And yet she could be so wonderful, I forgave her everything.’

  Pandora stands up, puts her arm round her mother’s shoulders.

  ‘Darling, have I been a horrible mother? Have I been bad to you?’

  ‘No, no, you’ve been a lovely mother, you are a lovely mother.’

  Dorothea opens her handbag. She carries it everywhere, something her daughter finds maddening. Now she dabs her eyes.

  ‘It’s one thing to look at those letters and photographs from the early days but when I start reading about events I remember. . . Sometimes I open a book and see a dedication, “To Irene from her loving husband” – it makes me so sad.’ Dorothea opens the box standing on the table and shows her daughter a piece of paper, which says, ‘Throw away anything that shouldn’t be seen.’

  ‘It’s typical of her.’

  ‘Why typical?’

  ‘Because she puts the responsibility onto me, she appears responsible and thoughtful, but she avoids making decisions of her own.’ Dorothea takes out a bundle of letters. ‘“1919–20”. That was when she began to be famous.’

  Pandora sits mute, knowing that the best way to persuade her mother to do something is not to try to persuade her.

  ‘Well, it’s forty years ago now, no. . . it’s even longer. They’re all dead. Only my generation is still left standing, more or less. I suppose you’d better read the letters, darling, if you want to, they’re from various people. Poor Fathe
r, he was so good and patient. And then Julian, I detested Julian.’

  2

  10 May 1919

  My darling wife,

  There is real hope at last! At last, the fighting in the streets is dying down, we can begin to believe in the success of our republic. And I think my ideas for the new community may soon be realised. We’ve found an ideal site: three hectares near Zehlendorf, about five kilometres from home. If we can get a financial backer, there is nothing to prevent us.

  Herr Ulrich and I are thinking about the plan of each flat, and how much space is needed to live decently. The flats will each have two to four rooms, a kitchen, a separate bathroom – highly important if we are to introduce hygiene into every home. There will also be houses, which will be a little larger. Socially and architecturally our community will be the reverse of the Mietskasernen, with their absurd social hierarchy. In our Siedlung, everyone will enjoy the same possibilities, only need will earn you a larger apartment. There will be no more representational rooms, no more high stuccoed ceilings, parquet floors, double doors. These flats will be practical and light, with electricity and excellent plumbing. There will be no superfluous adornment; the decoration will derive from pure colour, and will be related to the life lived there. We are looking into providing communal kitchens and dining rooms, and communal laundries. There will be no room for servants, physically or morally, and no need for them.

  The setting will be beautiful. The houses will stand among grass and trees, so that our people can live in the midst of nature, yet travel easily to work. From their windows they will see, not the dirty wall of a Hinterhof, but the sun shining on pine trees. One question: should people have their own gardens? Herr Ulrich thinks we should plan an individual garden behind each house. But I prefer to give each dwelling a balcony, and make the open spaces available for the whole community to play and sunbathe and engage in sport. Our pure plain houses will be surrounded by nature.

  Do you like these ideas? Many of our thoughts derive from England, but we have taken them further. It is inspiring, to find our two countries again linked by shared ideals.

  The Mommsenstraße tenants are leaving in three months. I would like to go back there, and with you. When do you come back? We could fill the walls with your works, my dearest, but perhaps you’ll have none to spare.

  It will be exciting to create a room for Dodo. How does she look now? I only have a photograph from a year ago.

  Mamma is almost herself again. She gets tired, but her mind is clear. She’s angry with herself for having been ill. Mathilde is back, she has been working hard, and the parents’ flat looks much as it did before the war.

  If only I could visit London, but it is impossible for a German except with help from a well-placed person. Perhaps Mark could help me.

  Write to me again, when you can, my dearest. I treasure your letters, I read them aloud to my mother, she hears your voice in them. She says, all she needs for a full recovery is for you to come home.

  I miss you so much.

  Your loving husband

  3

  10th of May 1919

  Weeny Irene,

  Why must you be so virtuous? Why don’t you do as you want to, just for once? You’re an artist, you’re free.

  Come and live with me, won’t you? It is heavenly to be together, just like the old times, I can’t believe how happy it makes me. When I’m with you I’m a different person. I don’t need to be talking to you, just knowing you are in the same room is enough. At that party in Fitzroy Square, I thought, with every year you grow more beautiful. But I’m still only allowed to kiss you as though at a garden party. I want to give you a real kiss.

  What keeps you in England, after all? Not just the exhibition, surely? Something makes you want to stay, could it be your friend Julian? On the other hand, you won’t let the Snake coil round you, something prevents you. Is it your dear old mother? No, I suppose it’s a sense of duty to that dull stiff Thomas of yours. . .

  Do you remember when I drew you naked on the daybed in my studio? I think it was the most beautiful drawing I’ve ever done. I got many offers for it but I turned them down, and now my beautiful Nude hangs where only I can enjoy it. But I want the original.

  Stop worrying about morality, Irene darling. We’d have such fun, and don’t we deserve it? And not just fun – were any two people ever as happy together as we were, all those years ago in Danvers Street? Surely it’s virtuous to be happy.

  I’ll be in the Café Royal tomorrow at seven.

  Lots of kisses,

  Snake

  4

  25 May 1919

  Dear Irene,

  Your friends in Berlin miss you! Berlin is bleak without you, even now with the lilacs in flower and the poor dear city coming back to life, and many things happening – new journals, art galleries, theatre productions. There is still not much to eat unless you are attracted to turnips and animal lungs. And life is still not peaceful. There’s trouble for a few days, and some wretched politician is assassinated, and then the violence stops, and all the while the shops open and the trams run and children go to school. And then maybe it starts again.

  As for me – I have gone back to journalism. I’m still only working here and there, I long for a permanent position. As you can imagine, your friend Alexander has much to say on many subjects. Actually, I am being published widely, I am considered a champion of the new republic.

  I often dream about the war and that office where I filled out useless forms all day. Do I feel my time in the army was wasted? In a way, of course, but then the experience has completely altered me, I feel fifty years older. Now I understand that studying in Berlin and talking for hours in cafés did not qualify me to pontificate on every subject. I am bewildered by how little I understood, or understand now. But what I do know is that when I feel surrounded by hatred – as a journalist, a Social Democrat, a Jew – when I see this hatred screaming aloud in the press, I must have the courage to respond with strength and reason, and belief in my own values. It’s tempting to stay silent and continue with one’s own life as best one may, but that’s no solution.

  What the war made me fear was people’s capacity to be swallowed up in mass emotion. It is so seductive, marching behind a flag, believing one is serving a cause far greater than oneself. One’s own fears melt away. Alas, those of us who believe in parliamentary democracy can’t march in step and sing rousing songs, the best we can offer is prosperity and calm, which at the moment poor Ebert and Scheidemann cannot do.

  I’ve abandoned my book on the empire but I think of re-casting it as a history, somewhat satirical, like that new book Eminent Victorians. I wish you’d contribute some ludicrous drawings of the old regime to catch the attention of our cynical public.

  I see Thomas often. He has such a kind heart that the goodness left over from his family and his friends he extends to the people of Berlin and indeed the world. I have to tease him, he is almost too virtuous. He is always saying, ‘When Irene comes back. . .’ His sisters look after him, especially Elise. Her view is you will never come back. She says you are a typical Englishwoman, friendly in good times, hostile in bad ones. She has introduced him to a friend of hers, an officer’s widow. This lady invites him to tea in Potsdam, he does not go. But Elise is persistent.

  Come back soon. Whatever Berlin is, it’s not dull. If you think she would accept them, please give my best wishes to your mother, and of course to that charming Sophia.

  I wrote to you before but probably my letter did not reach you.

  With very best wishes,

  Alexander

  5

  Some time in May

  Lily of the valley, Rose of Sharon – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude about Thomas. I can’t help it if I find him a bit of a bore, can I? He is a good, clever man, if you like. But don’t expect me to be enthusiastic about him.

  I am so pleased you’re working again, I’m sure that is because you are back where you belong
. And painting, painting! When did you last paint? As I recall, you never painted much even at the Slade. You feel liberated, clearly, but you need to take liberation further.

  Be my Sheba soon, with love from Solomon.

  6

  10 June

  Weeny Irene,

  I knew I was right – it was perfection, wasn’t it? We achieve such closeness to one another, a union of mind as well as body, understanding and loving the other person through each movement and expression. . . Darling one, come and live with me.

  Darling, I can’t bear not to see you. I’ve loved you ever since we met at that party back in 1904, and now it’s 1919 and we’ve been through All That and here we are alive and healthy and attractive (you, at least), and what’s more, living in the same country. For God’s sake, why can’t we be happy together?

  I’ve made a doll for Dodo, a Scottish doll. I have taken a great deal of trouble, she’s a real Scottish lady with a tartan skirt, rather like that sister-in-law of yours. When are you both coming to tea, so I can give it to her?

  7

  REVIEW FROM A LONDON JOURNAL, JULY 1919

  OXFORD GALLERY, BRUTON STREET: AN EXHIBITION OF MODERN ENGLISH ARTISTS, 30 JUNE – 30 JULY 1919

  In a respectable showing of mixed works by a number of young artists, the works of Irene Benson stand out from a visual point of view, though their ultimate meaning is not clear. This previously unknown artist presents a series of twelve coloured drawings on the theme of the Dance of Death. These are large and apparently decorative images, with a fine sense of colour and design, which make an immediate impression. On closer inspection, they turn out to be more complex works, almost in the nature of caricatures. They show contemporary figures – soldiers and sailors, businessmen and judges, architects and artists – visually united in activity that stretches across each individual work to form, as it were, a chain. The participants are dancing what looks like the foxtrot, or drinking, or making love, but the occasional clue indicates that their partners, under their shimmering dresses and dark suits, are Figures of Death. In the last drawing the artist suggests the abyss into which all these figures ultimately will fall. While Miss Benson is to be admired for her sense of colour and design, her interest in caricature is less easy to accept. She shows none of the gentle, contemplative quality that we associate with young women artists. Still, this is an interesting talent, and we look forward to seeing more of her work.