“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.
“I came to know him – not well, but more than casually. He was a Frenchman, well-bred, good-looking, with excellent manners and a distinguished air. His family was old, and his title was genuine. Few French titles are. I once knew a Frenchman, whom I will call Monsieur Soeur. He had a private income and dwelled in a country house. After a while, he decided to take the ‘de’. From that time on, he was known as Monsieur de Soeur. So for some fifteen years. Then he decided that the time for ennoblement had come. So he made himself Baron de Soeur. Very soon he was generally known as Monsieur le Baron de Soeur. His promotion was tacitly accepted. All accorded him the honour which he had conferred on himself. He was a self-made man. By now, he is probably a Vicomte. Of such is France.
“And now to return to my adventurer. His mother and sister lived at their ancient home, somewhere in France. He kept them going somehow, because they hadn’t a bean. He visited them sometimes, but they never came to him. He was, of course, a gambler – in every sense of the word. I’m sure he always played straight and he paid his debts: but no stakes were ever too high. He was, of course, very lucky – gambler’s luck. And he had nerves of steel. One week he’d be worth fifty thousand – pounds, not francs: the next, he’d have next to nothing, and a discarded mistress would come to his help. I’ve actually known that happen. He had no scruples at all. When I knew him, he had three cars, two chauffeurs and a valet. One car was the latest Packard, a beautiful job. I’ll say he knew how to live. And he went everywhere. To see him at a baccarat table was a revelation. His apparent carelessness was most engaging. He would have to be reminded to take up his cards. In reality, he missed nothing. Often enough he’d play, because he desired to study some other player – see if he was worth playing with, or not. He never touched wine or spirits. I said to him one day, ‘I see you don’t care for champagne.’ He smiled. ‘I love it,’ he said: ‘but I can’t afford to drink it.’ (His English was very nearly as good as mine.) ‘Sometimes,’ he went on, ‘as a treat, I ask for a very little to be put in my glass of water. So I just get the taste. But you know that I live by my wits. And the wits of a man who drinks alcohol are never quite so quick. Their edge is just dulled.’ He was, of course, utterly ruthless – hard as nails. I suppose that he had to be. But many an unhappy woman saw that side. From our point of view, he was a man to beware of. But he was a remarkable production. The finished article. The profession which he had chosen has no name: and those who follow it are certainly wicked men. But he did distinguish his calling – I’ll give him that.”
14
“What about a spot of crime?” said Berry. “The wicked brought to book. And wondering whether it was worth it – after all. You know, one of the best things you ever said was in The Stolen March. Have we got a copy here?” Jill rose and went to a shelf. Then she returned with the book and put it into his hand. “Thank you, my love. What a perfect hand-maiden you are. Let’s see. It was at The Peck of Pepper… Here we are.
“‘Tell me,’ said Simon to Pride, ‘is outlawry a common punishment within The Pail?’
“‘It’s practically the only one,’ said Pride. ‘It saves the expense of a gaol and it’s a great deterrent. To offend the community or to undo a neighbour may be amusing or convenient, but if, as a result, the community (including the neighbour and his friends and any enemy you may happen to have) is to have a day, or a week, in which to offend you, the convenience is apt to wither and the amusement to lose its charm.’
“Now that is sheer common sense. So sheer that it’s above comment. A is tried and convicted of robbing B. His punishment is to be outlawed for seven days. Which means that for seven days A can be robbed or beaten with impunity. Put such an Act into force, and after six weeks you wouldn’t have any crime. And now lead on.”
“Something that you have said reminds me of The Great Pearl Case. To our fathers, The Great Pearl Case meant another trial: a much more dramatic matter: but though I know something of that, I don’t know enough to relate it and I should get my facts wrong.”
“You’ve done it now,” said Daphne. “Just tell what you know.”
“I shall have to keep saying ‘I think’, and I may be wrong.”
“Never mind.”
“I think it was at a house-party that a precious pearl necklace disappeared. One of the members of the party was a very attractive girl. She was engaged to be married to a most charming man. Both were well-known in London Society. The lady who lost the pearls suspected the girl of the theft. She certainly had no money, although her fiancé was rich. Everyone condemned such suspicion: but the loser stuck to her guns. Presently she began to say so openly. So the girl brought an action for slander…
“This was heard in the High Court. Feeling ran very high. Everyone hoped and believed that the girl would get exemplary damages. It was an ordeal for her, for the case lasted two or three days. Her fiancé never left her side. The two won everyone’s hearts.
“Though they hadn’t found the thief, the police had found the pearls. They had been sold to a pawnbroker, who had paid for them in five-pound notes. A woman had sold them to him, but she had been heavily veiled. He said that it might or might not have been the girl. He had taken the numbers of the notes, but none had come in. Needless to say, the girl swore that she’d never been near his shop.
“At the end of the second day, so far as the plaintiff was concerned, the case was in the bag. I think it was nearly over. Still, one more consultation was thought advisable, and when the C
ourt rose, she and her fiancé accompanied her solicitor to the chambers of, I think, Sir Charles Russell, who was leading for her. Charles Matthews, I’m sure, was the junior. The consultation was in progress, when there was a knock on the door, and Russell’s clerk entered the room with a letter for the solicitor. He opened and read it at once.
“The letter was from the solicitors for the defence. It enclosed a five-pound note – one of the five-pound notes which the pawnbroker had paid. It had been cashed at Maples – I’m nearly sure it was Maples – the furniture shop. It was then the practice of a shop, if the customer wasn’t known, to ask them to sign their name on the back of the note. In this case, that had been done. The signature on the back of this note was that of the girl.”
“My God,” said Daphne. And then, “It makes me feel weak.”
“Go on,” said Berry. “What happened? Or can’t you speak to that?”
I laughed.
“As a matter of fact, I can. I’m one of the very few people – at least, I believe I am – who know exactly what happened after that. For, as an articled clerk, Muskett had accompanied the solicitor: and it was he that told me what then took place.
“The solicitor rose and laid both letter and note before Russell. Matthews rose and looked over his leader’s shoulder. Then Russell addressed the fiancé. ‘One of the notes has come in. It was cashed at Maples on —. It was signed, before it was cashed. Here it is. Does the plaintiff deny her signature?’ But the girl was already in tears. Her fiancé looked at Russell. ‘What,’ he said, ‘do I do?’ Russell looked at his watch. Then he turned to Matthews, ‘How much have you on you?’ he said. Between the two of them, they had about forty pounds. Russell gave the fiancé the money. ‘My clerk will fetch you a hansom. A boat-train leaves Charing Cross in half an hour. Take her to France. That’ll give you a breathing-space. If you don’t do as I say, she’ll be under arrest.’
As Berry and I Were Saying Page 22
