The Berlin Stories

by Christopher Isherwood

  We had tea together in Fritz’s flat. He and Arthur talked New York, impressionist painting, and the unpublished works of the Wilde group. Arthur was witty and astonishingly informative. Fritz’s black eyes sparkled as he registered the epigrams for future use, and I smiled, feeling pleased and proud. I felt myself personally responsible for the success of the interview. I was childishly anxious that Arthur should be approved of; perhaps because I, too, wanted to be finally, completely convinced.

  We said goodbye with mutual promises of an early future meeting. A day or two later, I happened to see Fritz in the street. From the pleasure with which he greeted me, I knew at once that he had something extra spiteful to tell me. For a quarter of an hour he chatted gaily about bridge, night clubs, and his latest flame, a well-known sculptress; his malicious smile broadening all the while at the thought of the tit-bit which he had in reserve. At length he produced it.

  “Been seeing any more of your friend Norris?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Why?”

  “Nothing,” drawled Fritz, his naughty eyes on my face. “Eventually I’d watch your step, that’s all.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I’ve been hearing some queer things about him.”

  “Oh, indeed?”

  “Maybe they aren’t true. You know how people talk.”

  “And I know how you listen, Fritz.”

  He grinned; not in the least offended: “There’s a story going round that eventually Norris is some kind of cheap crook.”

  “I must say, I should have thought that cheap was hardly a word one could apply to him.”

  Fritz smiled, a superior, indulgent smile.

  “I dare say it would surprise you to know that he’s been in prison?”

  “What you mean is, it’d surprise me to know that your friends say he’s been in prison. Well, it doesn’t in the least. Your friends would say anything.”

  Fritz didn’t reply. He merely continued to smile.

  “What’s he supposed to have been in prison for?” I asked.

  “I didn’t hear,” Fritz drawled. “But maybe I can guess.”

  “Well, I can’t.”

  “Look, Bill, excuse me a moment.” He had changed his tone now. He was serious. He laid his hand on my shoulder. “What I mean to say, the thing is this. Eventually, we two, we don’t give a damn, hell, for goodness’ sake. But we’ve got other people to consider besides ourselves, haven’t we? Suppose Norris gets hold of some kid and plucks him of his last cent?”

  “How dreadful that would be.”

  Fritz gave me up. His final shot was: “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you, that’s all.”

  “No, Fritz. I most certainly won’t.”

  We parted pleasantly.

  Perhaps Helen Pratt had been right about me. Stage by stage I was building up a romantic background for Arthur, and was jealous lest it should be upset. Certainly, I rather enjoyed playing with the idea that he was, in fact, a dangerous criminal; but I am sure that I never seriously believed in it for a moment. Nearly every member of my generation is a crime-snob. I was fond of Arthur with an affection strengthened by obstinacy. If my friends didn’t like him because of his mouth or his past, the loss was theirs; I was, I flattered myself, more profound, more humane, an altogether subtler connoisseur of human nature than they. And if, in my letters to England, I sometimes referred to him as “a most amazing old crook,” I only meant by this that I wanted to imagine him as a glorified being; audacious and self-reliant, reckless and calm. All of which, in reality, he only too painfully and obviously wasn’t.

  Poor Arthur! I have seldom known anybody with such weak nerves. At times, I began to believe he must be suffering from a mild form of persecution mania. I can see him now as he used to sit waiting for me in the most secluded corner of our favourite restaurant, bored, abstracted, uneasy; his hands folded with studied nonchalance in his lap, his head held at an awkward, listening angle, as though he expected, at any moment, to be startled by a very loud bang. I can hear him at the telephone, speaking cautiously, as close as possible to the mouthpiece and barely raising his voice above a whisper.

  “Hullo. Yes, it’s me. So you’ve seen that party? Good. Now when can we meet? Let’s say at the usual time, at the house of the person who is interested. And please ask that other one to be there, too. No no. Herr D. It’s particularly important. Goodbye.”

  I laughed. “One would think, to hear you, that you were an arch-conspirator.”

  “A very arch conspirator,” Arthur giggled. “No, I assure you, my dear William, that I was discussing nothing more desperate than the sale of some old furniture in which I happen to be — er — financially interested.”

  “Then why on earth all this secrecy?”

  “One never knows who may be listening.”

  “But, surely, in any case, it wouldn’t interest them very much?”

  “You can’t be too careful nowadays,” said Arthur vaguely.

  By this time, I had borrowed and read nearly all his “amusing” books. Most of them were extremely disappointing. Their authors adopted a curiously prudish, snobby, lower-middle-class tone and despite their sincere efforts to be pornographic, became irritatingly vague in the most important passages. Arthur had a signed set of volumes of My Life and Loves. I asked him if he had known Frank Harris.

  “Slightly, yes. It’s some years ago now. The news of his death came as a great shock to me. He was a genius in his own way. So witty. I remember his saying to me, once, in the Louvre: ‘Ah, my dear Norris, you and I are the last of the gentleman adventurers.’ He could be very caustic, you know. People never forgot the things he said about them.

  “And that reminds me,” continued Arthur meditatively, “of a question once put to me by the late Lord Disley. ‘Mr Norris,’ he asked me, ‘are you an adventurer?’ ”

  “What an extraordinary question. I don’t call that witty. It was damned rude of him.”

  “I replied: ‘We are all adventurers. Life is an adventure.’ Rather neat, don’t you think?”

  “Just the sort of answer he deserved.”

  Arthur modestly regarded his fingernails.

  “I’m generally at my best in the witness-box.”

  “Do you mean that this was during a trial?”

  “Not a trial, William. An action. I was suing the Evening Post for libel.”

  “Why, what had they said about you?”

  “They had made certain insinuations about the conduct of a public fund with which I had been entrusted.”

  “You won, of course?”

  Arthur carefully stroked his chin. “They were unable to make good their accusations. I was awarded five hundred pounds damages.”

  “Have you often brought libel actions?”

  “Five times,” Arthur modestly admitted. “And on three other occasions the matter was settled out of court.”

  “And you’ve always got damages?”

  “Something. A mere bagatelle. Honour was satisfied.”

  “It must be quite a source of income.”

  Arthur made a deprecatory gesture. “I should hardly go so far as to say that.”

  This, at last, seemed the moment for my question.

  “Tell me, Arthur. Have you ever been in prison?”

  He rubbed his chin slowly, baring his ruined teeth. Into his vacant blue eyes came a curious expression. Relief, perhaps. Or even, I fancied, a certain gratified vanity.

  “So you heard of the case?”

  “Yes,” I lied.

  “It was very widely reported at the time.” Arthur modestly arranged his hands upon the crook of his umbrella. “Did you, by any chance, read a full account of the evidence?”

  “No. Unfortunately not.”

  “That’s a pity. I should have had great pleasure in lending you the Press cuttings, but unfortunately they were lost in the course of one of my many moves. I should have liked to hear your impartial opinion . . . I consider that the jury was unfai
rly prejudiced against me from the start. Had I had the experience which I have now I should have undoubtedly been acquitted. My counsel advised me quite wrongly. I should have pleaded justification, but he assured me that it would be quite impossible to obtain the necessary evidence. The judge was very hard on me. He even went so far as to insinuate that I had been engaged in a form of blackmail.”

  “I say! That was going a bit far, wasn’t it?”

  “It was indeed.” Arthur shook his head sadly. “The English legal mind is sometimes unfortunately unsubtle. It is unable to distinguish between the finer shades of conduct.”

  “And how much . . . how long did you get?”

  “Eighteen months in the second division. At Wormwood Scrubs.”

  “I hope they treated you properly?”

  “They treated me in accordance with the regulations. I can’t complain . . . Nevertheless, since my release, I have felt a lively interest in penal reform. I make a point of subscribing to the various societies which exist for that purpose.”

  There was a pause, during which Arthur evidently indulged in painful memories. “I think,” he continued at length, “I may safely claim that in the course of my whole career I have very seldom, if ever, done anything which I knew to be contrary to the law . . . On the other hand, I do and always shall maintain that it is the privilege of the richer but less mentally endowed members of the community to contribute to the upkeep of people like myself. I hope you’re with me there?”

  “Not being one of the richer members,” I said, “yes.”

  “I’m so glad. You know, William, I feel that we might come, in time, to see eye to eye upon many things . . . It’s quite extraordinary what a lot of good money is lying about, waiting to be picked up. Yes, positively picked up. Even nowadays. Only one must have the eyes to see it. And capital. A certain amount of capital is absolutely essential. One day I think I really must tell you about my dealings with an American who believed himself to be a direct descendant of Peter the Great. It’s a most instructive story.”

  Sometimes Arthur talked about his childhood. As a boy he was delicate and had never been sent to school. An only son, he lived alone with his widowed mother, whom he adored. Together they studied literature and art; together they visited Paris, Baden-Baden, Rome, moving always in the best society, from Schloss to château, from château to palace, gentle, charming, appreciative; in a state of perpetual tender anxiety about each other’s health. Lying ill in rooms with a connecting door, they would ask for their beds to be moved so that they could talk without raising their voices. Telling stories, making gay little jokes, they kept up each other’s spirits through weary sleepless nights. Convalescent, they were propelled, side by side, in bathchairs, through the gardens of Lucerne.

  This invalid idyll was doomed, by its very nature, soon to end. Arthur had to grow up; to go to Oxford. His mother had to die. Sheltering him with her love to the very last, she refused to allow the servants to telegraph to him as long as she remained conscious. When at length they disobeyed her, it was too late. Her delicate son was spared, as she had intended, the strain of a death-bed farewell.

  After her death, his health improved greatly, for he had to stand on his own feet. This novel and painful attitude was considerably eased by the small fortune he had inherited. He had money enough to last him, according to the standards of social London in the nineties, for at least ten years. He spent it in rather less than two. “It was at that time,” said Arthur, “that I first learnt the meaning of the word ‘luxury.’ Since then, I am sorry to say, I have been forced to add others to my vocabulary; horrid ugly ones, some of them.” “I wish,” he remarked simply, on another occasion, “I had the money now, I should know what to do with it.” In those days he was only twenty-two and didn’t know. It disappeared with magic speed into the mouths of horses and the stockings of ballet girls. The palms of servants closed on it with an oily iron grip. It was transformed into wonderful suits of clothes which he presented after a week or two, in disgust, to his valet; into oriental knick-knacks which somehow, when he got them back to his flat, turned out to be rusty old iron pots; into landscapes of the latest Impressionist genius which by daylight next morning were childish daubs. Well-groomed and witty, with money to burn, he must have been one of the most eligible young bachelors of his large circle; but it was the Jews, not the ladies, who got him in the end.

  A stern uncle, appealed to, grudgingly rescued him, but imposed conditions. Arthur was to settle down to read for the Bar. “And I can honestly say that I did try. I can’t tell you the agonies I suffered. After a month or two I was compelled to take steps.” When I asked what the steps were, he became uncommunicative. I gathered that he had found some way of putting his social connexions to good use. “It seemed very sordid at the time,” he added cryptically. “I was such a very sensitive young man, you know. It makes one smile to think of it now.

  “From that moment I date the beginning of my career; and, unlike Lot’s wife, I have never looked back. There have been ups and downs . . . ups and downs. The ups are a matter of European history. The downs I prefer not to remember. Well, well. As the proverbial Irishman said, I have put my hand to the plough and now I must lie on it.”

  During that spring and early summer Arthur’s ups and downs were, I gathered, pretty frequent. He was never very willing to discuss them; but his spirits always sufficiently indicated the state of his finances. The sale of the “old furniture” (or whatever it really was) seemed to provide a temporary respite. And, in May, he returned from a short trip to Paris very cheerful, having, as he guardedly said, “several little irons in the fire.”

  Behind all these transactions moved the sinister, pumpkin-headed figure of Schmidt. Arthur was quite frankly afraid of his secretary, and no wonder. Schmidt was altogether too useful; he had made his master’s interests identical with his own. He was one of those people who have not only a capacity, but a positive appetite for doing their employer’s dirty work. From chance remarks made by Arthur in less discreet moments, I was gradually able to form a fair idea of the secretary’s duties and talents. “It is very painful for anyone of our own class to say certain things to certain individuals. It offends our delicate sensibilities. One has to be so very crude.” Schmidt, it seemed, experienced no pain. He was quite prepared to say anything to anybody. He confronted creditors with the courage and technique of a bull-fighter. He followed up the results of Arthur’s wildest shots, and returned with money like a retriever bringing home a duck.

  Schmidt controlled and doled out Arthur’s pocket-money. Arthur wouldn’t, for a long time, admit this; but it was obvious. There were days when he hadn’t enough to pay his bus fare; others when he would say: “Just a moment, William. I shall have to run up to my flat to fetch something I’d forgotten. You won’t mind waiting down here a minute, will you?” On such occasions, he would rejoin me, after a quarter of an hour or so, in the street; sometimes deeply depressed, sometimes radiant, like a schoolboy who had received an unexpectedly large tip.

  Another phrase to which I became accustomed was: “I’m afraid I can’t ask you to come up just now. The flat’s so untidy.” I soon discovered this to mean that Schmidt was at home. Arthur, who dreaded scenes, was always at pains to prevent our meeting; for, since my first visit, our mutual dislike had considerably increased. Schmidt, I think, not only disliked me, but definitely disapproved of me as a hostile and unsettling influence on his employer. He was never exactly offensive. He merely smiled his insulting smile and amused himself by coming suddenly into the room on his noiseless shoes. He would stand there a few seconds, unnoticed, and then speak, startling Arthur into a jump and a little scream. When he had done this two or three times in succession, Arthur’s nerves would be in such a state that he could no longer talk coherently about anything and we had to retire to the nearest café to continue our conversation. Schmidt would help his master on with his overcoat and bow us out of the flat with ironic ceremony, slyly content that
his object had been achieved.

  In June, we went to spend a long week-end with Baron von Pregnitz; he had invited us to his country villa, which stood on the shore of a lake in Mecklenburg. The largest room in the villa was a gymnasium fitted with the most modern apparatus, for the Baron made a hobby of his figure. He tortured himself daily on an electric horse, a rowing-machine, and a rotating massage belt. It was very hot and we all bathed, even Arthur. He wore a rubber swimming-cap, carefully adjusted in the privacy of his bedroom. The house was full of handsome young men with superbly developed brown bodies which they smeared in oil and baked for hours in the sun. They ate like wolves and had table manners which pained Arthur deeply; most of them spoke with the broadest Berlin accents. They wrestled and boxed on the beach and did somersault dives from the spring-board into the lake. The Baron joined in everything and often got severely handled. With good-humoured brutality the boys played practical jokes on him which smashed his spare monocles and might easily have broken his neck. He bore it all with his heroic frozen smile.

  On the second evening of our visit, he escaped from them and took a walk with me in the woods, alone. That morning they had tossed him in a blanket and he had landed on the asphalt pavement; he was still a bit shaky. His hand rested heavily on my arm. “When you get to my age,” he told me sadly, “I think you will find that the most beautiful things in life belong to the Spirit. The Flesh alone cannot give us happiness.” He sighed and gave my arm a faint squeeze. “Our friend Kuno is a remarkable man,” observed Arthur, as we sat together in the train on our way back to Berlin. “Some people believe that he has a great career ahead of him. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if he were to be offered an important post under the next Government.”

  “You don’t say so?”

  “I think,” Arthur gave me a discreet, sideways glance, “that he’s taken a great fancy to you.”