He was often with us, dancing, playing tennis, advising Herr Breust, reading in the library.With Mother at the piano, he would, though as if joking, sing the Teutonic Knight’s anthem, ‘Nach dem Osten Woll’n wir Reiten’.
From him I gathered yet more stories. He had seen a live tortoise once touched by Goethe, who knew himself to be very great and had been on bad terms with no less than Hegel. Now a civilian but always ‘Herr General’, he had large interests in Germany, Sweden, Poland, with people always, as he put it, badgering him to be of service. Occasionally, perhaps inadvertently, he referred to Germany as ‘Home’. Unmarried, he treated us all with equal affability, though on terms very much his own. His photograph frequently appeared in newspapers, uniformed at a reunion, tail-coated at the Opera or racecourse, riding with the Swedish King’s nephew, Count Folke Bernadotte, conferring with rich Germans with names Father considered unwholesome – Stinnes, Thyssen, Hugenburg, Ribbentrop, the last always pronounced by the Herr General himself with such vehemence that I long thought this a swear word.
For Mother, I was a toy to be fondled but easily removed and, despite my accumulation of birthdays, never ageing, always ‘My Pet’. Father behaved as if I were a friend of longish standing, not intimate but well worth consideration. The Herr General, easily imaginable as grandson of an oak, would address me like an elder brother, more experienced but sharing some disdain for the worthy but slow-witted, the stolid-tongued, drinking punctilious toasts, laughs like the squashing of giant toads, all in a game with rules not yet entirely comprehensible.
‘You and I, Erich…’ he would begin, before seeking my help in inspecting a horse, proposing a tennis knock-up or a quick walk in Forest. He was generous to servants, gave balls at his Schloss, presented me with a folio of bird paintings, a sporting gun, a racquet, each string a different colour, given him by Mr Vines, American champion. His humour was more finely edged than his imposing demeanour, which, if not stagy, must sometimes have been carefully staged. I also believed, without evidence, that his pocket often contained a pistol.
Altogether, he was a figure more of dimly seen Germania than of the strident, go-ahead Third Reich. Once, in Forest, he halted, as if to confide a secret perhaps dangerous, even produce the pistol. ‘If you glance into a pheasant’s cold, still eye, you’ll realize that, whatever you admire about the bird, you will never love it.’ Hitherto, I had cherished pheasants but suddenly hated them.
At German monarchist celebrations he was very prominent, medalled, belted, sworded, his uniform strictly cut for his upright form as he hastened between groups, assured, friendly, while I coveted his black cane with jewelled knob. Outside, he need never call for Caspar, his elk-hound, for his eyes could summon, quell, excite animals as he must have done his soldiers.
‘Always remember, Erich, that languages, certain tunes, conquer space more rapidly than Führers or commissars, any Madam Chiang or Mrs Eleanor, certainly any general.’ His thick, straw-coloured brows contracted. ‘Here’s a trick. Close your eyes, imagine masts, then follow your thoughts. They may try for the world’s end, like Alexander. You may conclude that leadership in our motley Europe is a lyric for some, an accusation for others, and for many…’ his cigar swooped dismissively, ‘nothing at all.’ He did not confide his own disposition, his crisp, solid head gleamed above his fur collar, and, without knowing why, I felt grateful.
His smile was never a grin but a serious token of intimacy, and he finished with what sounded like a warning, ‘Of great and ruined Rome, the world-wooed dream’, which I was to discover from Father’s favourite poet, Stefan George.
At meals, on Mother’s right, the Herr General was outsize: seldom loud but powerful, as if from energies explosive and irresistible. His shirt glistened, his glass was obsequiously refilled, his opinions were undisputed and his anecdotes, lightly told, almost offhand, placed me in history.
‘Kaiser Franz-Josef. The Old Gentleman. His state banquets were always twelve courses, but he was indifferent to food and loathed banquets. Protocol demanded that, when he had disposed of his own dish, all plates were instantly whisked away, even of guests who had not started. The meal might thus be completed within the hour, many dishes undelivered, the high and mighty departing virtually unfed.’
I sensed he was talking to me alone.
Mother, when she cared, could hold her own, teasing, flattering, with the strengths of contrast. Her flimsy gowns, bare shoulders, her jewels and scents, low exclamations and rippling laugh, could shelter slyness, the subtlety of the weak. Her flirtatiousness was akin to her childish handwriting and petulance at cards.
From her chatter and music I now judge that, for her, the presentation of a rose or visiting card outmatched the thunder of war and revolution. In her presence, the telephone was uncannily alive, transforming her from indolence to laughter, from silky drowsiness on tasselled, cloudy cushions to an excited rush to the hall. I absorbed hearing her English childhood: grandmother’s escapades at Windsor, a formal shoot to which certain people could not be invited, laments when the old queen died.
Father, with his polite withdrawals, was less vivid. I did not then realize that they could seldom be seen talking together with any intimacy. For them to saunter hand in hand through Forest was unthinkable. At the brilliant dinner-table they held fine balance. Father’s grave dignity held pace with the Herr General’s ebullience, Mother’s glistening skin and eyes redressing the weight of ageing ladies and whiskered, boiled-looking gentlemen.
I was often fascinated by adults, less by recondite allusions than by chance details: a footman’s white gloves fluttering like butterflies behind tidy heads; clutches of candle-lit roses in slim silver shafts; a dead moth on a lady’s hair; a glance, queerly secretive, darting between a hussar major and a young lady whom I had earlier seen introduced to each other as strangers. One old lady, always in twinkling black, regularly allowed me a single, unchanging remark – did I know that cats’ eyes expanded with the moon? – then, duty done, ignoring me, to mutual satisfaction.
When disregarded, I yet felt particularly strong. My sharply cut goblet, when upright, reflected people as composed, secure, but, when tilted, made them caricatures: faces were smothered by beards or noses, collapsed into oblongs, blobs, slashes; a magnified earring, at a hand-shift, vanished into an abnormally swollen neck.
Most adults were scarcely distinct from the animals they so cherished. Elderly aunts were covered by hard, cracking rind, grandee cousins very possibly had tails, high-heeled ladies stepped precariously, like water-birds, others resembled lame kangaroos. All women flourished plumes, furs, skins: they shuffled, fluttered, preened; they frisked, nuzzled, rumbled, clucked and clicked; they pecked and embraced in small, ritual gestures, then stalked back to their dens. Some, like overweight hippos, lay in mud baths at Kunessaare, scarcely breathing, their curved bellies doubtless platforms for coffee or herons. Periodically they lifted a snout, grunted, laboriously rubbed against sludge, then relaxed in bubbles.
I remember Gerda von Hörsen, so obedient to her husband that, on his death, she neighed slightly, then followed, quietly dying.
Table talk was in German, with French interpolations whenever something should be kept from servants. Herr Max might place a silver cock between the candles, during over-heated discussion, the traditional precaution against ill will. Now, 1938, disagreeable flavours made the cock more necessary. Several names always attracted dispute, diplomatic coughs, alarming silence. The Reich was a rampart against Russia. I heard a joke about Hector, tamer of horses, and Herr Churchill, wearer of hats. All I know of the latter was that Mother once called him Mr Chatterbox.